Page 137 of Commanding Blood And Bonds
Only once Ally was seated, shoveling food between her chapped lips without apology, did the next wave hit.
The Souls hovered like panicked bees around an injured queen, speaking all at once.
“Ally, where is Commander Amadeus at a time like this?”
“You saved my sister in Cabo. We’ll answer when you call.”
“Alvara Goldman, Death’s Angel—what do you foresee for my hierarchy?”
“What’s the raven mean?”
“What is ‘white and white and burning’? It’s circled three times. That sounds absolutely wretched.”
Alec tried—bless him—with a jabbed, “Awe, come on, that just sounds like a beach vacation.”
“Aren’s six saved my hierarchy. Where you lead us, we follow, no matter the end.”
“Are there really only three threads that lead to victory?”
“What do we do with the necromancers’ offer to ally?”
“You mind your own fucking business, that’s what,” Kingsley growled.
“You and Aren saved our entire coven. We’ll answer your call.”
“Take it easy,” I rumbled, my voice low and dangerous as sparks skittered over my raised hands. “Let my wife breathe. Let her eat. Then, for the love of God, speak one at a time.”
Mouth full, Ally looked up at me, amusement flickering in her eyes.
Everyone laughed—but I didn’t miss the way her shoulders dropped when the crowd retreated, settling into seats. Giving her the space she needed.
We were in for a long fucking day.
It was Alec’s inevitable mental voice that finally put a smile on my face.
Just another Wednesday, then?
TWENTY-EIGHT
WORSE ODDS
ALVARA
The unmistakable blanket of pine and snow wrapped around my senses once the last Soul left. I tipped my face up to what would likely be the final snowfall of the season—perhaps my last snow in this life. Fat, fluffy flakes kissed my skin before dissolving just as quickly, and I fought to silence the persistent hissing of the other, still tugging at the edges of my mind.
There had always been a madness looming just beyond sight.
It was the curse of a seer.
The very real probability that we could see too much—slip into the depths of insanity.
Like a phoenix, something new rose from the wreckage. A creature born from ash: sightless, incoherent, a vessel for terrifying predictions the homeland called an Oracle. Nothing more than a mindless conduit between this world and the Fates, their words rarely understood. All that anchored them to reality was the rotating line of power-seekers, kneeling and offering their blood to be ranked and measured. Something in the transaction kept the Oracles lucid—like they fed off the magic in those drops of blood.
My ultimate nightmare was to end this life as one of them—an Oracle.
Incapable of making sense of the threads myself. Subject to others’ interpretations.
When I first read Aren centuries ago, I’d thought myself close to the border of madness. Naïve. That anguish hadn’t even scratched the surface of the hell that followed: watching a hundred-thousand threads unspool on a loop, each difference so minute it barely registered.
