Chapter One #4
Cyrus looked up at the wildflowers that spouted from the cracks in the mountainside above his door, red valerian and rock cress and pale tufts of baby’s breath.
A stem of valerian reached for him, clustered ruby heads nodding in friendly greeting.
He reached up and plucked a flower, rolling it between finger and thumb as he examined it.
Then he squeezed the petals to a soggy crimson pulp and flicked it away as he stepped inside.
The unfortunate soul chosen to deliver Cyrus’s daily offerings to him was also responsible for leaving him a copy of Athaca News. Sometimes Cyrus made the effort to read it, particularly if the headline hinted towards a disaster or misfortune he’d enjoy
hearing about. Other times he used it for kindling, or to practise his artistic skills by scribbling all over the champions’
faces.
After a hasty meal—green leaf salad from his garden with sage and oregano dressing, and a hunk of crusty sourdough he knew for a fact didn’t come from the best bakery in Ranragh—he sat down on his couch to read, legs sprawled out over the firm black leather.
Most of it was champion-centric drivel. Boring, boring, boring.
He flipped through details of a charity feast where champions had offered meet-and-greets to raise funds for needy children.
Cyrus hated needy children. There was an opinion piece on whether rare magical shapeshifting ability indicated selkie blood somewhere in the lineage, even though selkies had long since joined the ranks of dragons and the like, in that the only recent sightings came from the questionably senile.
A mother had written in to the regular agony aunt section, worrying that her daughter displayed natural wrongdoer tendencies.
Good for her. Down in Dorre, another champion had brokered an exclusive deal with Athaca News for coverage of her wedding, where she coincidentally happened to name-drop the catering company and the designer of her
wife’s wedding dress. Typical.
Dire, the lot of it, even for Athaca News. He was about to cast the news parchment away—into his fire, where it belonged—when something particularly unpleasant caught
his eye.
Maximillian Announces Pre-Election Tour
Maximillian, champion of Heliarth, has announced that he is to embark upon an Athaca-wide tour over the summer.
The tour comes in advance of the triennial championship elections, with voters across Athaca set to take to the voting booths
and place their ballots for their champion of choice.
In a statement released by his office, Maximillian comments: “It’s a chance for me to touch base with the people at the heart
of everything we champions do. As elected champions, we can so often get wrapped up in the events of our own cities. I’m really
looking forward to getting on the road, meeting all of you, and learning about what matters to you—and how we, as champions,
can make your lives better. This tour is going to be so much fun and I can’t wait to get started.”
For appearance enquiries, contact the Champion’s Office of Administration, Heliarth. Please note, a postal autograph service
can be arranged via raven at a cost of fifteen gold pieces.
Maximillian’s tour is sponsored by Baladasherie’s Breath Mints.
It was enough to make Cyrus want to bring up his sage and oregano dressing.
His eyes narrowed as he took in the drawing of Maximillian: a wide, easy smile; a quirk of his eyebrow that was probably supposed to make him look intriguing.
Personally, Cyrus thought it made him look simple.
He really was an odious creature. Cyrus didn’t know how anyone could stand to look at him, the way he radiated obnoxious overconfidence even in sketch form.
The parchment crumpled in his fist. He tossed it to the fire and watched the flames lick over Maximillian’s face until there
was nothing left but blackened ash and smoke creeping up the ventilation shaft he’d forced Ranragh’s labourers to construct
for him.
If only he could dispel Maximillian from his thoughts so easily. Cyrus leaned back on his couch, massaging his temples. He
couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to his mural, swallowed up under Maximillian’s brash grin. The insult of the champion
barging into his town. The kids and their laughter, their assumption that he was past his best. Not like he’ll be bothered about coming across our wrongdoer.
His reputation had always been so precious to him.
He’d taken such care, crafting the persona he wanted the world to see.
Cyrus had followed the same path as all the other young wrongdoers at first, convinced he had to kill to gain respect.
But in truth, he’d never been all that good at it.
He didn’t care for the mess, and people were very leaky.
And provoking fights with powerful champions who would expect him to pit his magic against their own was obviously a bad idea.
So Cyrus focused instead on finding creative ways to cause trouble.
Clever little ploys, some mischief here and there. Wrongdoing with flair. It suited him.
He shifted uncomfortably, his back reminding him of the morning’s antics with an irritable twinge. He would have liked to
blame the discomfort prickling in his chest on the pulled muscle, but it was deeper than that.
All those years of mischief over violence, the quiet life over an aggressive showdown. Had he really let his reputation dwindle
so much?
Cyrus looked to the smouldering remains of the Athaca News. So many champions, turned to dust in his grate. The beginnings of an idea surfaced through his unease.
Lots of champions meant lots of opportunities to rebuild his reputation; to remind people that he was to be respected. Feared.
Maximillian was one of them, yes. Cyrus longed, dearly, to make him pay for his planned encroachment upon Cyrus’s territory.
But there was a problem tangled up in that, a jagged shard of history he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch.
Maximillian or not, the truth remained.
Cyrus needed to pick a fight with a champion.