Page 351 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

I turned toward the bed…and saw it.

That little gold trinket.

Frozen.

The grains of sand unmoving.

Time—ceased.

The path—ended.

I even flicked the glass. Tilted it. Waited. Nothing.

She’d told me she’d need me when the last grain fell. Then she went radio fucking silent when I needed her most. And now her enchantment was dead. What the fuck did that mean?

Chest tight, I took a breath and focused. Arrow by arrow, firebomb by bomb, the ambush chipped away at Luminark’s defenses, quadrant by quadrant. The wards failed, one after another.

I hated waiting.

The second wave was torture.

Not even a blade could kill me faster than standing still.

Somewhere in that gothic tomb, Cyrus was in agony. I couldn’t feel him. But I knew. Deep in my chest, I knew.

And my vision was red.

Thumbing the hilts of my blades, I waited—for the signal. For the gifts I’d stolen, now vibrating inside me, to serve their purpose. For the last piece to fall into place.

Detached.

My heartbeat was steady, trained by a few dozen lifetimes of Aren’s battlefield discipline. I would die with honor, or I would rob Reagan of hers. There were no other endings.

My eyes landed on Gio—Cyrus’s Wing-Lieutenant. His pick for Captain.

I have eyes on Lieutenant Caruso, I told the line. What’s the ETA on my extra insurance?

Give us thirty seconds, Brody replied.

But Gio was headed toward Montague. And over my dead fucking body would G fight half-cocked to protect the mission and end up dead. We needed Cyrus’s future captain. But we needed G more.

Make it fifteen.

Fucking hell, Porter. Jax’s growl came through the bond.

Move, soap boy.

I pounded a gloved fist on the truck roof—twice. Alastair answered with a rev of the engine. I grinned as she roared to life. Me and my two treasonous companions knelt in the truck bed, casting shields as we carved a path through the chaos. The souls scattered as we tore across the property beneath the moss-curtained trees and onto the manicured lawn. My knees braced against the turns as Alastair cranked the wheel hard, drifting until the manor came into full view.

Perfect.

My companions leapt from the truck, casting twin shields around us. I stood tall, bellowing: “Reagan!”

Panting, I fixed my gaze on the front fucking door.

She wasn’t on the field. Cowards never fight their own battles. But worse? Monarchs who let others bleed while they stayed hidden behind walls.

The skirmish stilled. Bellaton’s soldiers held their shields but ceased advancing. Paladins stared in open horror at my little display, and sadistic satisfaction curled my lips.