Page 8 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter five

Cyrus eyed the dark corridor. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

The voice that had called him didn’t come again, but it still echoed in his mind.

It wove itself into memories long buried, threatening to pull them to the surface.

He wouldn’t let it. He shook his head, forcing those memories back down.

But the call—it held him. It wouldn’t let him go.

It beckoned him.

Slowly, he started down the hall.

Closed cells lined the sides. These weren’t the normal holding chambers for waiting fighters. The doors to these cells were solid, with barred center openings barely large enough to put a hand through.

He passed the first cell, pausing to look inside. It was empty.

He kept on.

The second cell wasn’t empty. It held a small person curled in a corner. A man or a woman, he couldn’t tell. Was this who had called to him?

Two guards and their dogs passed in the main hall, and Cyrus pressed himself against the shadowed wall to keep from being seen. The arena guards were relatively lenient with team leads, like Cyrus, but they wouldn’t be if they found him here. And the dogs absolutely wouldn’t be.

“A drink?” came the voice again, from farther down the hall.

Cyrus’s head snapped toward it. He couldn’t yet see her. The woman from the cage? No. It couldn’t be. But she’d said the same thing, with the same voice, when he’d seen her at the villa. What was she doing at the arena? In a cell like this?

He glanced back toward the main hall, checking for guards. Seeing none, he continued on. He passed two more cells, not bothering to look inside. The voice hadn’t come from them. When he reached the far chamber, he paused, then slowly peered through the small barred opening of the door.

It was the woman.

She hung in chains in the center of the cell, her arms stretched above her head. Around her lay a circle of white powder. Flour? Chalk? Her head rested against her manacled arm, tired and weak, but her green eyes almost seemed to smile.

“Lucien,” she said again.

He’d already heard her say it, but hearing it again still stopped his breath. His pulse raced, faster than before a fight. “Why do you call me that?” How could she know?

The smile in her eyes moved to her lips. “It’s your name.”

He’d had many names over his lifetime, a new one with each master until he’d reached gold-tier status. Now no one dared change his name, not even Pyro. It was a name known to every lover of the bloodsport. And he liked the name Cyrus.

But Lucien …

“I can smell you,” she said. “I smell the power in you.”

So, she was also plagued with madness. “I don’t have power.”

She gave snort of amusement. “Give me a drink.” Her voice was seductive. Smoky.

But he shook his head. “I don’t think you’re thirsty.”

“Not water. Give me your hand.”

Not water. Blood.

At least she was honest this time, but… “Based on our last encounter, I’m going to have to say no .”

Her smile dropped. “Lucien, please.”

The door was locked. He couldn’t reach her even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He certainly didn’t want to be caught in this woman’s mind. “That’s not my name,” he said, “and still—no.”

Her eyes flashed black, then back to green.

“How did you do that?” he asked. “Your eyes.”

“Give me your hand and I’ll tell you.”

Right. “I don’t care to know that much.” He moved to leave.

“Seer!”

He stopped. “I’m not a seer.” Seers saw the future. He saw… not the future. He didn’t see anything. He merely had dreams. About weird, worthless shit.

She fought against her manacles, betraying her desperation now.

He couldn’t help his curiosity, though. “You want my blood. Why?”

Her face tightened and her lips thinned.

This was a waste of time. Cyrus turned again to leave.

“Please,” she called. “I’m sorry.”

He paused and, leaning close against the barred opening in the door, gave a small scoff. “Here’s the thing. I’m not sure you actually mean that.”

Her face darkened. “This isn’t a game, seer.”

“I told you, I’m not a seer.”

“How long have you had the visions? Or do you still think they’re dreams?”

He stilled.

“Do you find yourself in the minds of others?” she asked.

His pulse quickened again, and his breaths came faster. “How do you know this?”

“I told you. I smell you.”

This was some kind of trick. “You smell blood and sweat.”

“And power. I can give you more power. Just give me your blood.”

He ran his eyes up the chains that held her. “You don’t look like you have any power to give.”

“I can destroy this arena and everyone in it!” she hissed at him.

He took a step back. He almost believed her.

No. He didn’t. He wanted to. He’d give anything to bring this arena to the ground, with everyone in it, but these were only the ramblings of a mad woman, or a woman trying to manipulate him.

What did she want? Or perhaps an even more puzzling question… “Why are you here?”

She scowled. “Have you not heard? The grand finale. Six days’ time. They’re going to burn the witches.”

He hadn’t heard that, and he tilted his head to the side. “Is that what you are? A witch?” He didn’t believe in witches.

“Give me your hand and I’ll show you what I am,” she snapped, all efforts at nicety now gone.

He snorted. “Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“It sounds like you have six days.” He moved from the door and turned back down the hall.

“Lucien!” she called after him.

It sent a prickle up his spine, but he kept walking.

“Seer!”

Still, he ignored her. He reached the end of the side hall, and as he rounded the corner into the main corridor, he almost collided with a guard.

He stiffened, but when he saw that it wasn’t an arena guard with a dog, he eased. It was the lead guard of House Pyro—Hephain.

“Where were you?” Hephain asked him. “Why didn’t you come with the others?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I stayed to watch the next fight.” Fighters weren’t allowed to watch the fights, although there were a few secret pockets in the arena that Cyrus took advantage of from time to time.

Still, he didn’t mind telling Hephain this.

What would he do? Nothing. Hephain wasn’t one for punishment.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe him anyway. “Who was it?”

“If you wanted to see it, you should have been here,” Cyrus quipped back. He kept moving and stepped outside to the loading area. Everan and the team had already taken the wagon back to the villa.

Hephain followed Cyrus out into the late-afternoon sun and mounted his horse, his eyes still filled with suspicion. Two additional guards sat mounted, waiting. The rest had gone with the wagon.

Cyrus sighed. Three horses, three guards. He’d have to walk. Fortunately, it wasn’t too far.

The setting sun did little to break the heat.

Sand stuck to his damp skin, rubbing him raw on the edges of the wrap around his chest as he moved.

Thankfully, a wagon from House Lycus stopped, offering him a ride.

While bloodsport fighters showed no mercy in a match, they tended to look after one another outside the arena. Cyrus was appreciative.

As he jumped up and took a seat, his eyes trailed the chain running the length of the wagon that was clipped to each fighter’s manacles.

Although this was normal, Cyrus often forgot.

While fighters of House Pyro also wore manacles—thick cuffs of metal fitted around each wrist, covering half their forearms—rarely were they chained.

Most men took it as lenience, but Cyrus knew exactly what it was.

Pyro was daring them to run. Because he liked to punish them.

Perhaps he hoped Cyrus would run.

Cyrus had never even considered it. Nor would he. He wouldn’t abandon his brothers, and he wouldn’t abandon a potential opportunity to take down Pyro.

“Is your man gonna be all right?” Ryman, the House Lycus lead, asked him.

Haddick. Cyrus nodded. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Ryman said with a nod back. “Good.”

“Hey…” Cyrus paused, then asked, “Have you heard anything about witches? Being brought to the arena?”

“Witches?” Ryman snorted. “You believin’ in all that?”

Cyrus shook his head. “No.”

“Good,” Ryman said again. “They’re just trying to throw us off our game.”

Right.

When they reached the villa, Cyrus cuffed Ryman on the shoulder in thanks before dropping down off the wagon and then striding through the gates of the villa.

He headed straight to Teron’s work chamber, but when he arrived, the room was empty.

Where was Haddick? Teron couldn’t have healed him that quickly; the injury was too severe.

He stepped back out into the hall. It was also empty. Too empty. And quiet. Too quiet.

He followed the hall down and back outside. The courtyard was vacant as he made his way across it. Where was everyone?

Then he spotted Bash in the practice corral, a lone figure leaning against the fence.

“Bash,” Cyrus called out. “Where’s Haddick? And Everan?”

Bash turned when he heard him. His forehead was etched in pain, his eyes red.

Unease grew heavy in his stomach. “Bash?”

Tears streamed down the fighter’s face, and he drew a ragged breath through his mouth. But no words came.

“What’s happened?” Cyrus asked him.

Bash drew in another ragged breath. “Haddick…”

No. Cyrus’s stomach dropped.

Bash’s lip trembled. “It’s my fault.”

Cyrus shook his head. “What? No—”

“If I’d have made that first kill, you would have been free to help him. It’s my fault he—”

His words broke on a sob.

Cyrus reached out and gripped the fighter’s shoulders. Bash crumbled, and Cyrus pulled him close. The wounds of his chest burned under his wrap as he held him, but he ignored it as he fought his own emotion.

“You said he’d be all right,” Bash cried.

Those words were like a dagger. He had said that. He’d believed it. And Haddick wasn’t all right.

No matter how well Cyrus battled or how hard he tried, he couldn’t save them all. These people he loved.

He couldn’t escape the loss.

This was the bloodsport.

Every muscle of his body ached. Cyrus lay in a tub of water that had long run cold, trying to soak the linen wrap from where it had melded to the torn skin of his chest. It hurt, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with it, or the will.

He almost wanted the pain to distract him from the chaos of a day that had exhausted him with every emotion—happiness for Bash reaching the bronze tier, utter loss and sorrow for Haddick, thankfulness for Everan, who’d overseen Haddick’s body being taken to the pyre, and complete rage at Pyro for spitting on it.

There was the overwhelming need for revenge, and to avenge , with a hate that threatened to consume him. It was always on the verge of consuming him. Not just hate for Pyro. Hate for everyone in every kingdom who fed this world of violence.

Rael.

The Shadowlands.

Serra.

Hate for everyone who’d put him here. Hate for everyone who’d abandoned him.

His mother, even though she was dead.

His father, who he could only wish was dead.

And then there was the person who’d hurt him most of all…

His fingers curled under the water. Somewhere inside, a memory stirred. Blond hair. Blue eyes. A brother who’d once been his whole world.

Outside, wagons rattled through the courtyard, snapping him back. He was too tired to rise and look. Instead, he just listened to the snorts and harness chinks of horses. Guards barked orders, although he couldn’t make out their words. Then came the creak and latching of metal cage doors.

It was likely the late delivery of another of Pyro’s purchases. Maybe it was another witch bound for the arena.

His mind shifted to the woman. The witch . Cyrus had never met a witch. Because they weren’t real. He’d never met anyone with abilities apart from himself and Teron. But if there were witches, and the king wanted them, it would be Pyro he would ask to acquire them.

How did one catch a witch? And how did one keep her? Was she still there, in her cell?

With her green eyes.

She’d called him by a name he hadn’t heard since he was a boy. A name he had tried to forget. He’d nearly succeeded. Until now.

She’d also called him a seer. She’d known about his dreams—she’d called them visions.

Were they visions? Were they to come true?

Cyrus hadn’t known any of his dreams to come true, but he also never knew the people he saw.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe they were just simple dreams. But she’d known about his ability to enter the minds of others.

What did she want from him? His blood, although he couldn’t guess why.

He didn’t care. He wasn’t cruel enough to be without pity for her circumstance, but he had his own challenges to deal with.

And if she was truly a witch, she’d have power—she could figure out the means to help herself.

There wasn’t anything he could do. He couldn’t even help the people he truly cared about.

He’d stopped by Kieve’s chamber before returning to his own. Kieve was the same as when Cyrus had seen him that morning—he hadn’t moved from his bed. He didn’t answer when Cyrus called to him, but when Cyrus had put his hand on his shoulder, he’d trembled.

“Rest, then, brother,” Cyrus had told him. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know how to fix a broken man.

Rage built in his core at the hell of a world that showed no mercy.

Cyrus would have no mercy for this world.