Page 18 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

One lunged for Reed. The injured Akim fighter had no means to protect himself, and his scream was cut off sharply as he was taken down.

“Reed!” Brant yelled. But there was nothing he could do. Kade and Brant both backed toward Cyrus. No one had ever tried fighting the cats, but that seemed the only option now.

As the animals set their sights on the three men, Cyrus thought of another wild possibility.

The beasts stalked toward them.

He held… waiting… waiting…

The cats leapt.

Cyrus swept out a kick, followed immediately by a second one, dropping both Brant and Kade to the ground from behind. Then in a single movement, he ripped his sword across his own left hand and flung his arm out, arcing a wide spray of blood around the three of them and onto the animals.

As his blood found the beasts, a tremor rippled through him.

A fog.

Then it cleared.

And he could see.

Not just from his own eyes but from eyes looking back at him—eyes of the beasts.

And more, he could feel them. Their hunger for blood clawed at him, their wildness fought against him.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his will battled theirs.

It wasn’t as easy as the witch had made it out to be, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure who was in control—him or the beasts.

Finally, the animals dropped back, ceasing their attack, but he could still feel their hunger to kill.

Cyrus clutched his head, trying to get his bearings as an energy rushed through him. It made him lightheaded yet all his senses sharper, almost painfully so. He became aware of everything around him—the crowd that had fallen nearly silent, the smell of blood, the taste of it…

He opened his eyes. At his feet, Brant and Kade lay on the sand, looking up at him with fear and confusion in their eyes. Cyrus swayed slightly as he straightened and drew his gaze back over the stands. The spectators were on their feet, but the arena was as silent as a temple hall.

The king stood in his viewing box, his mouth agape, as did Pyro next to him.

The need to kill coursed through Cyrus, but he didn’t know if it belonged to him or to the cats. Probably both. And he saw his chance.

He sprung to the javelin protruding from the sand and pulled it free. Then with the most earnest of prayers, he hurled it toward the royal viewing box—at Pyro.

Never had he begged the gods so ardently. He begged his aim to hit true.

Hit this man.

Kill this man.

Cyrus begged the gods to give him this. Please give him this.

But the javelin missed.

And instead impaled the king.

The arena fell silent.

Everything, silent.

Then the screams started.

Pyro gaped at the king, then back to Cyrus, and his eyes widened more.

Cyrus swore on all things holy. He raised his sword, pointing to Pyro—a promise long made—and with every thought, every wish, every fiber of his being, he called through the bonds to the cats for the lord’s blood.

The beasts jumped forward and leapt up the arena wall into the stands with lethal grace.

They mauled everyone in their path. More screams tore through the air, and the shouts of guards rang out.

Cyrus knew he had only moments before they came for him, only moments to seize his opportunity, and he pushed his call for Pyro through the bonds, again and again.

Pyro stumbled backward in the royal viewing box and fell. He stumbled again as he rose, but as he tried to flee, the surge of the panicked crowd blocked him in. He clambered over the dead king and raced toward the other side. Cyrus followed him with the cats.

Guards poured into the arena toward Cyrus. He ignored them and pushed the cats faster. The animals clawed over the bodies of spectators, racing toward their target. All he cared about was getting Pyro.

A set of eyes in his mind went dark, and one of the striped cats fell back into the arena, a spear protruding from its side. But Cyrus still had three more animals, and he drove them with every fiber of his will.

Two guards barreled toward him, but he didn’t break his concentration. Just a little more—

A sword arced toward his head. He let it come as the black lion sprang on Pyro, its claws out and jaws wide. And Cyrus gave into the cold of death that would now claim him.

Except it didn’t come.

Brant and Kade, now on their feet, met the guards’ attack, driving them back, away from Cyrus. It wouldn’t be enough, though. Guards swarmed around them. Brant dropped to his knees as a spear pierced his side.

“Brant!” Kade called.

They’d all die now.

Suddenly, thunder shook the arena—not from the sky but from the ground.

The west wall shuddered, then buckled with a roar, collapsing the tiered seating in an avalanche of stone and dust. Bloodsport fighters poured in.

They collided with the guards in a thick battle clash.

In the stands, more fighters went after the spectators.

The air was filled with the screams of the dying.

The crowd surged in panic—shoving, trampling, clawing to escape.

None of them would.

And then there was fire. He wasn’t sure from where it came…

The witch.

Flames spread through the air, setting ablaze everything and everyone in its path. The screams came louder.

Cyrus paid no attention to the dying. His eyes were on one man—the only man that mattered—the man that the black lion dragged through the stands back toward the arena. Back toward Cyrus.

Pyro.

The lion leapt from the top of the wall into the arena, pulling Pyro with him. It was a long drop, and Pyro’s legs gave out from underneath him with a sickening crunch as he landed.

He screamed.

Cyrus had no compassion for him, no mercy. He stalked toward the lord with a hatred in his heart that no vengeance could heal. He’d take that vengeance anyway.

Pyro cowered on his knees, weeping.

Cyrus drew the lord’s chin up with the tip of his sword to look at him.

“P-please,” wept Pyro. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Cyrus slid the tip of his sword to Pyro’s throat. “What I want is to see you die,” he said, pressing the tip into his skin. And he’d get what he wanted now.

“Will you really kill him here?” came a voice behind him. “So quickly?”

Cyrus turned to see the witch.

She stood at ease in the center of the chaos, her hair wind-tossed, a smear of ash on one cheek. There was blood on her hands and firelight in her eyes. No dismay. No alarm. Only sharp and alive, untouched by the panic that surrounded them.

“This man deserves a lot of things,” she said, “but a quick death isn’t one of them.”

Cyrus didn’t disagree, but… “I don’t have much time,” he said, and he turned back to the whimpering Pyro.

“What makes you say that? The city will be yours by nightfall. You have all the time you could want.”

Cyrus drew his brows together. “What?”

“You killed the king. Your men are taking the city.”

He still didn’t understand. “My men? What men?” Men of House Pyro?

“Look around you,” she said with a wave of her arm. “Did you not intend to start a rebellion?”

He could only stare at her.

“Look around,” she said again.

He peeled his eyes from her and swept them over the chaos. Thousands of bloodsport fighters attacked the fleeing crowd in swarms, killing the nobles and guards, cutting down spectators.

The arena was burning.

The flags of Rael were burning.

The king was dead.

But a rebellion hadn’t been the plan. This hadn’t been the plan.

The witch flashed him a smile. “Well done, seer.”

“My name is Cyrus.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She raised a brow. “You mean King Cyrus.”