Page 17 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter thirteen

Cyrus staggered back to the holding chamber in a daze. All he could see was blood. All he could feel was blood.

Pyro’s blood.

Rael’s blood.

Had he set something in motion that would give him that blood? Or only spill his own?

As he neared the holding room, he slowed. Through the open door, Everan paced back and forth, with Kord leaning against the far wall.

When Kord noticed Cyrus, he rocked forward off the wall. “What the fuck?” he called out. His eyes were rimmed red. “Where have you been? They fucking ripped Manus apart!”

It was a vision Cyrus would never be able to erase.

His mind still reeled from the way Manus had looked at him, after doing exactly what Cyrus had taught him and doing it flawlessly, before he was killed for it.

Guilt daggered him. Cyrus knew the crowd’s bloodlust, but with his own loathing for entertaining them, for satisfying them—he was responsible for Manus’s death.

He’d given Manus the skill to win the fight, but not the balance to please the crowd and stay alive.

And Cyrus had been so quick to judge Bravat for his theatrics and his playing to the masses. But Bravat had been right…

“Cyrus,” Everan called, snapping him back. “Where have you been? What’s going on?”

What was going on? Cyrus paused. In leaving the witch, he’d had the irrational confidence that only rage fueled.

But now… now he found that confidence waning as logic took hold.

What was he really going to do? What the witch had promised him and what they’d discussed wasn’t exactly a plan.

In fact, far from it. And he wasn’t even sure where she was now.

He thought she’d followed him, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He tried to recall what she’d said. He would have the cats for whatever plan he created along the way. If they didn’t kill him first. And he still wasn’t sure what the witch was going to do.

Kord and Everan’s gazes dropped to the markings on Cyrus’s arms.

“What…” Kord started, but he couldn’t finish.

“What’s on your arms?” Everan asked.

Cyrus’s mind raced. What had she said the markings were for? To protect him from himself? He still wasn’t sure what that even meant.

“Cyrus,” Everan pressed.

The markings didn’t matter. What did matter: Everan and Kord needed to leave.

Even if the witch had lied about bringing the arena down, Cyrus’s own actions would damn them.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do, only that he was going after Pyro.

If he failed, he’d be executed, as would anyone with him.

If he didn’t fail, they’d still be executed.

Cyrus closed the distance between them and pulled Everan and Kord close, dropping his voice low. “I’m going in alone.”

“What?” Everan balked. “It’s three-on-three, gold.”

Kord’s brows dipped. “You’re good but not that good.”

“I said I’m going alone. Whoever goes into that arena is not coming out. And I won’t have it be the two of you.”

Everan shook his head. “No, I’m not letting you go in by yourself.”

Cyrus clutched them tightly. “I need you to get out of here. Tell the guards your lead sent you home.”

“House Pyro!” came the call at the arena entry, summoning them to the gate.

Cyrus’s eyes burned into Everan’s. “If I succeed, House Pyro will fall into chaos. Get Visa, get as many as you can, and run. If you can make it across the Aged Sea to Osan, they’ll grant refuge—they don’t believe in the slavery of men.”

“Succeed in what?” Everan shook his head again. “Cyrus, what are you going to do?”

“Pyro! House Pyro!” came the call again.

Cyrus glanced between Everan and Kord. “Distance yourself from me as much as you can. We are not brothers. We are not friends. You will not mourn me.”

Everan’s face twisted. “Cyrus—”

“Now get out of here,” Cyrus said between his teeth. Then he turned and strode from the holding chamber. The gate was open when he reached it. “One!” he bellowed as he passed through.

The wall guard paused for a moment, confused, but then reluctantly echoed, “One!”

The sand of the arena was hot under his feet.

Crimson stains lay scattered from end to end—blood of the fallen.

Manus’s blood. Cyrus gripped his sword. His eyes found the king, and Cyrus looked at him directly from the arena for the first time.

Then Cyrus’s gaze moved to Pyro, who rose from his seat in surprise and confusion.

Pyro glanced at the king, then his worried eyes moved back to Cyrus.

Good. He should be worried.

The gate rose for his opponents, and Cyrus gripped his sword tighter. His eyes darted to the gates of the cats, but they remained closed. He didn’t know what to expect—that the witch would release them right away?

Or perhaps she had no power to release them at all. He wasn’t sure how she’d even be able to get close to them—the king’s most prized possessions. She’d already managed to be caught herself; how strong could she be?

Suddenly, Cyrus started to feel very much like a fool. Had he just damned himself?

Even if what she’d said were true, what would he do with the beasts? He glanced back at Pyro and the king. His heart thrummed heavier in his chest. Had he acted too hastily? And now what? He’d die for nothing.

No… He believed she wanted revenge. She’d burn this arena to the ground. Perhaps she’d lied to him about his role. It bordered on insanity—that he’d be able to control the cats. And for what? What would that do?

No. She intended to use him only as a distraction.

The realization sank in, but a calm came with it.

He was okay being a distraction. He was okay with sacrificing himself, so long as Pyro died too.

He turned to face the three opponents sprinting toward him. If he was to be the distraction, he’d do a fine job of it.

When they saw it was only Cyrus, they slowed, looking at one another.

Cyrus immediately recognized them: Brant, Reed, and Kade, all gold-tier fighters. Brant had once been part of House Pyro, where Cyrus had helped him reach both silver and gold. Now he led House Akim.

Rarely were words spoken in a fight, but Brant called out to Cyrus, “What is this? Where are your other two men?”

Cyrus held out his arms. “It’s only me.”

The fighters of House Akim looked at one another again.

Shouts rang from the crowd. They were thirsty for more blood and wanted the fighters to get on with it.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Cyrus called.

Kade snorted. “Then you’re in an unfortunate job.”

Cyrus wouldn’t argue with that. His mind raced with what to do next.

Perhaps he should just fight—he could hold out a little while, even against three gold-tier fighters.

He probably should have thought this through a little more, and he cursed himself.

This wasn’t the type of thing one did without a plan.

Yet here he was, without a plan , as were most actions fueled by rage.

The crowd’s boos grew louder.

Cyrus glanced at the cats’ gates again from the corner of his eye. He just needed to make it to their release. That time always came too soon. Now he feared it might not come soon enough. And even when the beasts were released, he wasn’t sure they’d be his deliverance.

“Brant, listen to me,” Cyrus called. If only he could delay them for a little longer…

“Do not listen to him!” Reed yelled as he stalked forward, preparing to attack.

The cats’ gates remained closed. Cyrus cut a quick look around the arena—nothing was caving in, nothing was on fire. Maybe she had escaped. Fucking witch…

The crowd started their boos again.

“This isn’t personal, Cyrus,” Brant said, tightening his grip on his sword.

“I’m asking you to make it personal,” Cyrus called back. “You know me, Brant.”

“And what would you have us do?”

The crowd’s boos thundered louder.

Cyrus held out a hand. “Nothing. Just wait.” Just like he was waiting… on a witch that had likely abandoned him.

The men looked at one another again.

“Fuck him, Brant,” Reed said. “Let’s kill him and go home.” Cyrus didn’t blame him—if fighters refused to fight, they died.

But Brant made no move to advance.

Shouts rang from the crowd—demands for the cats. Not far from Cyrus, a javelin thrown from the stands buried itself into the sand.

Chains clinked, and the cats’ gates started to rise as the arena guards engaged the pulleys.

It wasn’t some magic release. And these cats were not going to be in a mind to obey him.

Cyrus cursed as the realization set in—the witch had lied.

She wasn’t coming, and he was a fool to have even believed her.

There would be no raining hellfire on the arena.

He was alone and out of time. The only path to survival now was to kill Brant and his men. And there was no path to Pyro.

Reed and Kade charged forward in attack. Cyrus kicked Reed back and ripped his blade along his sword arm, disabling the Akim fighter, then spun to meet Kade. But Kade was closer than he’d thought, and the large man delivered an elbow that almost dropped Cyrus to the ground.

Cyrus scrambled back, expecting Kade’s immediate assault, but when it didn’t come, he paused. His brow dipped in confusion at Kade and Brant, who had paused too.

He followed their gazes to all four cats’ gates rising. The guards rarely let out all four. The beasts’ perimeters would overlap. There would be no safety—their punishment for delaying the fight.

The gates clanged as they opened, and four cats leapt out.

Kade turned and set his murderous intent back on Cyrus. Cyrus cursed the witch under his breath. He’d definitely die now.

But before Kade charged, Brant’s bellow came. “Cyrus!”

Cyrus snapped his head up and noticed—no chains.

The animals had no chains.

Shouts rose in the arena as the crowd realized the same.

The cats prowled toward them. Now it didn’t matter who won; there would be no calling the animals back, no being saved from them.