Page 412 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Adrastos drove the blade into Ally.

Our screams tore through the square—raw, brutal things. They echoed off the smoking ruins like a funeral bell no one rang.

The shadows swallowed them both.

No trace.

No sound.

No mercy.

Only darkness.

And one word.

A death knell.

A parting shot.

A promise.

“Checkmate.”

EPILOGUE

THE KING

King Moros Balaskas was greeted by the stomp of boots and chants of victory as his feet struck the black marble floor of the palace. His sister’s magic had already staunched the bleeding from the stab wound in his abdomen—enough to hold him together until a proper healer could finish the work.

A cruel smile stretched across his lips, and he threw up a victorious fist, the gesture met with raucous applause. Pride simmered in his chest, threatening to boil over as the final pieces slid into place. For all his work—for all the decades of planning—he had not dared hope the first wave would end in so complete a victory.

A healer dressed in sheer scraps of crimson rushed to his side, the jewels adorning her curves clinking with every step. She wordlessly dropped to her knees and reached beneath his tunic, fingers finding the wound left by Amadeus’ blade. Her magic surged, stitching flesh from within. The king traced a slow line down her cheek, her red lips parting, lashes fluttering as she leaned into the touch. She looked up at him, cheeks flushed with color—but his attention was already moving elsewhere.

“Sire. On your order, we retreated prior to the wave of light. Casualties were minimal,” came the silken voice of his sister.

Marlana’s penchant for death without bloodshed had proven more useful than he’d expected. It would prove so again, soon.

With an affectionate smile, Moros patted the healer’s cheek, and she rose wordlessly to her feet, leaving his flesh perfectly restored.

“Well executed,” he said, rubbing at the blood still drying on his palms. “And what of our brother?”

“Last I saw, he was still engaged.”

Anticipation sparked through the king’s veins. If Adrastos had fallen, the people’s thirst for vengeance would be unquenchable. Holy. Hellfire would rain from the sky, hotter than any prophet had dared envision.

But satisfaction evaporated as a collective gasp swept through the hall. His smile faltered. Every face around him shifted—bewilderment morphing into reverence—as his people dropped to their knees.

With a grim twist of resignation, he turned.

Adrastos stood beneath the high arch of the entry, wreathed in lashing shadows. A limp female body hung from his chest, a blade protruding cleanly through her abdomen. She wore the black and gold armor of Grayshell. Her face was obscured beneath gore-slicked hair.

A cruel smile played across his half-brother’s lips as their eyes met. Of course. For all his flaws, Adrastos had always known exactly how to make the people eat from the palm of his hand.

“Brother,” came the curt greeting—arrogance sharpening the slant of his mouth.

Only Adrastos would dare omit his title. Only this insolent creature could survive such disrespect, and it ate at Moros like rot beneath the skin.

“Commander,” the king returned, the title bitter as ash, twisted into something macabre—like the corpse of a sacrifice strung up between them.