Page 243 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Why did you risk the sanctity of our laws to protect her, Cyrus?”

I shifted, eyes falling to my boots before lifting to the dais. My parents. The council. But it was Portia’s deep brown stare that held mine—steady, commanding. There was something like fear in her gaze, even as she jerked her chin in a silent order to answer.

“Freya Porter is my mate.”

Gasps cracked across the hall like thunder. Color drained from Ma’s face in real time. I thumbed my signet ring, studying the veins in the marble floor, then met her gaze again. And nodded.

Calypso let the chaos burn itself out before stepping forward—between us and the council, between us and Orion, the heart of judgment.

“Under the Accord of Blood,” she said, voice ringing clear, “a mate is as sacred as our blades. To harm her outside of a council-sanctioned duel is treason in itself.”

Nix didn’t speak. The tips of his ears were cherry red, his face blank with something like disbelief. He looked at me like I was a stranger. And maybe I was.

Because something was happening to me.

Even if I didn’t understand it yet.

“The Prince speaks truth,” Elinora intoned, her vision clearing. But the people already knew. My victory had been cemented, every step of this trial choreographed to end exactly here. Freya would be safe, no matter what came next.

That was all that mattered.

“The punishment for breaking your oath is the stripping of your Wings,” Ma said gravely. But her gaze drifted—watching her brother, Juno, to see how he’d react to the guillotine now hovering above his son’s neck.

And Nix…closed his eyes. In resignation. Nix never—never—backed down from a fight.

“Or a trial by combat,” I said quietly.

His eyes snapped open.

“Let the betrayer decide.”

“Cyrus,” Calypso hissed, whipping around to glare at me. This hadn’t been part of her plan. Not by a long shot. But it was sure as shit mine. This motherfucker—blood or not—was going to get someone killed eventually. And his honor would be more intact in death than without his Wings.

Nix scanned the chamber as it unraveled around us. A prince in a duel was serious business. To kill a prince might earn you rank—but no one would trust you after. No one would respect you.

He would lose. Or he’d win and live as a pariah.

To decline was dishonor.

“I accept,” he said over the growing roar.

Cali clapped a hand over the bridge of her nose, visibly reining in her fury. If I survived, she was going to beat the ever-loving shit out of me.

Carr stepped forward with my weapons, and I moved off the platform to meet him. I unbuttoned my jacket, shrugging it off in one fluid motion.

And the crowd lost it.

Because Poe hadn’t just given me gauntlets.

He’d inked enormous wings across my back and down my arms—bold, black, divine. I hadn’t yet tested them in combat, but I had a feeling they were more than just a flex. This kind of familiar’s mark hadn’t been seen in centuries.

I reached back to strip off my shirt and hand it to Carr, baring the rest of it.

Chaos erupted. Souls flew from their seats. Even Ma had risen, eyes wide, descending the dais in stunned silence.

But it was Elinora who said what they were all thinking.

“Harbinger of Glory.”