Page 63 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“No,” she bit out. The tone said otherwise.

“Anything I can do?”

“I have an entire wing full of rescues, Miss Porter. I don’t have time for you today.”

I blinked. “A wing full of…”

“Rescues,” she repeated, enunciating with deliberate disdain.

“Here?” My voice pitched higher. What kind of stronghold just opens its gates to strangers? Traumatized ones?

“Where would you suggest I take them?” she snapped. “The mortal governments don’t lift a damn finger to protect their own.”

“I just—uh…” I tried to roll my lip between my teeth and immediately winced. Right. Split lip. Alastair.

“How can I help?”

“You can get your ass out of my chair and your trash off my desk so I can attend to what matters. Our personal matters can wait.”

The finality in her tone slammed into me like a slap. Throat tight, I nodded and reached forward to gather my things.

“Leave them,” she barked.

“What? You just said⁠—”

“I know what I said. Leave them. I’ll review what you brought later. Right now, I need to scrub the atrocities I just witnessed out of my mind and call in every favor I have to get those mortals placed somewhere safe.”

“…Can I help?”

She studied me for a beat. “Can you mend? Manipulate memories?”

“I can heal the basics. Broken bones. Surface injuries. No mentalist abilities.”

After another hard stare, she gave a curt nod and pointed to the door.

Feeling smaller than I had in lifetimes, I slipped into the hallway, following the muted chaos toward the west wing.

And stopped dead.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp as horror rooted in my gut.

Children.

The wing was filled with children—dozens of them. Most hid behind the Bellaton souls tending to them, their eyes empty and glassy, staring straight through the world. That haunted, hollow stare only came from the worst kinds of trauma.

Bellaton souls knelt, murmured, tended. Some kids cried. Some spoke. The older ones described injuries, relayed needs. Others tried to give orders on behalf of the younger ones who couldn’t speak for themselves.

Blaz appeared beside me, calm and composed, diving into the scene without hesitation. I blinked away the sting in my eyes and followed.

And as I moved among them—seeing their faces, their wounds, their silence—I felt it.

Shame. Soul-deep and burning. First for the selfishness I’d been drowning in. Then again for my uselessness.

I’d been worried about politics, alliances, and whether Reyna respected me.

And she’d been rescuing children.

Then I saw Darius.