Page 244 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

FORTY-FIVE

HARBINGERS

CYRUS

“When?”

Every soul in the chamber hung on Ma’s single-word question. “When I saved her.”

She tongued at a canine, then nodded so slowly it felt like time itself had halted. Dad stayed a few steps behind her out of deference, but his gaze seared into mine.

Her voice rang out clear for the crowd: “And who is your champion, Prince?”

“I fight for myself.”

“Cyrus,” she bit out, horror cracking her regality. “Princes do not fight their own battles.”

“Maybe,” I allowed. “But Kings do.”

Her bright blue eyes turned pleading. And for a moment, I considered her. To lose one son before ascension was a cruelty few survived. To lose another—this young—was a burden I had no intention of saddling her with. But Nix was, and always would be, a liability. A weak point Calypso couldn’t afford to inherit.

And Poe chose me.

I cannot lose you, she whispered in my mind.

You choose an inopportune moment to show it.

Her brows pinched—just for a breath—and then her mask snapped back into place.

Nix is a trained Wing, with more experience.

And I’m the son of Reagan and Ciaran Stuart.

Dad stepped forward, resting a hand at the back of my neck and bringing our foreheads together.

He’s a bull in an arena, he said mind-to-mind. Easy to anger. Easier to distract. Nix always leans on strength, but don’t mistake that for an empty mind. He tracked you with that girl. He wouldn’t have accepted unless he had a plan. Don’t let him get under your skin.

Thank you. The balance will choose the righteous victor, I replied, trying to project more confidence than I felt.

Then my mother was gone, the Queen in her place.

She straightened her spine, brought her arms up, crossed her wrists over her chest, and bowed her head in a warrior’s salute. Dad followed suit.

With one final glance, she turned to face the gathered crowd, voice sharp and clear. “The rules are simple. One weapon. No magic.” She looked back at me, eyes unreadable. “The balance will choose the righteous victor.”

Nix and I turned from our parents and stepped onto the platform, blades raised. Anticipation silenced the room.

We paced forward, clasped winged forearms, and bowed our heads.

A muscle ticked in Nix’s jaw as I murmured, “May the light falter on your blade.”

“May the light falter on your blade, cousin,” he returned.

At least the last thing we said would be in honor. A blessing from the shadows. It was there—in those mismatched eyes I’d known my whole life—a flicker of gratitude that I hadn’t stripped him of it.

We backed to our respective corners, and I scanned the crowd. Most wore the same careful neutrality I’d expected. Calypso looked ready to storm the ring and kick both our asses. Carr crouched at the edge, my belongings clutched to his chest, elbows on his knees, fists pressed against his mouth.

If anxiety had a face, it was his. A coiled spring waiting to release.