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Cyrus

C yrus Blackwood had endured torment beyond comprehension, a punishment designed by the cruelest of minds—the cruelest of gods.

Every moment of every day since he was dragged onto Lephyrin’s shores, he felt as if the waves had dragged him under—lungs burning, chest constricting, air forever out of reach. It felt like the weight of an invisible force constantly pressed against his chest, crushing him.

Each inhale was a battle, a hollow imitation of what breath should feel like. The air would come in but never satisfy, like sand slipping through desperate fingers.

The torture never lessened, never gave him a moment’s reprieve.

And then, suddenly, the air burned Cyrus’s lungs as he inhaled—filling them to the brim.

He tried to stand, but his knees buckled, and he caught himself against the stone wall. His hands pressed into the rough surface, the tremor in his arms betraying the strength he once had.

For centuries, he carried the curse like a chain, never setting foot on land until the Rowe prince had captured him and murdered half of his crew.

Cyrus gasped, savoring the sensation of air in his lungs despite the sharp ache it caused in his chest. The hazy mist over his eyes cleared, allowing him to see clearly for the first time in only the gods knew how long.

And then his sense of smell returned—the brine of the sea clearing his nostrils and allowing the stench of the musky dungeons to replace it.

A hoarse laugh escaped his lips, one that turned into a hacking cough.

What the fuck is happening? He finally caught his breath, still not used to being able to breathe so freely.

His hand fell to the collar of his shirt, and he ripped it open, revealing his chest. The black mark that was once seared into the flesh above his heart was fading, and it disappeared before his eyes.

The curse is gone. But how? Why now? Had Esmyra done it?

Had she found Maerinys and the truth of her past?

The past that he desperately hid from her for nearly a thousand years.

His heart threatened to shatter at the thought—the thought of her knowing the truth of what he did all those centuries ago.

If she had, he just needed to explain to her why .

Cyrus turned his head toward the velsinyte barred door of his cell.

Outside, the torches flickered, and the corridors were silent, save for the faint drip of water from somewhere in the prison.

He braced himself against the wall and took a step forward, his boots scraping against the floor as he adjusted to the returned strength in his limbs.

That’s when he heard it—a heavy clank , followed by the unmistakable groan of the heavy, iron door being opened and the echo of several footsteps.

Cyrus straightened, his lips curling into a sneer as the approaching footsteps grew louder. He didn’t need to see them to know who was coming. He only hoped his Esmi was with them, unharmed.

And then, standing in the doorway flanked by guards, was the king himself.

The glint in his eye was cruel, triumphant. Beside him were his two sons—Atlas appeared smug and unbothered, far different than the last time he saw him, begging for information regarding Esmyra. The fire-wielder, however, looked tense, seeming unwilling to be there .

But if they were here, and Esmyra wasn’t…

Cyrus’s sneer deepened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Where is she?” His voice was rough, gravelly from disuse, but the venom in his tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t miss the sudden flare of Draevyn’s eyes at his mention of Esmyra, resembling a flash of panic.

King Rowe stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone. “It appears your little first mate wasn’t as talented as she presented herself to be. Either that, or she decided to keep the ship for herself. Pirates and all.” He waved a hand.

Cyrus’s brows furrowed, knowing the words weren’t true. Of course they weren’t. This vile king didn’t know Esmi. He didn’t know his fierce daughter.

However, Cyrus knew if the Rowes had killed her, they would gloat, throw it in his face, and watch agony overtake him for the joy of it.

Which meant she was alive.

“Interesting you’re not suddenly gasping for breath, Blackwood,” Atlas stated.

Draevyn whirled on his brother, his eyes widening slightly before returning to Cyrus—an unmistakable look of fear radiating from his eyes, despite his face being hard as stone.

It was clear to him that the fire-wielder was putting on a show. But why?

Cyrus let out a humorless laugh. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is Esmyra?” His eyes were locked on the Phoenix, whose jaw ticked as he averted his gaze to the floor.

King Rowe’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He turned to the guard at his side and motioned toward the cell door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a loud creak.

Cyrus didn’t move as the guards stepped inside, their weapons at the ready. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the king, his dark eyes smoldering with defiance—just like his daughter.

“Careful, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “ You might find that freeing me will be the biggest mistake you could ever make.”

King Rowe chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not here to free you.” He took another step closer, his tone darkening. “I’m here to remind you who holds your chains.”

Cyrus’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he prepared for whatever they were planning.

“Legends claim you’re immortal,” he said, his tone casual but laced with malice. “But I’m wondering if anyone has really been close enough to find its truth.”

Cyrus’s stare dropped down to his chest, to the black mark that no longer marked his flesh. The curse was gone, and with it, his immortality.

“Kaelypso’s fucking depths,” he cursed.

“Hold him,” the king ordered with a cruel smirk.

The guards hesitated, their uncertainty clear as they approached, taking in the sight of him no longer struggling to breathe.

The moment the first guard reached for him, Cyrus surged forward, raw fury driving his weakened muscles.

He threw a punch that connected with a sickening crack, sending the man sprawling to the ground.

Another guard lunged, but he twisted out of the way, grabbing the man’s arm and yanking him into the wall with a thud.

“Not so easy to kill a ghost,” Blackwood snarled.

“You’re nothing but a weaponless old man,” one shouted.

Two more came at him then, and he kicked one back as he grabbed the other by the neck, before slamming him into the velsinyte bars.

“Enough!” the king barked, before turning to his sons, pointing his stubby finger in their faces. “Take care of this!”

Cyrus’s panic spiked as he whirled on them.

Draevyn’s face bore nothing but disgust. “I will have no part in torturing an old, weakened man,” he declared, lips curled.

“We can’t while he’s in that cell, anyway,” Atlas answered.

With this, the guard he kicked came up from behind him and wrapped his arm around Cyrus’s throat, putting him in a chokehold. His already weakened strength buckled as his air supply was cut off once more. The man dragged him beyond the cell’s barrier and shoved him to his knees.

Before Blackwood could react, shadows slithered across the ground like living snakes coiling around his legs. He thrashed against them, but they moved too quickly, binding him in place as if they were iron chains.

“Hold him,” King Rowe ordered again, his gaze shifting to his eldest son.

Atlas hesitated for a heartbeat, his hands flexing at his sides as he met his brother’s stare.

“Don’t,” Draevyn whispered as he grabbed Atlas’s wrist.

Blackwood’s glare met the uncertain eyes of Lephyrin’s heir, and the silence stretched out like a taut rope.

“Finish this!” the king ordered, and the prince reluctantly lifted his hands.

Dark tendrils of shadow erupted from the prince’s fingertips, wrapping around Cyrus’s arms and chest. They tightened with unnatural strength, making it difficult to breathe.

“You think I fear your shadows?” Cyrus spat, struggling against the bonds.

“You’ll find they’re quite effective,” the king sneered, stepping closer.

Blackwood’s muscles quivered as he fought against the tendril’s crushing grip, his teeth bared in a snarl.

When his stare drifted to Draevyn once more, there was something in his eyes he couldn’t place. Was it regret? Worry, even? “Is Esmyra alive?” he snarled. “Or did you kill her? At least let me know that .”

Draevyn’s jaw ticked, his gaze dropping to his boots. “She’s alive.”

A low laugh erupted from Cyrus as he prepared to meet his possible end. “You’re making quite a mistake here, you foolish king,” he growled, his voice menacing. “She will come for all of you if what you speak is true.”

Draevyn’s stare lifted back up to his, and all he said was, “I know,” before turning away from him and stalking back down the dungeon and beyond its iron door.

“I don’t fear a mere female, nor do I care if you trained her in your ruthless tendencies…” The king’s smile widened, cruel and mocking. “And you’ll use your last breath begging for mercy.”

King Rowe eyed a dagger strapped to Atlas’s side as he continued to hold Cyrus in place with his shadows.

In one swift movement, the king ripped the small blade from its sheath and bent down to Cyrus’s ear.

“May all of Rymelle know that I, King Barret Rowe of Lephyrin, was the one to rid our world of the fearsome Captain Blackwood.”

A second later, the dagger’s blade was protruding from Cyrus’s chest—from his heart.

His death began as a sharp, searing pain erupting through his ribs, the agony of it spreading outward through his limbs. Crimson soaked his front, seeping into his clothes and puddling on the stone floor. A sudden chill spread through him at the loss of blood, followed by an overwhelming numbness.

The edges of his vision blurred, darkening as death threatened to pull him under. Cyrus looked up and faced the king, who stood just out of his reach with a triumphant grin as his heir stood beside him, mortified. The fire-wielder was still nowhere in sight.

The pain was unbearable—a searing, all-encompassing agony that radiated through his very soul. Every beat of his heart felt like it was tearing itself apart. Though he supposed it was.

His thoughts spiraled, and then the memory of Esmyra’s face took over his mind. His little, ruthless girl was the greatest treasure he had ever known.

Though burdened by a cursed, eternal life, he considered himself blessed. He lived long enough to know the unwavering, irreplaceable love of a child. A love that defied even the cruelest of fates.

Perhaps this fate was exactly what he deserved after all he had done—all he had forced his Esmi to do.

Centuries’ worth of memories came in a flood—her first steps on the deck of The Night Wraith , and her laughter ringing out over the waves. The fire in her eyes when she argued with him, proving to be so much like him, her father’s daughter, even when not forged by blood.

Esmyra had always been too strong for her own good, too bold for the world to contain. And he loved his little siren all the more for it.

She’ll know , he thought, the edges of his vision dimming further. And may the gods help them when she comes.

Cyrus tried to smile, though the pain tore at him with every flicker of movement. His lips trembled as blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.

Esmi would take back the seas they stole from him, from both of them.

And when you stand over their ashes, you’ll know I never doubted you . He tried to will the words to her, wherever she was.

His body betrayed him, growing weaker, colder, but his mind clung desperately to her face. He could almost hear her desperate, pleading voice, demanding he stay alive.

“I can’t, little siren,” he whispered aloud, earning furrowed brows from all who stood around, watching his death.

The shadows grew thicker, his strength fading fast. But even as the darkness closed in, a flicker of pride remained.

And then, after centuries of evading death, Cyrus Blackwood’s world went dark.