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

“Do you ever get tired?” Cyrus asked as Teron worked. “Not the kind of tired that makes you need a break, but the tired that makes you feel like you just can’t do this anymore?”

“Healing is a gift that I am proud to share with the world.”

Cyrus almost snorted. Share with the world. The world knew nothing about Teron. “Your gift only lines Pyro’s purse.”

“My gift might save the man who will change the fate of Rael.”

“Some bloodsport fighter? We can’t even change our own fates.”

The old man smiled, more to himself than to Cyrus. “I think you are destined for greatness.”

“The only thing I’m destined for is an early grave, and I suppose we’ll see how great that really is.”

It was a slow process, with the morning waning, and Teron was tiring. Cyrus glanced down. The outer edges of the ripped skin had mostly healed, but the deep gashes toward the center still remained. However, new skin had threaded over, and the injury wasn’t as bad as it had been.

He put his hand over Teron’s. “That’s good enough. The rest can heal on its own.”

The old man frowned. “Come back this evening, and I’ll finish.”

Cyrus gave him an appreciative nod, but he wouldn’t come back. Teron had a lot to manage without Cyrus adding to his burden, and he’d healed him enough; the rest would scab quickly and mend on its own. He had another fight in the morning, but he’d cover the wound, and it would be fine.

Cyrus pushed himself up and swung off the table. He gave Teron another nod of thanks and left the healer’s workroom.

It was late morning now. Normally, Cyrus would be on his way to the practice fields, but not today.

The day before a fight was a rest day. It wasn’t often he had fights so close together, but the king was celebrating a reign of twenty-five years, and the city was alive with activity.

Cyrus and his men would have many fights this week.

Hopefully they’d live through them. But he knew…

Some of them wouldn’t.

They had good odds, though. Pyro had more gold-tier fighters than any other house, making their teams strong and formidable.

And they had Cyrus. While it was Pyro who basked under the accolades of victories, it was Cyrus who achieved them.

It was Cyrus who made the men—trained them, grew them, led them.

It was Cyrus who fought most against losing anything more in this forsaken hell of a kingdom.

Of course, those who survived the arena still had to deal with the cruel perversions of their lord. Pyro loved his fighters, not just for the bloodsport. He loved their bodies. He loved doing wicked things to them.

Cyrus had been fortunate, if ever he considered himself so. Pyro didn’t abuse his gold-tier fighters or fighters that were progressing quickly up the tiers—he wouldn’t risk breaking their spirits.

Pyro had broken many men’s spirits.

Cyrus made his way across the courtyard toward the meal hall.

It was well after breakfast, but there should still be something left to eat.

If not, Portia would make up a meal for him.

The broad-shouldered slave woman could have been a fighter herself, Cyrus was sure, but her responsibility was to fill their bellies, and she did a good job of it.

As he made his way across the courtyard, he noticed a caged cart on the cobbled mainway, and he slowed. It was the kind of cart that brought Pyro’s new purchases—the kind of cart that Cyrus had arrived in when Pyro had bought him four years ago.

Over a dozen guards stood around it, more than usually accompanied a new purchase.

Breakfast forgotten, Cyrus drew closer. It was likely another bloodsport fighter, although sometimes it was someone or something else: a unique animal, a person with special abilities.

Pyro was a procurer, with a talent for obtaining rare and precious things.

It was what had gained him favor with the king, and what had made him the wealthiest man in all of Rael.

Cyrus came around the back side of the cart, his gaze shifting between the guards to see what the cage held. He was usually the one to first look over new fighters and assess them. He’d be the one to oversee this man’s training.

Except it wasn’t a man, and Cyrus stopped.

It was a woman. She was on her knees, with her wrists bound, as purchases always arrived. Only she was held with chains instead of rope, and more chains than any man ever wore. Blood stained the wagon underneath her, but he couldn’t tell from where it came.

Her head hung low, with her long, dark hair falling forward and hiding her face. He stepped closer.

Hephain, the lead guard and nearest to the cage door, tilted his spear to block him. “No closer, Cyrus.”

Cyrus shifted his gaze to the guard. He could rip that spear from his hands and run him through with it before he even knew what had happened. But Hephain was one of the kinder guards, and he wouldn’t be Cyrus’s first choice to kill.

Cyrus let his eyes travel back to the woman.

She raised her head in hearing the exchange.

The prominent show of her cheekbones sharpened the roundness of her face.

Her skin was light, like his own—too light to be from Rael.

She’d been beaten but not broken. There was a wildness to her despite being chained.

Her eyes shone bright like emeralds. They skimmed his face, then dropped to the bloodied wounds across his chest. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes flashed black.

Cyrus took a step back but then found only green eyes staring back at him again. Had he just imagined that? Perhaps the light…

Her cracked lips parted slightly. “A drink,” she said, little more than a whisper. “Please.”

But the guards didn’t move.

He glanced at Hephain.

The lead guard shook his head. “We’ve been ordered to give her nothing. And to say nothing to her.”

Cyrus looked back at the woman.

“Please,” she said hoarsely. She was a small thing—if she stood to her full height, he doubted she’d reach his shoulder.

“Not even water?” Cyrus pressed.

Hephain’s lips thinned. “Lord Pyro—”

Fuck Pyro. Maybe it was his spite that fueled him more than concern for the woman, but regardless, Cyrus turned and strode across the courtyard to the side waterspout, where fighters often drank their fill after returning from the arena, and he pumped water into the bucket that sat beside it.

Bringing the bucket back to the cage, he pulled the ladle up and held it through the bars. The guards didn’t move to stop him.

The woman reached forward, but she couldn’t lift her hands much. Whether from the weakness of neglect or the weight of the chains, her arms trembled. Curse all mankind who could do this to another. Cyrus stepped closer, reaching his hand farther through the bars to bring the ladle nearer to her.

“Cy—” Hephain warned, but before the name could even fully leave his lips, the woman lunged and grabbed Cyrus’s arm. Her fingers curled, and her nails raked his skin.

She was fast, but Cyrus was fast too, and he snapped away and out of her reach. He glanced down at his arm. While she’d been quick enough to catch him, she hadn’t broken the skin.

“Get back!” Hephain ordered. He shoved the woman with the butt of his spear and pushed Cyrus away. “Get back!”

Cyrus could only stare at her. Her emerald eyes stared back at him, full of fire. Any weakness he’d assumed of her was gone.

“You tried,” Hephain said to him. “Now move on.” Glancing back at the woman, the guard’s brow dropped. “That’s what you pull with someone showing you kindness?” the guard spat angrily at her. “What are you doing?”

But Cyrus knew exactly what she’d been doing…

Trying to draw his blood.