Page 10 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter seven

All reason left him.

Cyrus’s blood heated as he stood in the center of the arena, staring back at his brother. Fury welled in his core.

He’d kill him.

He’d kill him right here.

Cyrus surged forward.

Alexander tried to launch a defense on one leg, but he never stood a chance. Cyrus arced his sword out with a force that knocked Alexander’s weapon from his hand. Then he spun, using the momentum, and drove his blade through Alexander’s chest.

As Alexander gaped up at him, Cyrus pushed his blade deeper.

To the hilt. Then he grabbed him by the throat.

It wasn’t enough to watch Alexander die.

He had to feel it. And he needed Alexander to look at him.

Cyrus needed to be the last person he saw.

So many things he’d wanted to say over the years, so many things Alexander needed to know, but in the moment, words wouldn’t come.

“Cyrus!”

He heard his name, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. As Alexander’s weight sank, Cyrus could only stare as the life left him.

Hands grabbed Cyrus, shaking him. Kord’s hands. Kord’s voice.

“Get to the center!” Kord yelled.

Cyrus looked back to the man on his blade, still a blond man, but the dead eyes looking back at him weren’t deep cerulean blue. In fact, the face looking back at him wasn’t anything like his own. Cyrus pushed him off his sword, and the body collapsed to the ground.

It wasn’t Alexander.

Cyrus blinked, his heart still hammering. His fingers were numb against the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t Alexander.

Kord grabbed him again, jerking him out of the way as a flash of black ripped past. The claws that reached for him just barely missed. Cyrus stumbled back.

He hadn’t realized the cat had been released. Cyrus finally found his wits, and he, Kord, and Sergen bolted toward the center of the arena, reaching it just as the cat snapped to the end of its chain with a snarl.

Kord raced into action. “Sergen!” he bellowed as he tore toward Ram, who was fighting the last of the Flavian men.

Cyrus glanced around. He hadn’t noticed Kord had killed a third man, but he did notice a second cat was now free on the other side of the arena.

They had only moments before the third would be released.

Kord slipped in and took over Ram’s opponent. A lower-tier fighter—it was only a short exchange before Kord had him clipped at the calves, setting Sergen up for a sure kill. This time, Sergen got it.

The fight was over. Cheers deafened the arena.

The cats’ chains tightened, and the beasts were dragged back to their cages as Cyrus stood, still in a daze, grasping for his senses. He looked around. The Flavian fighters were dead. Ram and Kord stared back at him, as did Sergen.

What had just happened? A deep crease of confusion lay between Sergen’s brows. Cyrus gave him an apologetic tilt of his head. “I’m sorry,” he told him. “That was your kill.”

Sergen was quiet for a moment, then gave a short nod. “It’s all right. I got it in the end. I know you were trying to help set it up.”

Cyrus glanced back at the dead Flavian fighter he’d thought was Alexander.

“Did you know him?” Sergen asked.

Cyrus shook his head. He didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know what had come over him. He’d never lost his focus in a fight. But he’d thought he’d seen—

A rough hand grabbed him again. “What the fuck was that?” Kord spat.

Cyrus shook his head again. “Nothing,” he muttered. But it wasn’t nothing. He needed to get out of here. He staggered back and started toward the exit.

Kord followed him. “Hey. Are you all right?”

He ignored the question. Of course he wasn’t all right. “Four!” he shouted to the gate guard as they passed through.

“Four!” came the echo.

His mind was still in a fog. What was going on with him? Was the witch doing this to him? Or maybe she’d just stirred his long-dead memories, which were now coming back to haunt him.

“Cyrus!” Kord called after him.

As they made their way through the narrow corridor, a passing man shouldered by him. Hard. Cyrus nearly lost his balance but caught himself against the wall and snapped his head to see Bravat, the crowd-pleasing mountain of a man who fought for House Massus.

“An off day, Cyrus?” Bravat goaded. “That was a close one.”

Had he been watching?

Bravat was a silver-tier fighter, but he’d had a lightning rise through the levels, one of the fastest in arena history, no doubt contributing to his intolerable ego. Cyrus tried to ignore him.

Bravat gave a hearty chuckle. “I would have been disappointed if you’d died before our house match in two days.”

House Pyro would fight House Massus in two days? When Cyrus had checked earlier that morning, he hadn’t seen that. It must be a change. But no matter—his men would take it as any other match. And be victorious.

Cyrus didn’t say a word; he only kept walking.

“See you in the arena, Cyrus,” Bravat called after him.

Cyrus didn’t fear a fight with a team from House Massus, but it wouldn’t be an easy one if he wasn’t at his best, and right now, he wasn’t at his best. He was still unsettled by the stir of memories.

The witch was messing with him, and the heat of anger flashed inside him.

He paused in the main corridor at the witch’s hall, glancing down into its darkness.

There was no voice this time, but still she called to him.

“Cyrus?” Kord said, stopping as well. “What’s going on with you?”

“You go ahead. I’ll meet you at the wagon.”

“Not this again—”

“I won’t be long.”

“You know, you’re being really fucking weird.”

“Just… I’ll meet you back at the wagon.”

Kord’s lips thinned, but he nodded for Ram and Sergen to follow and kept down the hall that would lead them out to the loading area.

Cyrus did a quick glance for any guards and their dogs, then slipped down the dark side hall. The first chamber, which had been empty before, now held another woman. She hung from chains in the center of the cell with a white circle around her, the same as the witch. Was this woman a witch too?

He passed the second chamber, which held a different occupant than it had before—another woman, chained in the same manner. The women said nothing, but their eyes followed him as he passed. Unease needled him.

Cyrus set his attention on the witch’s chamber ahead. The hall was quiet. Was she still in there? When he reached the door, he looked through the small, barred opening.

The witch was there. She hung from the center, limp, as though dead. But her emerald eyes stared back at him.

“Ah, the seer not named Lucien,” she said.

That name again. His skin prickled. Was she the one tormenting his mind? Trying to manipulate him…

“Are you haunting me?” he asked.

“That’s more your ability than mine,” she answered.

What did that mean? “Stop your games.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t play games.”

He didn’t believe her.

“What do you want, seer?” Her voice sweetened. “Couldn’t stop thinking about me?” Was she goading him?

The heat of anger tinged his skin. “Just checking to see if they burned you at the stake yet,” he quipped back. Perhaps after they did, this nonsense would stop.

Her smirk fell, and she glared back at him.

Cyrus turned to catch up with Kord and the others.