Page 6 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter four

The wagon hit a deep rut in the road, jarring them all, but Cyrus didn’t feel it. He stared at the floorboards, although he wasn’t looking at anything in particular.

Sitting beside him, Everan shouldered him lightly. “You well, brother?”

He’d never be well. He’d gone to Kieve’s chamber before they’d left the villa for the arena.

Kieve lay in his bed, facing the wall. He didn’t move when Cyrus called to him.

The skin of his back was free of the torturous evidence, by Teron’s healing touch.

But Teron wasn’t able to heal what ailed his friend now.

When he’d put his hand on Kieve’s shoulder, Kieve had trembled.

“Cyrus.”

Everan’s voice brought him back, and he straightened.

He gave a stiff nod, but Everan knew him better.

Cyrus glanced up at the other men in the wagon looking back at him: Haddick, Jaem, Bash, and Kord.

They all knew him better, and they all knew Kieve had been carried back to his chamber early that morning.

Pyro didn’t mind them knowing—incentive for them to keep their tiering and status.

And to stay out of Pyro’s chamber. They all held the same disgust and loathing for their master and the same worry for Kieve, but they didn’t really know what it was like.

They hadn’t seen what Cyrus had. They hadn’t seen the way Kieve had been abused.

They hadn’t felt the pain and rage that came from having to watch a person they loved suffer while knowing that there was nothing they could do to stop it. They didn’t really know.

“Cyrus,” Everan said again, quietly.

Cyrus followed Everan’s gaze down to where he gripped the bench of the wagon. His knuckles were white. He released it but clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.

They reached the arena, a monument of blood and spectacle, a marvel of the human hunger for violence. It had taken King Orrid nearly six years to build it, and it was one of the largest structures in Rael, second only to the palace.

Cyrus’s men jumped down from the wagon. The air was thick with the tang of blood and sweat, and as Cyrus followed them, it clung to the back of his throat.

The unloading area was as it always was—a chaotic flurry between those coming and those going.

Departing teams loaded their dead as arena handlers barked commands at incoming fighters.

Cyrus and his men took the shadowed corridors down into the dark underbelly of the sport that killed more men than war.

It was a six-man fight today. The Sport Authority determined the fight cards, the tiering matches, and the schedule, which they posted weekly. However, they frequently made changes, so Cyrus checked it daily.

Everan and Kord were both gold-tier fighters, Jaem was silver, and Haddick, copper.

Bash wasn’t yet ranked. He hadn’t come from a house trade.

Instead, he’d been purchased directly from the slaving kingdom, Serra.

He’d been marketed as a laborer, but Pyro had noticed Bash’s size and tried him in the sparring fields, where he proved to be a naturally good fighter.

Most fighters came from Serran slavers, who’d either bought them as prisoners of war or stolen them from their homelands.

Cyrus was no exception, although he’d been only a child at the time.

He was raised in the bloodsport. He’d been sold as a servant boy to House Devon, where he helped tend the fighters.

He knew how to kill a man before he knew how to read.

But he tried not to think about that now.

He turned his focus back to Bash. This was an important fight for him—he needed a team win and another kill to reach the first level of the bronze tier.

And to stay in Pyro’s good graces. Cyrus was determined to get him there.

Bash had come a long way in his training.

His skill was there; now he just needed the numbers.

His only weakness—honor. He believed in a fair fight, but this world was anything but fair.

It worried Cyrus. Honor would get Bash killed.

And this would be a difficult fight. With additional men in the arena, it was more likely the cats would claim a kill and less likely their team would get their numbers. They needed to be fast.

Cyrus tried to push Kieve from his mind. His men needed his full focus today if they were to stay alive. He checked the wrap around his chest that he’d put over the dressing earlier that morning, making sure it was secure.

“You didn’t get Teron to finish healing that for you?” Everan asked, nodding to his chest.

Teron had done enough healing that morning. “It’s fine,” he mumbled. He rolled his shoulders, testing the binding, making sure he still had the range to move properly.

Everan watched him with a frown.

Cyrus picked up his sword. “Bash needs a kill.”

Everan nodded. “He’ll get it.”

The crowd roared in the arena above, with a thunder that sent plumes of dust through the tunneled halls and into their holding chamber. A fight had just finished.

“House Pyro!” came the call.

It was time.

Cyrus led the way out and down the hall. They passed the holding chambers of other fighters. Some were waiting for their fights. Some had already finished and were tending their wounded. Some weren’t waiting at all; they were just dead.

He would help Bash get his kill, he committed to himself.

One more—he already had nine. Ten would get him to bronze.

Cyrus kept track of all his fighters’ numbers.

He felt equally responsible in helping them level up.

In this sport, a man couldn’t survive alone.

Each needed the power of the team. It was the downfall of so many—chasing status and tiering at the cost of their teammates. Veteran fighters knew. Cyrus knew.

He’d had his own mentors who’d looked out for him as a younger fighter, men who had helped him learn and survive, men who had helped him rise. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he was one of the oldest fighters in the sport, and he had his own men to take care of.

They waited at the gates, watching while bodies from the previous match were still being pulled from the arena. The victors stood in its center, reveling in their win. Their team lead held his sword high, urging the crowd to cheer louder, and they did. Cyrus knew him. Bravat was his name.

Bravat, and fighters like him, irritated Cyrus. He disliked those who played the crowd, but he understood why they did it. The crowd could call for death despite a win. And they could call for a life to be spared.

Cyrus couldn’t bring himself to charm the crowd, not in the face of those who’d been slain.

Was blood not enough? No. It was never enough for the masses who sat fat in their gluttony, perfumed in the rot of their greed, and cheered as the arena sands drank up the lifeblood of men condemned to this carnage.

He couldn’t bring himself to entertain them more than death already did.

He refused. Yet, by the fickle grace of the gods, Cyrus somehow remained a crowd favorite.

Bravat took one final turn, his arms spread wide to the roar of spectators, and his eyes stopped on Cyrus. The brute smiled. A cocksure smile.

Cyrus didn’t understand how Bravat could feel victorious. Yes, they’d won, but at the cost of two men on his team. Two lives lost. Did that mean nothing to him? He tried to shake it off as he watched Bravat follow his men out of the arena. Cyrus had his own team to focus on.

The gates rose.

“Six!” Cyrus bellowed over his shoulder as he strode through.

“Six!” his men echoed behind him.

“Six!” called the gate guard atop the wall.

They were the first to enter the arena. Cyrus hated being first. He’d rather the other teams enter before them, as they usually tended to spread out, allowing Cyrus to choose the first kill and set up the charge.

Now the first kill would be the man that first reached them, which was generally the fastest and most nimble, not the quickest to end. And time wasn’t a luxury they had.

Cyrus glanced at his men. Everan gave him a slight nod. Bash did as well. Cyrus could see the anxiousness weighing on him.

The gates on the far side of the arena rose, and six men charged forward. Cyrus recognized them—fighters from House Aramine. They were good men, ones he’d kill with regret.

He set his sight on the first man that would reach them and broke into a run.

Everan veered to the right, a ruse for the flank of the opposing team, who drifted out more to meet him.

Cyrus bared his teeth and focused: hot sand beneath his feet, the taste of metal, the smell of blood.

Time slowed, and his senses drank everything in—the feel of the charge.

A blink before he reached his opponent, Cyrus leapt high, attacking from above to pull the man’s attention up so Everan’s sword could strike low to the legs.

He didn’t need to look to see if Everan had cut back hard and fast at the last moment to join him.

He knew he was there. Everan was always there.

The man blocked Cyrus’s attack with an upswing, as they’d hoped, then screamed and fell forward, like everyone who had their legs severed underneath them. Cyrus finished him with a backswing of his blade before the man even hit the ground.

It was a faster kill than he’d expected, and he puffed a small breath in relief, but there was no time to pause in that relief.

Everan sprang up and charged back toward his original target as the rest of the men clashed with matching opponents.

They had only moments before the side gates rose, risking losing their kills to the cats or becoming kills themselves.

Now at a one-man advantage, Cyrus whipped his attention to Bash.

The fighter was squaring against a man above his tier, but he fought with equal vigor. Cyrus hoped it was enough.