Page 23 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter seventeen

Cyrus lay in his bed, unmoving, staring at the thick ceiling beam running the length of his chamber. The morning sun poured through his window. He should have been up before dawn, but he’d let himself rest. However, despite the tiredness that blanketed him, he hadn’t slept.

The bizarre encounter with the witch still had him reeling.

After collecting himself and leaving the palace, he’d joined the men of House Miro and House Ander to secure the western hills, another wealthy district of the capital where several nobles and their small private armies were trying to hold their ground—unsuccessfully.

It was there Cyrus had discovered the power of presence.

He’d stormed villa after villa, not even needing to lift his sword. As soon as his small group of men pushed through the gates, the slaves within were emboldened to stand.

And they did.

They moved from villa to villa, systematically breaching each hold, systematically overwhelming and eliminating the nobles and their men.

And with each victory, their numbers grew.

Bloodsport fighters, freed slaves, impoverished citizens—it didn’t matter.

They all came together, and by nightfall, the capital was theirs.

It was late by the time he returned to his chamber, where he was surprised to find the dogs waiting for him. He’d left them wandering the palace. He wasn’t sure how they’d found their way back to the villa or to his chamber, but he was too tired to care.

He wanted to drop straight onto his bed, but he desperately needed a bath, and he forced himself to take one.

Exhaustion pervaded his every pore—he could have slept in the tub of brown water—yet when he finally let himself lie down atop his mattress, sleep wouldn’t come.

And so he found himself staring at the ceiling beam well into the night and the early hours of morning.

It was the same ceiling beam he’d stared at the past four years.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of moving into Pyro’s bed chamber.

It didn’t matter anyway; he wouldn’t be here much longer.

Pyro was still held in the basement cells.

Today, Cyrus promised—today he’d take the lord’s life.

A gift to himself. Maybe that would satiate the clawing hunger inside him—listening to Pyro’s screams as Cyrus flayed the skin from his body.

Maybe the real healing would finally come when Cyrus took the life from him, one piece at a time. He’d make it slow. He’d make it last.

Maybe then he’d be able to sleep.

The thought gave Cyrus enough energy to push himself out of bed. He splashed water onto his face from the sideboard basin. It was cold and felt good. He closed his eyes and lingered in the moment. But as he opened them again, he paused at his reflection staring back at him.

The blond hair.

That face.

The face he shared with another.

Oh, to be this close to Alexander…

The constant weight in his chest grew even heavier. “Do you feel me, brother?” he whispered. “The way I feel you?”

The water rippled, as if in answer.

“Of course you do.”

Cyrus had dreamed of killing Alexander, although not over and over, as he had with Pyro. He tried not to allow himself to think and hope for things that weren’t actually possible.

But now, suddenly, he was realizing how possible they truly were. Maybe this was the reason he didn’t feel sated. This was the reason he didn’t feel free. Two more men had to die.

His father.

His brother.

“Do you feel me?” he asked the reflection again, leaning closer. “Because I’m coming for you.”

The promise breathed new life into him. He pulled on his leathers and boots and stepped out into the morning. He was quickly met by Ram, who bowed his head respectfully before greeting him.

“Don’t do that,” Cyrus told him.

“I know, but I—”

“I want you to not do it,” he stressed.

Ram swallowed. “Okay.” The young fighter picked up his step beside him. “Everan is waiting for you in the dining hall.”

“Good.” He was headed there now.

Ram glanced back at the dogs that followed. “So, what did you end up naming them?”

“I didn’t,” he answered, not breaking stride.

“Well, what do you call them, then?”

Cyrus felt his patience waning. “Dogs. I call them dogs.” And enough about them. “Go get Jaem and Sergen. I want Pyro brought up.”

“Where do you want him?”

Cyrus paused. Should he kill Pyro publicly? No. This was something he’d long dreamed about, something that had given him the will to live when he’d had none. Pyro was his alone. “In his old chamber, you’ll find a corner with chains from the ceiling. String him up there.”

Pyro had used the space to break men; now Cyrus would use it to break him .

Ram nodded and trotted off to do as he was bid.

Cyrus kept toward the dining hall. When he reached it, he was surprised to see every table filled, with even more men standing and holding their plates.

Everyone stood when he walked in, including Everan and Brant, who were seated with their meals on the far side of the hall.

“Don’t stand for me,” Cyrus said as he reached them and took a seat beside Everan.

Everan snorted with a grin. “You’re king now.”

“I haven’t agreed to that,” Cyrus snapped. “And I said don’t stand. Not you, not any of our men.”

The smile fell from Everan’s mouth, and he and Brant seated themselves again.

Cyrus pushed a long breath out. “I’m sorry. This is just a lot.”

“Well, you’re not doing it alone,” Everan assured him.

One of the dogs nudged the side of his leg, and Cyrus put his hand on the animal’s head. He’d wondered if these animals might be a nuisance following him around, but he found them somewhat calming.

“What did you name them?” Brant asked.

Everan chuckled.

Cyrus cut him a side-eye. “I didn’t. They’re dogs. They don’t need names.”

“Well, how do you call them apart from each other?”

“Why would I ever need to do that?”

Brant frowned, then his eyes shifted, and Cyrus followed them to see Kord approaching.

Kord gave an exaggerated bow when he reached them. “My king,” he said to Cyrus with a grin.

“I swear to the fucking gods,” Cyrus mumbled under his breath.

Kord laughed and took a seat beside him.

Cyrus wasn’t too annoyed. Kord was in good spirits, very different from the last time he’d had seen him. Cyrus was glad of it, even if it did come at the cost of a little teasing.

Anisi, a young girl who often worked the kitchen with Portia, set two plates of food in front of Cyrus and Kord with a smile, then stepped carefully over the dogs who lay in the middle of the walkway between the tables, before flitting off again back to the kitchen.

Cyrus paused, watching her disappear, then glanced around the dining hall at the regular kitchen servants, all tending the men who’d come for breakfast.

“What?” Everan asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”

“It’s just…” Cyrus drew his gaze around the dining hall again. “They’re all still working. They’re free, but they’re still working.”

“Everyone’s working. No one knows what to do now, so they’re all just doing what they normally do until you tell them otherwise.”

Cyrus rested his forearms on the table and leaned his weight onto them as he let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I want them to do.” What did they want to do? Would they not be the best ones to define that? But there was only the weight of their hopes pressing down on him.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Everan asked him.

Cyrus’s eyes traveled the hall again, this time not looking at the people but at the hand-hewn rosewood arches that sprung from marble columns along the wall and peaked at least ten men tall.

From their centers hung wrought iron chandeliers, requiring the efforts of no less than forty people to light them each night.

Tearflower-stained glass, a precious commodity because of the hazard to create it, stretched the length of the hall, from the black rhodium-studded doors to the double halls leading to the kitchens that held a staff of more than thirty.

It was beautiful. Luxurious. But luxury was a trap.

“I’m going to tear it all down,” he said.

Everan’s head jerked up. “What?”

“I’m going to tear it down.”

Everan and Kord looked at each other and then back at Cyrus.

“All of it?” Kord asked.

“All of it.”

“Cyrus,” Everan said, “don’t make a rash decision.”

Cyrus dropped his brow. “Are you serious? This place was built on the backs of slaves. Men have died for it.”

“And you’ll reduce that work to nothing?”

Cyrus stared at him.

“Use it,” Kord told him.

Cyrus snorted. “For what?”

“To give people a beautiful life here.”

“How can life be beautiful here after everything that’s been done?”

“Look around you,” Kord told him. “Men are celebrating, they’re smiling. They’re the happiest they’ve ever been. Would you take that from them? What would they do then? Where would they go? If you destroy it, that only serves yourself.”

Cyrus sat back in his chair. Was that true? Was he the only one who wanted to tear this kingdom to the ground? He looked around the hall again—the men talking, laughing, clasping one another on the shoulders, smiles on their faces.

Cyrus stilled as his eyes landed on Kieve.

The fighter had just entered, seemingly bewildered at the sight of the overflowing hall. He stumbled in a circle, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Cyrus hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, especially not out of his chamber, and he quickly rose to meet him.

“Brother,” he called, crossing the space between them and clasping his friend’s shoulders. Kieve was pale and looked unsteady. Cyrus wasn’t sure the last time he’d eaten.

“Is it true?” Kieve asked him. “Have we taken the palace?”

“We’ve taken the whole city.”

Kieve gaped at him, then his eyes welled. “Are we… Are we free?”

Cyrus squeezed Kieve’s shoulders tighter. His own eyes stung. “You’re free.”

Kieve’s breaths came faster, and he swayed.

“Here,” Cyrus said, pulling him toward the table. “Sit.” He pushed his own plate in front of him. “Eat.”

Kieve looked at Everan, still in disbelief, and Everan gave him a warm nod.

“Eat,” Cyrus encouraged him again.

The broad-shouldered fighter only stared at him. The fork trembled in his hand. “But I haven’t…” His words came unevenly. “I haven’t done anything to help.”

Cyrus straddled the bench next to him and gripped his arm. “You survived.” He gripped him harder. “You survived,” he said again. “That’s enough. Now eat.”

Kieve took a bite of the eggs and ham, chewing slowly.

Then he ate more. Cyrus told him about what had happened in the arena, about Manus, and about the witch.

Everan and Kord listened intently too—Cyrus hadn’t told them everything , and their eyes grew wide with what had happened in the king’s chamber.

Kieve finished his plate, then ate another, pausing only to interject questions. It was the best Cyrus had seen his friend in weeks. What he wouldn’t give for Kieve to be better, and suddenly he found himself saying, “I have something for you.”

Cyrus led Kieve from the dining hall to the east side of the villa and main residence, but as they reached Pyro’s chamber, he paused when he noticed Kieve had stopped in the doorway. Cyrus cursed himself. He hadn’t thought of how Kieve might feel returning here. Was this a mistake?

But slowly, Kieve stepped inside, where his eyes found Pyro gagged and hanging in chains. Sweat drenched the ill-fated lord, probably from struggling to free himself. Or from what he knew was to come. He struggled again when he saw Cyrus, but he should have known there was no escaping these chains.

Kieve shot an astonished look at Cyrus before looking back to Pyro.

This had been a moment that Cyrus had dreamed of, a moment he’d waited for. A moment he’d wanted for himself. But if it would heal Kieve, he’d give it to him. He drew his dagger from his belt and held it out, handle first.

“He’s yours,” he said, his voice low.

Kieve took the blade without a word, his face pale. His hands were as cold as stone. He stepped forward, slow and measured, until he stood before the man that had broken him.

Pyro’s swollen eyes fell on him, struggling to focus. Recognition dawned slowly. Then terror.

“P-please,” Pyro whimpered.

Cyrus stepped back to watch. Everything Pyro had done, all the pain he’d caused, all the suffering—now he’d be the one who suffered. He’d scream. He’d beg. But there would be no mercy.

Kieve stood still. He stared at Pyro for a long, quiet moment. Perhaps he was planning what he’d do to this man. Perhaps he was relishing the anticipation of it all.

But then, without warning, before Cyrus could react, he drove the dagger clean into Pyro’s chest—fast and precise. Directly into the heart.

Pyro gasped once, then sagged against the chains, dead before he’d even realized what had struck him.

Cyrus blinked, the violence too brief. “That’s… That’s it? You just… ended him?”

Kieve turned, his face unreadable. “I just want it to be over.”

Cyrus’s jaw clenched. “You could have made him suffer. You could have made him feel what he did to you.”

“But it wouldn’t change anything,” Kieve whispered.

He pressed the bloodied dagger back into Cyrus’s palm. Then he left, leaving Cyrus alone with the body of the man who’d caused so much suffering, and with the hollow echo of an ending that didn’t feel like victory.