Page 24 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter eighteen

The dark green topiaries sat in stark contrast to the golden sands of the villa grounds.

Anything growing in this cursed kingdom was a miracle.

Pyro owned the only true gardens in Rael—even the palace gardens were made of stone statues—and while the villa gardens were certainly beautiful, Cyrus hated them.

He hated everything about this place, but he wasn’t walking the gardens to love them or hate them.

It was merely where he could be alone. The villa was overrun now with men flocking to it—coming in droves with their misplaced loyalty and their hopes.

And he hated that too. He hated that people looked to him now. He hated how people called him king. He had wanted to free them, not rule them. He’d wanted revenge, not a throne. He’d exchanged the chains of the arena for the chains of obligation.

Knee-high hedges lined the flagstone walkway, curving the path around to a central fountain. Here, Teron sat quietly on a bench, staring at the plumes of water that shot up into the air and then cascaded down the tiered pools to the catch below. Cyrus slowed.

When Teron noticed him, he gave a small smile. “Sire.” He moved to stand, but Cyrus waved for him to stay.

Cyrus sighed and sat down beside him. “Please, Teron, not you too.”

“That is the sound of an unhappy man.”

“I can be happy and still not want people to call me king.”

“That’s true. Are you happy, though?”

Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Of course he was happy. He’d killed Orrid, taken Pyro, held the capital, freed his men. How could one not be happy with that?

Because he still had more to do…

He cleared his throat. “How long have you been out here?”

“Since just before dawn.”

Cyrus shifted in surprise. Dawn had been some time ago. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I slept wonderfully,” the old man replied. “But I wanted to watch the sunrise. I can’t remember the last time I did so.”

Cyrus couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a sunrise either. The morning light arced a rainbow through the mist of the fountain, and he also couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a rainbow. He thought the sight might stir something within him—peace. Hope. Joy. But there was nothing.

It didn’t take away the weight.

“I don’t want to be king,” he said.

“You don’t choose fate; fate chooses you.”

Cyrus shook his head. He wasn’t sure he believed in fate. Even if he did… “I don’t think fate is choosing me to be king. These people—I can’t be what they need. I can’t do anything for them. I can’t heal them; I can’t even heal myself.”

“You do so much more than you know. You give them the dream and opportunity of a new life.” The old man quieted. Then he turned. His brown eyes studied Cyrus. “You give them justice. Maybe that’s what you need too.”

Cyrus let himself hang on that thought. Justice. Wasn’t that what Everan had said? Yes. He could deliver that. He could right the wrong. But he didn’t need to be king to do that.

Teron reached for his bandaged arm, but Cyrus pulled back.

“Cyrus,” the old man scolded fondly.

Resignation washed over him, and finally, he let Teron pull off the bandaging.

His wounds were starting to sour; he needed the healer’s touch.

And the witch had cut him across his sword hand.

He needed that healed as well. He wanted to tell Teron about her too, but what would he say?

That he’d found the most beautiful woman who’d completely confounded him?

No—he’d sound like a fool. He didn’t even know if he’d see her again. He’d do better to forget her.

Teron finished pulling off the linen. Blood beaded where pieces of the wrap had melded to his skin, and Cyrus grimaced against the sting.

He braced for the rush of Teron’s mind, but as Teron touched him, there was no flood of horror and pain.

No nightmares of darkness and blood. These memories remained, yes, but inside Teron’s mind was something Cyrus had never seen before.

Peace.

For the first time since Cyrus had known him, the old man was at peace.

Cyrus watched him work—healing, rocking slightly to what might have been a melody in his own head. When the last stitch of flesh was healed, Teron released him.

They sat quietly in the calm of the morning.

“Can I ask you something?” Cyrus said after a time. “Why did you never live in the palace? You had the choice, but you chose to stay here, with the man who captured you.”

“I was captured long before Pyro came along. I’ve been owned by powerful men for well over half a century now.

” Teron smiled at the sunrise. “But a seer once told me that there would be a man who would come—a fighter, under a purple banner—not born of nobility but of blood and wrath. This man would change the fate of Rael. Forever.”

A purple banner.

Pyro’s banner.

Teron turned to him. “That man is you.”

Cyrus shook his head. “That prophecy could mean anyone.”

“Cyrus,” Teron chided. “You cannot say things like that as a smart man. Look what you have just done.”

He stared at Teron, his pulse quickening. “Well, it doesn’t mean I would change Rael for the better. I could change it for the worse.”

“Worse than Orrid? Worse than Pyro?”

“I’ve already changed the fate of Rael; this doesn’t mean that I have to also become king.” Cyrus was sweating. Why was he sweating? It wasn’t even that hot yet. And why did everything suddenly feel so overwhelming?

This was a choice.

He had a choice .

He could say no.

His voice came quietly now. “Would you be disappointed in me if I said no?”

Teron shook his head. “I could never be disappointed in you.”

Cyrus stared back out at the red horizon, blinking back the blur that came to his eyes. “I’m going to be terrible at it,” he said finally.

“But you’re already the best that’s ever been.” The old man smiled. “King Cyrus.”