Page 9 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter six

Cold. It was so cold. He couldn’t feel his feet. Snow fell around him. He couldn’t run anymore. He couldn’t follow her.

She’d left him.

Alone.

To die.

He had a sickness, she’d said—an evil inside him. And she’d left him. But still, he called for her.

“Mother!” he screamed.

His tears froze on his cheeks. He knew she wasn’t coming back, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Mother!” he screamed again.

The biting wind howled through the trees, mocking him.

She wasn’t coming.

“Alexander!” he called.

Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh. No closer had two brothers been. But Alexander wasn’t coming for him either.

No one was coming for him.

Cyrus sat up with a start, gasping for breath. His skin was ice-cold, yet sweat covered him. He looked around—he was in his chamber. He swallowed as his breaths calmed. It had been over twenty years since that day in the forest, and at least ten since he’d last been haunted by it in his dreams.

The witch. This was her fault—reminding him…

Cyrus raked his hands through his hair and over his face, solidifying himself in the present. That memory—it had been a long time ago. He was no longer that boy, no longer that weak.

He kicked himself up and off the bed and splashed water over his face from the basin on the side table.

He had another fight today; he needed to focus.

His mind wanted to drift back, to linger in the past that haunted him, but he couldn’t let it.

The fight , he told himself, and he forced his focus.

Four on four. It would be Cyrus, Kord, Ram, and Sergen.

Sergen was a copper-tier fighter and new to House Pyro.

Cyrus was still feeling him out, learning his strengths and weaknesses.

He had confidence in him, though—he was showing all the right signs of a team fighter.

He was a little soft, perhaps, but that was better than the alternative.

Sometimes men weren’t team fighters. They didn’t have it in them, or their habits were too hard to break.

If they put other men in the house at risk, Cyrus had to eliminate them.

An accident during training at the villa, or a poor setup in the arena—there were many ways to get rid of a man.

Fortunately, it didn’t have to happen often, but occasionally, there came a fighter that didn’t fit, a fighter that jeopardized them all.

Cyrus understood the singular drive, the selfish focus. It came from the desperation to stay alive, but the only way to stay alive was with the team. It was a cruel world, and Cyrus didn’t want to make it crueler, but he did what he had to do to protect all the fighters in the house.

The sun hadn’t yet risen, and he didn’t expect many men in the dining hall when he arrived, but there were a few. Perhaps they’d had nightmares too. Cyrus wondered if there was a man in the villa who didn’t have nightmares. Perhaps Pyro. Pyro was the nightmare.

Cyrus noticed Kieve sitting at the end of one of the long tables. It brought a small rush of relief. He was happy to see him finally up and out. Kieve needed to get back to normal—or normal enough to fight. A man who couldn’t fight in House Pyro was a dead man.

Kieve kept his eyes down on his uneaten food as Cyrus took the seat across from him.

“Are you back on the schedule?” Cyrus asked him.

A delicate arm set a plate of steaming pork and eggs in front of him, and Cyrus looked up to find Visa’s smiling face.

“You’re up early,” she said.

He gave an appreciative nod to Everan’s woman. She often helped Portia in the kitchen and tended the fighters. “Thank you,” he told her.

She raised a brow. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Enough.” He never got enough sleep.

Her eyes told him she didn’t buy his answer. “Can I get you anything else?”

He shook his head as he picked up his fork. “This is good.”

She smiled again and swept back into the kitchen.

Cyrus turned his gaze back on Kieve. His friend still wasn’t well. He hadn’t touched his food, there was no color in his face, and the dark circles under his eyes gave a haunted look. He was a haunted man.

“You need to eat something,” Cyrus told him. “Are you on the schedule?” he asked again. Kieve would have had to get sign-off by a Sport Authority physician. It wasn’t something difficult, but looking at the despondent fighter… everything might be difficult for Kieve now.

Kieve sat blankly as he thumbed his fork in his fist.

“You need to get back on the fight card.” Cyrus hated pushing him, but he had no choice.

The fighter only stared down at his plate.

“Kieve.”

Still, Kieve said nothing.

Cyrus didn’t know what to do. He wanted to support him with gentle kindness, give him time, but they didn’t have time. He rose abruptly and snapped out his hand, grabbing Kieve’s face and making him look at him.

Kieve tried to shrink away, his eyes wide, his breaths short, but Cyrus held him.

“Don’t let that bastard break you,” Cyrus said between his teeth, leaning closer over the table. “There will come a day that he will answer for everything he’s done. But you have to stay strong.” Cyrus would make him stay strong.

When Kieve finally spoke, his voice came in barely a whisper. “You don’t know. You don’t know what he did.”

“I know.” Cyrus released Kieve’s face but shifted his hand back around the nape of his friend’s neck, still holding him tightly. “I saw from his mind. I was right there with you.”

Kieve’s eyes welled.

“I’m still with you,” Cyrus told him. He saw the doubt in Kieve’s face, the brokenness, the lack of hope. Cyrus squeezed him tighter. “I will get you out of this place. I swear to you. Do you hear me?”

Slowly, Kieve nodded.

“But you have to get back on the schedule. Can you do that?”

Again, Kieve gave ever the faintest nod.

Cyrus nodded back. “Now eat,” he said.

Sweat dripped down his brow. Cyrus gritted his teeth as he stood at the gate of the arena.

Kord, a gold-tier fighter and one of his closest friends, stood beside him.

It was a four-man match: Cyrus and one of his younger fighters, Ram; Kord; and Sergen, the new guy.

Together they’d face four men from House Flavian.

There were about two hundred fighting houses serving Rael’s arena, each with a couple hundred fighters.

Cyrus didn’t know them all, but he knew most house leads, and many of the gold- and silver-tier fighters, as well as a few others.

Then there were the countless churn houses.

People who couldn’t afford regular arena entry often turned to churn-house fights—unregulated houses that pitted untrained, even unfit, men against each other during off-peak hours.

They didn’t bother with tiering—their fighters didn’t live long enough for that, or promising ones were picked up by a noble house.

Sergen had been a churn-house fighter, bought by House Malek before being sold to House Pyro.

Sergen needed a kill today, and Cyrus was feeling confident.

They’d run through their strategy multiple times that morning, even though it was quite simple.

Cyrus and Kord would make the first kill, then Cyrus would pair with Sergen to help set him up.

If needed, Kord would join after he finished his opponent, unless Ram needed help.

The gate rose, and Cyrus strode through. “Four!” he called.

“Four!” came the echo behind him.

“Four!” the gate guard bellowed.

Cyrus and his men were the second team into the arena.

Cyrus chose his target and broke into a run.

Kord split slightly to his right, just as Everan always did.

Everan and Kord were his closest friends, and Cyrus relied on them both with complete faith, and not just in the arena.

Out of all the men, Cyrus had known Kord the longest. Of the five houses he’d belonged to, he’d been with Kord in three.

Pyro had purchased them from House Parvil, where they’d both gained their gold-tier status.

Together they’d come a long way, and they’d go a long way still.

Cyrus set his charge and focused.

He saw every detail of his target—every piece of armor, every scrap of fabric, every part of exposed flesh. Each footfall across the burning sand came like thunder in his ears. His nostrils flared, breathing deep the blood-laden air.

Time slowed.

To nearly a stop.

Then it sped forward, hurling him into the clash.

His target swept up with his sword, expecting Cyrus to leap and rain an attack from above. Instead, Cyrus dropped low, slicing through a leg and bringing him down. Blood sprayed his shoulder as Kord’s sword claimed the man’s head.

Cyrus and Kord worked fluidly, extensions of each other. They knew each other’s moves like their own. Years of practice had made them perfect in their dance. Divinely perfect. But they didn’t have time for pride, and they swung their attention back to the fight.

There were three men left from House Flavian. Ram and Sergen each quickly took an opponent, and Kord careened to meet a third before the man could join a two-on-one against Ram. Cyrus turned his focus on Sergen.

His copper-tier teammate was skilled, but Cyrus quickly realized Sergen’s opponent was better. Sergen would need help. Cyrus maneuvered to the side to put their opponent between them, but the man backed toward the cats’ side gates, using them as a defensive advantage.

He wouldn’t be able to do that for long. Sergen and Cyrus pressed him back farther.

The man wore a half-face helm—his peripheral would be hindered, as would his hearing. Would he catch when the cats’ gates started to rise? Cyrus swore under his breath. Damned if he had to end up saving this man just so Sergen could kill him.

Sergen launched forward in a clean series of moves—a little too calculated and stiff for Cyrus’s taste. They’d need to work on that more in practice. The man drove a skilled counter. Their blades locked, and the Flavian fighter shoved Sergen back.

This was taking too long.

Cyrus looked for an opportunity to deliver a debilitating strike, but their opponent was quick and defended himself well. Was this a silver-tier fighter? Cyrus didn’t know him.

A snarl came from the shadows behind the gates. The restless cats knew their release was near.

They needed to end this.

The Flavian fighter again locked blades with Sergen, and Cyrus saw his opportunity.

He lunged forward, ripping his blade along the man’s hamstring.

When the fighter buckled and jerked sideways, Cyrus delivered a blow with his elbow that knocked the helm from his head.

But when he saw the man underneath, he stumbled backward.

The Flavian fighter staring back at him was blond. Like Cyrus.

Too much like him.

It was Cyrus’s hair.

And the face looking back at him—Cyrus’s face.

No, not Cyrus’s face.

Alexander’s face.

Alexander. It was his brother.