Page 21 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter sixteen

Cyrus made his way through the courtyard toward the main hall of the villa where his men had gathered.

He’d checked on Pyro as soon as he’d left his chamber, not because he was worried that the pile of shit had escaped but because others might not have been able to resist their need for retribution.

He’d found him a little worse for wear but still fit to face the demise planned for him.

Cyrus let Pyro beg for his life, then left him without a word.

He wanted to take his time when he killed this man, relish it, and right now, he didn’t have that time.

Dawn broke over the horizon, and Cyrus quickened his pace. He ignored the pain that knifed through his arm. Perhaps he should have let Teron finish healing him. No—it didn’t hurt enough for that. At least, not when he wasn’t using it, or walking, or standing, or breathing.

Everan walked beside him. “What are you going to name them?” he asked.

Cyrus had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

Everan nodded over his shoulder at the dogs that followed. “Them. What are you going to name them?”

“Oh.” Cyrus glanced back at the dogs. “I’m not.”

Everan snorted. “You’ve got to call them something.”

“No, I don’t.” He also had more important things to focus his mind on, more important things that worried him, things that bothered him.

Things like the fact they were all free, but Cyrus didn’t feel free.

He saw his men with a new light in their eyes, new breath in their lungs, new power in their strides, but something inside him still bound him.

It snapped its taloned clutch tight around his spirit, clawing him back and holding him in darkness.

He filled his lungs against the pressure building in his chest—the same feeling he got just before stepping into the arena. It was as though he were there now. The tightness stretched from shoulder to shoulder, the fight rippling under his skin, building with each step.

Building.

Building.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword at his waist. Pain shot up his arm, and again he cursed himself for not letting Teron finish healing him. But pain was good. Pain brought him back.

“Are you all right?” Everan asked.

No. He straightened, dropping his hand. “Yeah.”

They slowed as they reached the main hall.

Rows of guards were on their knees—Pyro’s guards, their hands bound.

This wasn’t surprising, as they all had to die.

What was surprising was that there were so many still alive.

Cyrus knew Pyro had a lot of guards, but he’d never realized quite how many.

Cyrus’s men surrounded them, or what were mostly Cyrus’s men.

It appeared a few more had joined them from the arena.

Bravat moved between the guards, systematically eliminating them. He pulled back their heads, slit their throats, then pushed them to the ground to bleed out.

Pull. Slit. Push.

Next.

Pull. Slit. Push.

“You gonna let him kill them all?” Everan asked Cyrus.

Pull.

Slit.

Push.

“Yes,” Cyrus answered.

He left Bravat to his task and took the stairs up to the main hall’s double doors, but as he swung them open, he wasn’t prepared for what he found.

There was standing room only. The great hall of House Pyro was one of the largest in the capital, outside of the palace. Men of money held extravagant affairs here—weddings, banquets—although few affairs truly filled the room.

It was filled now.

All eyes turned on Cyrus.

Everyone grew quiet.

Men parted as he walked through, bowing their heads. Cyrus wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Everan was still beside him, although he’d fallen back slightly.

Had all these men been waiting on him ? His gaze swept over their faces. Their expectation. Their reverence. They were looking at him like he was the answer. Now he really didn’t feel worthy.

And then he saw Brant. The Akim House fighter showed no sign of injury from the spear he’d taken in the arena. Cyrus was glad of it.

Brant crossed the space between them and reached out his arm. His lips held a smile.

Cyrus clasped his arm in return. Brant’s mouth opened to speak, but as his eyes welled, he closed it again without saying anything.

“Welcome, brother,” Cyrus told him. “Glad to see you well. What about the rest of House Akim?”

Brant blinked back his emotion and shifted his gaze through the masses, where pockets of men briefly lifted their hands. “We’re all here. But there is no more House Akim, just as there is no more House Pyro.”

“The houses have fallen,” Ram said, coming up behind him, “and all the men are headed here.”

Cyrus shifted in surprise. “We’ve taken the capital?”

“No, but we’ve taken the palace.”

“The royal family?”

“Dead.”

“All of them? Are you sure?” That would have been Cyrus’s next move. Anyone left of the royal family could rally defensive forces.

“It was confirmed by many of the fighters coming in,” Everan said.

“Have you seen it with your own eyes?” Cyrus would trust the news only if it came from his men directly.

Everan shook his head. “I have not.”

Cyrus needed to be sure. “I’ll head there now, then.”

“What do you want the men here to do while—”

Commotion outside pulled his attention, Kord’s voice specifically. Cyrus stepped back out through the main doors to find Kord with his sword drawn a few paces from where Bravat held a guard.

“You spill his blood, I spill yours,” Kord warned the large fighter.

“I’d like to see you try,” Bravat goaded. It probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do. Kord wasn’t just a gold-tier fighter. He was a starred gold—the best there was. He would gut Bravat in the blink of an eye, but Bravat hadn’t yet shown himself to be a man of awareness.

“What’s going on?” Cyrus asked them.

“Release him,” Kord ordered Bravat.

And Cyrus saw it wasn’t just any guard Bravat held. It was Hephain, the lead guard.

“Cyrus,” Kord said, soliciting his support.

But Cyrus wasn’t sure yet if he wanted to give it. Yes, Hephain had shown kindness over the years, but he was the villa’s lead guard. He’d protected Pyro. He’d allowed this life.

“You’d kill him?” Kord challenged. “A man who’s shown mercy, a man who’s shown kindness to you personally. How is this fair? How is this honorable?”

Cyrus had never promised fairness. Or honor. He didn’t know if he could trust Hephain, and trust wasn’t a luxury he could afford right now.

Bravat read his silence as denial of mercy and grabbed a fist full of Hephain’s hair, pulling his head back.

Kord surged forward.

“Stop,” Cyrus ordered. He sighed. Despite being a decorated bloodsport fighter, Kord had always detested violence, especially when he felt it unjust or unnecessary. And maybe killing Hephain was both of those things.

Cyrus moved stiffly in front of the guard, who kept his eyes boldly on him. “Why should I let you live?” Cyrus asked him.

Hephain didn’t blink. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Bravat wrenched his head back again. Hephain bared his teeth but didn’t fight. He accepted his fate without fear.

“Do you not want to live?” Cyrus asked him.

“Not if I’m now to be your slave, not if you intend the roles to be reversed, to punish me for what’s been done to you.”

Cyrus crouched down so that their eyes were level. “There’s not enough punishment for what’s been done to us.” It wouldn’t keep him from exacting that punishment, though.

Hephain still didn’t cower.

Cyrus stood. “But there will be no more slaves,” he said.

“Only free men and dead men.” He eyed Hephain, trying to determine to which he belonged.

This man could be useful. He wasn’t just any guard.

He’d accompanied Pyro regularly to the palace, guarded him through various meetings with royals and nobles.

He’d been exposed to countless powerful men and matters of state.

He’d been exposed to secrets—secrets that might benefit Cyrus now.

“Will you join me?” Cyrus asked him. “Not as a slave, but as a free man of your own free will.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bravat challenged. “You can’t trust any of these men now. Let me finish the lot of them.”

Kord cut him a daggered glare.

But Cyrus ignored them both and kept his eyes on Hephain. The guard wore an expression he couldn’t read.

“Let him up,” Cyrus told Bravat.

The big fighter snorted in protest, but he pulled Hephain to his feet.

“The call is yours,” Cyrus told Hephain. Bravat was right—he couldn’t trust a man facing an ultimatum of death. But Kord was asking for mercy, and if Cyrus had to kill Hephain later, he could.

The guard glanced at Kord before bringing his gaze back to Cyrus. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee, bowing his head. “I recognize you as Rael’s new king and will serve you accordingly.”

Cyrus didn’t want to be recognized as the new king, nor did he want to be served, but he would accept Hephain’s loyalty. For now.

“Let him go,” he said to Bravat.

Bravat’s hand tightened on his blade, the leather hilt creaking under his grip. Anger still simmered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue further. He cut the guard’s hands free.

Hephain rubbed his wrists.

“What about the rest of them?” Kord asked.

The rest of them. Cyrus had no intention of adjudicating the rest—he didn’t know most of these men, nor did he care enough to try to. He simply didn’t have time.

“I’ll let Hephain decide,” he said.

There were some guards Cyrus did know, men who weren’t keeping their heads no matter who spoke on their behalf. Hephain’s decisions would answer Bravat’s question—whether Cyrus could trust him.

Despite Hephain having been spared, Kord didn’t sheath his sword. His eyes were still shadowed, and his nostrils flared with each breath.

It wasn’t often Cyrus saw him this bothered, even in the arena. “What’s going on with you?” he asked. “Are you all ri—”