Chapter One #2
Poster or not, he could feel the man’s eyes boring through the tiles. Slowly, already cringing, he resumed his viewpoint.
The champion looked just as Cyrus remembered. Tall, broad-shouldered; an impressive enough figure, if you liked that sort
of thing (Cyrus didn’t). A strong, square jaw; surety in his expression. There was a slight lift to the corner of his mouth,
like he was contemplating a secret nobody else knew. His hair, falling tousled over his forehead, was a warm reddish brown.
The burst of dislike was instant and intense, sour as a gulp of spoiled milk. He took in the champion’s pose: the loose, casual
grip on his sword as he leaned against it, more ornamental than anything, like he didn’t really expect a challenge. The knowing
expression, detestably smug. The sheer size of the poster, domineering over the town—over Cyrus’s town. And the wording beneath, picked out in bold square lettering:
Meet Maximillian, champion of Heliarth.
What did that mean? Ranragh belonged to Cyrus. It simply wasn’t done to muscle in on someone else’s territory, not unless it was an invite (and wrongdoers never invited anyone). The champions
took it very seriously; every three years their Federation hosted Athaca-wide elections, enabling their starry-eyed heroes
to stand for their settlement of choice with the victor selected by the voting public. Once elected, they operated as stewards
to protect and care for their towns. Most of it was for show, of course—champions usually had a council in place to help handle
the most boring aspects of day-to-day life, and many places still elected a governor or mayor to work alongside. But the champion
was the face of operations, the one the townsfolk chose to be their leader, the esteemed ruler of their precious domain.
Wrongdoers didn’t bother with anything so democratic. Elections were for the honourable: If a wrongdoer saw an unclaimed town
or city, they simply pounced, and the residents cursed Winter’s icy testicles for their bad luck. Cyrus himself had benefitted
from a past wrongdoer challenging Ranragh’s original champion to a fight. They’d managed to off each other in the process.
The whole thing was very grisly, apparently. For Cyrus, it was the perfect opportunity for a handsome young villain in search
of a home renovation project, all without having to lift a finger.
Now Maximillian was encroaching on his space.
Making plans to visit Cyrus’s town, encouraging Cyrus’s people to come out and see him.
He probably expected them to fall at his feet and kiss his designer leather boots.
Sprinkle petals in his wake, spritz rose-scented mist whichever way he turned lest he catch a whiff of the harbour, or of one of the more repugnant peasants.
Maximillian. Cyrus’s lip curled at the sight of that hated name. Memory sidled in, uninvited and unwelcome. The champion’s hair had glinted
bronze in the sun that day. An odd detail to recall, considering that most associated memories were curdled by anger and humiliation,
but perhaps that was why he remembered. It was easier to think of the colour of the champion’s hair as he had leaned over the side of the boat and
tilted his head than it was to remember how—
He dragged his thoughts away, slamming the memory down with a force of will that made his magic stir questioningly within
him, tingling at his fingertips. It was in the past. There had been a—a mishap, but it was long gone. He doubted anyone would
remember anyway.
Well. Anyone but Maximillian. Therein lay the issue.
No. He needed to stop thinking about it.
He should focus instead on exactly why Maximillian thought to come here. Was it a direct challenge for Ranragh? It felt like
one, though Maximillian already had a city to call his own. Heliarth, in the sunny southlands, was large and rich and—Cyrus’s
teeth gritted so hard his jaw began to ache—had a much grander reputation. Maximillian had been the elected champion there
for years now. Cyrus had seen the articles in Athaca News, the fawning reports, the occasional self-congratulatory interview.
Perhaps none of that mattered. Perhaps Maximillian simply wanted more, and this was a declaration of his intent to take Ranragh for himself on top of everything else. Not even a challenge he had bothered to bestow in person.
Doubt crept up Cyrus’s spine. Was that because—it couldn’t be that—
Surely his reputation preceded him? The deadly Earthshaker, a wrongdoer to be feared? Yes, it had been nearly fifteen years
since the Eborre earthquake, and he didn’t tend to go out of his way to pick showy fights to demonstrate his prowess. As it
happened, he’d been keeping a low profile of late, but—
“We got a Maximillian poster, look!”
The voice wrenched him from his spiralling thoughts. A group of kids had stopped directly below to stare up at the poster.
Ranragh’s usual adolescent scene, gangly limbs and gormless expressions. If Cyrus was in the mood for fun, he would have taken
the opportunity to drop something on their heads.
One of the teenagers gazed up at Maximillian’s image and sighed dreamily.
“I love him,” said another, quite seriously.
A younger girl frowned. “Does that mean he’s our champion now, then? You know, like the town champion?”
The first scoffed out a laugh. “Don’t be thick, Imogen, we don’t have a champ. We’ve got a wrongdoer.”
“Yeah. I know.” Cyrus had to strain his ears to catch the response, so quiet was her voice. He preened at the trepidatious
note. It was just the balm he needed; ointment to soothe his soul. Foolish, to doubt himself.
“No one cares about him, though,” said one of the boys.
Cyrus’s preening screeched to an abrupt halt.
“Yeah.” The first girl again, her eyes fixed on the poster. “Doesn’t exactly compare, does he. He’s like, fifty, anyway.”
He was thirty-four! Thirty-four! Maximillian was the same age; Cyrus had read as such in one of his damnable interviews! He felt faint with horror.
“I bet Maximillian is going to hunt him down and get rid of him,” said the boy. “That’s probably why he’s visiting.”
“I reckon it’ll be something to do with the championship elections coming up.” A different voice, contemplative this time.
“My mum says they always put on a bit of a show when they know a vote’s on the way.”
“Not like he’ll be too bothered about coming across our wrongdoer.”
An offensive snort of a laugh. “Earthshaker never picks fights with champions, have you noticed? Probably knows he doesn’t
stand a chance.”
Their voices faded as the group moved on. Cyrus was left staring at the imprint of the footprints in the dirt, his ears ringing
with the echo of their laughter. Slowly, his gaze travelled back up, to the knowing curl of Maximillian’s mouth.
Damn him. Damn him to the hottest hells of Summer, to Autumn’s withering decay. Cyrus despised him. He loathed him. His fingers itched to tear the poster down, to rip it into a thousand tiny bits of nothing and throw it to the sea.
More than that, Cyrus longed to lay his fists into the man himself, to watch that smug expression splinter under his knuckles.
A dagger to his throat, his arrogant heart, would never be enough. Cyrus wanted to hurt him, to see him bleed and beg in the
dust. Just as he’d wanted since—
He forced a shaking exhale. No, he had to keep hold of his temper, difficult as it was. Maximillian’s violation of Cyrus’s town, of his beloved mural, was not to be taken lightly. But there were other elements at play here. A bigger picture he could not afford to overlook.
He climbed down from the rafters. The twinge in his back had returned with a vengeance, making him wince as he jumped to the
floor of the barn, still paved with ornate swirling tiles from its days as a place of worship. The church had been dedicated
to the goddess of spring; under a thick coating of dust the tiles were pale pink and long-faded white, once-pretty blossoms
unfurling out from the altar. Cyrus brought his heel down harder than he needed to as he left. The crack wasn’t satisfying
enough to make up for the new ache in his foot.
He kept his head down as he hurried back through the town. An alarmed squeal from the wooden bridge ripped through the air
as Cyrus started up the mountainside path to his lair, but he didn’t turn. He wasn’t in the mood to appreciate a bog-bedraggled
peasant anymore.
Even when he reached his lair, Cyrus couldn’t get Maximillian’s stupid smug face out of his mind.
He pushed open the door, barely pausing to admire its design.
He’d had it hand carved to look like a snarling mouth by nervous craftsmen, because he was all about originality (and productivity—he’d opted to loom silently behind as they toiled, which did wonders for their work ethic).
It didn’t cheer him up as it usually did.
Nor did the day’s offerings, left piled on the kitchen counter after he’d collected them from his doorstep early that morning.
His thoughts turned to sulky speculation as he wondered what kind of gifts the people of Heliarth showered upon Maximillian.
The most exciting thing Cyrus had ever received was a cake made by the local baker when he first moved into his lair, an ill-fated attempt to curry favour
and “welcome” him to the area.
Cyrus had sneaked into the man’s hovel in the dead of night and force-fed him the entire thing whilst his wife sobbed in a
corner. But that was only because he didn’t much like carrot cake. It didn’t mean they should stop trying.
Today’s offerings looked much the same as usual—eggs, cheese, bread, a bottle of milk. Cyrus scowled down at them. He wasn’t
hungry, but even if he was, he wouldn’t want this. Where was the excellent vintage of wine, the triple-tiered lemon cake with
his name spelled out in swirly icing, the finest cut of meat from the town’s monthly hog roast?