Page 19 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Elizabeth.” His agonized warning tore through me, ribs constricting as my eyes burned.

A lie. A trick of the mind.

I whirled, throwing myself into the throng of combatants, all caked in carnage. Then I froze.

Ice-blue eyes, ringed with exhaustion. A face marred with scars and bruises.

Aren bellowed, the sound guttural, desperate—and then he moved. But this wasn’t sparring. This wasn’t training. I dodged and deflected, but his strikes came with lethal intent.

“Traitor,” he growled.

“Aren!” My voice cracked, fatigue shaking my limbs. “Aren, it’s me!” He lunged, disarming me in a swift motion.

“Aren!” I cried again. “Ar, stop!” His elbow cracked against my face, sending blood spurting as I hit the ground, head spinning. Splintering agony registered somewhere in my mind, my vision blurring red. Then Aren’s massive frame crashed onto me, fists relentless. I barely guarded my face, screaming his name over and over.

“Please,” my voice cracked. “You have to believe me!”

His hands locked around my throat, his weight pinning me. Inhuman rage warped his features.

“I trusted you,” he snarled.

“Ar,” I croaked, his fingers squeezing, cutting off my air. Panic sent my hands clawing at his grip, my body writhing in vain. Darkness scraped at the edges of my vision.

Then he seized.

Blue sparks danced up his arms. His hands ripped from my throat, his body convulsing as electricity arced through him. I wanted to yell for him, to reach for him, but my throat burned raw. I rolled away, gasping, and when my hands met the ground, it was no longer bloody mud⁠—

But cold, hard marble. White. Luminescent.

Grayshell. Home.

The slap of my palms echoed off the cavernous walls. I sucked in a rattling breath, turning for Aren—only to scramble away, putting distance between us.

Red seeped from his lips, a crimson gash seeping across his neck. His eyes remained closed. Lifeless.

Around him lay countless corpses.

Humans. Souls.

My gaze flicked frantically from one familiar face to another. Ansel. Brody. Lana. A desperate cry cracked my ribs. Trembling hands moved toward Aren but stopped as I caught sight of my palms.

Crimson.

Crimson with souls.

My breath hitched. I lunged forward, dragging bodies from the pile. A stiff wind whipped through my hair, singing a haunting melody through the void of Grayshell.

“August?!” I sobbed, pushing through the carnage, mind racing to sort them by family, by hierarchy. Then, my heart cracked.

The Hazelharbor crest. Two red-haired females. Nathara’s kin.

Frantic, I moved to the next pile.

“August!” I screamed for my mate.

“They took him, Ally.”

Knees aching, I whirled. Fae stood at the hall’s end, blonde curls cascading to her waist. She trailed her fingers along the grand table’s surface.