Page 12 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

The basin water was cold, and his skin prickled as he splashed it over his face.

It was the only cool he’d feel all day, and he relished it.

But then intrusive thoughts of the day before came flowing back.

He tried to push them from his mind—all the memories, memories from when he was young. When he was weak.

Why were they coming back? And why now?

Cyrus stood, letting the water trickle down his neck and chest as he gripped the edge of the side table and used it to support his weight. He couldn’t afford to be weak.

Voices outside carried through his window and brought him back, and he settled.

He wasn’t weak anymore, he reminded himself. He was the lead fighter of the greatest fighting house in Rael, and the most famed man in the bloodsport.

Cyrus snapped the towel from where it hung near the side table and dried his skin, then pulled on his boots and stepped out into the day.

By the time he made it to the meal hall, most of the fighters had eaten and left already. Kord and Everan were still there and sat toward the end of one of the long tables. Cyrus took the seat across from them.

“We thought you’d taken your eternal rest, brother,” Kord said with a grin. “We were starting to get worried that we’d have to find another man for today, which means we’d be feeding the cats this afternoon.”

Kord joked, but it wasn’t a joking matter.

They had another fight in the late afternoon.

Cyrus hated late-afternoon fights, when the sun was at its hottest and the arena was already covered in the blood of all those who’d fought before.

The cats also tended to be the most agitated in the afternoon, as the guards inside poked them with spikes to rouse them from their day slumber.

But sometimes joking was all one could do.

Everan smiled at Cyrus as he swallowed the last bite of food from his plate. “Visa said she was able to help you get some sleep.”

Cyrus nodded. Everan didn’t look at it the same, but Cyrus viewed being in one’s mind as more intimate than being in one’s bed. He was always wary of intruding, but he was appreciative of both Everan and Visa.

“The most sleep I’ve had in months,” he said, and it was true, even with the haunts of his past. He cut Everan a wry smile. “I must confess, the more she lets me in, the more I want to keep her. She has”—he held up his hands and gripped the air like flesh—“the biggest grass fields.”

Everan let out a hearty laugh, and Cyrus couldn’t help but join him. Then Everan’s laugh faded, and his face slightly sobered. He swallowed. “Thank you for what you did. With Bravat.”

Cyrus shook his head. “No need. I also benefited.”

“But you didn’t do it for that. And I’m grateful. We both are.”

Visa stepped out of the back kitchen with a plate of steaming meat over rice and set it down in front of Cyrus with a grin. “About time you showed up. I nearly had to have a bloodsport match myself to save you some choice cuts of meat.”

He dipped his head appreciatively. “Then I owe you double.”

“We’ll call it even.” She winked at Everan and then disappeared back through the doors. Cyrus and Everan both watched her until she was gone.

Cyrus looked back at Everan, serious now, and he leaned forward onto his elbows, lowering his voice. “There will come a day that you will live the life you choose, and you won’t have to fight for your time.”

Everan shook his head. “I can’t let myself hope for that.”

“You have to. It’s true. I’ll get us out of this. You, Visa, Kieve, Bash…” He glanced at Kord beside Everan. “All of us.”

Everan and Kord both looked at him, not wanting to hope, not wanting to risk the disappointment. False hope could kill, but real hope was the only thing that would keep them from the darkness of despair. Cyrus wouldn’t let it be false.

He stabbed a piece of marinated beef and took a bite, careful not to pick up any of the rice with it—not a single grain. He knew where it came from.

The Shadowlands.

It had been Shadowmen who’d found him after his mother had abandoned him.

It had been Shadowmen who’d sold him to the Serran slavers, specifically the Shadow King.

And as if it weren’t enough for them to profit from putting men in chains, the Shadowlands also supported the slave trade with their rice.

To look at it on his plate, the continued evidence of their profit in his suffering…

He’d see it rot before he let it nourish him.

Everan watched him. He said nothing, but Cyrus knew he wanted to. He’d say the same thing he’d said many times over the years. You can’t live on meat alone. You need your energy.

But between the fresh fruits and vegetables and breads delivered to his chamber, and with meals of marinated meats, Cyrus had all he needed. He would accept nothing from the Shadowlands.

Everan kept quiet, even though his eyes didn’t.

After they finished, they headed toward the central part of the villa. They’d soak in the pool for a while and rest more before the afternoon sport.

“Have you seen Kieve?” Cyrus asked as they walked. A wave of guilt hit him that he hadn’t gone to see him when he’d returned from the arena the evening before.

Everan shook his head. “Visa said he took his meal in his chamber.”

Cyrus frowned. He hoped Kieve wasn’t regressing.

“He’s still not on the schedule,” Everan added.

“He’s going to be,” Cyrus replied. “He told me he’d get back on.”

Kord shrugged. “Let’s see if he’ll come to the pool with us.”

They headed toward his chamber, only to be met by Hephain along the way.

“Get to the arena,” the lead guard told them. “House Balsam didn’t show this morning. The schedule’s been moved up.”

“Damn,” Kord muttered in disappointment, but not for missing the pool.

When fighters didn’t make their matches, they faced severe consequences, usually worse than the fight itself.

That also meant they all had to hurry. They wouldn’t be shown lenience for being late either, even if the times had changed.

Cyrus nodded to Everan and Kord. “Let’s go, then.”

“Not you,” Hephain said to Everan and Kord. Then to Cyrus: “You’ll take Bravat.”

Cyrus tilted his head toward the lead guard. “What?” He couldn’t have heard that right.

“With Bravat now scoring for House Pyro, the cards have changed. You, Ram, Bravat, and Val.”

“What about Everan and Kord?” Cyrus asked.

“Moved to tomorrow,” Hephain replied.

Cyrus glanced at both Everan and Kord in surprise.

This was where Pyro’s ignorance of their team dynamics really showed.

He’d pushed the Sport Authority into pairing the two crowd favorites together, no doubt to draw more attention with a dream team, thinking it would be a clean win and easy money.

But that wasn’t how it worked. The team’s practice made them perfect.

Their trust made them perfect. Little did Pyro know—he’d probably just damned his top fighters.

Everan and Kord were quiet.

“We’ll wait for you,” Everan said grimly. “Gods keep you, brother.”