Chapter Three
Cyrus knew the report on the event in Elzekar wouldn’t meet his aspirations. His takedown of Lailar hadn’t gone as well as
it could have—as it should have, if only people had the brains to recognise brilliance when it was before them.
He reluctantly paid a visit to Ranragh’s finest tavern upon his return. “Finest” was a matter of comparison; The Winter Moon
was a tall rickety building crammed in beside a butcher and a grocer of questionable reputation, which meant the air carried
either the iron tang of blood or the sweet rot of spoiled turnips. But the beer was less watery than some of the tavern’s
competitors, and there was a single seat by the fire that Cyrus claimed on the rare occasions he ventured inside. He hadn’t
wanted to come into town—he didn’t want to be around people at all—but he had to know the extent of the damage.
The damage, it transpired, was bad. Nothing could have prepared him for the headline the following evening.
“Citrus Attacks Lailar the Lovely in Puzzling Face Cream Plot” made it to page seven.
The accompanying depiction of him managed to be even worse: a spindly figure in a too-short cloak, one unnaturally large hand pointing at a (flattering) image of Lailar whilst the other clutched a jar of face cream.
Enormous eyes looked in different directions from a severely wrinkled face, and a single yellow tooth protruded from a cackling mouth.
He hadn’t thought he’d be grateful that the journalist got his name wrong. But here he was.
Cyrus didn’t read the write-up. He didn’t want to know. But he couldn’t stop himself from flicking through the rest of the
news stories, his frustration growing with every positive report on people who were not him. The wrongdoer Josyph had been
terrorising the council in Cepha on the west coast, whilst Kere had successfully blocked off the main passage through the
Bek mountains for nearly half a day, causing all manner of trade delays. One of his kind had earned a full-page spread for
a vicious fight against Avexa, a recent graduate from the Federation swiftly making a name for herself as a formidable fighter.
The drawings of them all looked flattering, wrongdoer and champion alike.
He coped with the attack on his dignity and reputation as best he could, by snatching a bottle of something strong and smoky from the bar and glaring moodily into the sulking embers of the fire.
The people of Ranragh, clustered around uneven tables with ale-tacky surfaces, paid him no heed.
There had been a few wary looks cast in his direction when he entered, eyes quickly averted when Cyrus glanced in their direction.
The barkeep looked like she wanted to object when he grabbed a bottle, but she pressed her lips tightly together and held her tongue.
Nobody wanted to engage with the wrongdoer in the corner.
But nor did they particularly care about his presence. The proof was right here, in the backs turned towards him. Cyrus watched
the next table, where five people huddled over a game of dice. They had been here a while, their movements made clumsy by
ale. Tankards slapped carelessly down onto the tabletop, the die jumping and clattering between them, as a sudden bellow of
laughter gave way to good-natured jostling. One of them was smoking. A wispy grey cloud stretched and coiled above their heads,
the pipe drooping lazily from the owner’s lips. Even the smoke seemed to curl away from Cyrus.
It made a strange feeling unwind within him, an uneasy weight in his chest. He wanted to feel detached but he couldn’t deny
the heaviness of it. He had been wrong, so wrong, and for how long? The people did not fear him. They did not respect him.
Nobody cared that he was here.
Cyrus looked away, his gaze falling on the parchment still spread out across his table. One of Citrus’s eyes stared madly
back. Cyrus ground his teeth and tore the page sharply in half, then in half again. He got up and pushed his way through the
crowded tables.
The kiss of cool salt air against his face brought relief, as did the sudden hush when the oak door swung shut behind him.
He could still hear the voices of the townsfolk raised in merriment, but they sounded distant now, half submerged. Separate
from him.
In the gloom of evening Cyrus stopped and closed his eyes, just for a moment, whilst there was nobody around to see. He breathed deeply, tasting the sea and earth in the cold wind. This was a setback, it was unfortunate, but it was fixable. His reputation was salvageable. It had to be.
It only took a couple of minutes, the walk from the tavern to the town hall. He shouldn’t look again; it would only anger
him. But his feet moved without conscious thought.
There it was, in all its loathsome glory. The colours of the poster were vivid, almost garish, the richness of the ink contrasting
sharply with Ranragh’s drab shadows. Maximillian glowed at the centre of it all, the golden hero with a charming grin and
a dimple winking in his cheek.
It settled into place as he stood there, staring up at Maximillian’s inked face. He did not want to see him again. But perhaps
it was the only way forward.
He had faced the facts when it came to his people and their lack of true respect for him. He had to face the truth with Maximillian
too.
Following their meeting all those years ago, Cyrus had scoured Athaca News with a quickened pulse and a roiling sense of dread. But Maximillian had never mentioned him. Days and weeks passed, and
Cyrus reasoned that the champion was biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment. He hadn’t wanted Maximillian to share what he had seen that day, but there was something insulting in his silence too.
Weeks had faded into years, and there was the truth he needed to accept: Maximillian had never spoken of their first meeting
because he’d had no idea who Cyrus was.
It stung. It was for the best, but it still stung. Another meaningless face paying Maximillian attention, that was all he had been. A nobody.
Cyrus took a breath to steady himself. It was infuriating, so utterly galling. His fingers flexed, desperate to tear the poster
down.
But that would be unseemly. Jealous. He needed to be clever about this.
His schemes had been too soft. He had been too soft. Playing at mischief and trickery would not work when the people of Athaca had already lost their respect
for him. All those years ago, it had been a deadly earthquake that made his name. Now he needed something just as big, a statement
the people would never be able to ignore.
And if Maximillian did not remember their meeting, then there was no reason to avoid going after him.
Cyrus’s gaze traced the confident curve of Maximillian’s smug smile, lingered on the obnoxious dimple, and he came to a decision.
Maximillian had to die.
Cyrus lay on his belly at the edge of a farmer’s field, one hand holding a mirror and the other parting the final row of still-green barley as he peered into the small village beyond.
The sunny weather that frequented the southlands had made it past the Beks today.
Gentle spring warmth in the morning had settled into unseasonable heat, the sun unforgiving as it bore down on Cyrus’s bare neck.
Sweat gathered despite the loose ponytail he’d tied his hair into, a futile attempt to keep cool.
The mirror wasn’t needed for his reconnaissance, but using it to catch the sun and set fire to things was a productive way
to entertain himself whilst he waited for Maximillian to make an appearance. He also didn’t really need to lie down in the
field like this, but squashing the farmer’s crops was a simple, easy win in the wrongdoing stakes. Cyrus prided himself on
always doing something a little bit wrong, wherever he went.
But he was getting bored. His ribs were starting to protest their prolonged exposure to the hard ground. Worst of all, his
nose had been twitching uncomfortably for the past hour. If he got back to his lair and found any hives on his skin, he would
come back here at the first opportunity and set fire to someone rather than something.
If Maximillian didn’t show soon, perhaps he would be the one Cyrus set fire to, his plan be damned. He wasn’t intending to
kill Maximillian today. No, he had to get it right this time. That meant observing his enemy before he struck. Perhaps he
would issue a threat or two, make sure he looked cool whilst doing it, let Maximillian know Cyrus was challenging him. Ensure
the people got his name right before Cyrus made his final move.
Locating him hadn’t been hard. The details of his pre-election tour took up all of page six in the day’s news.
Arclee didn’t seem to fit in with the other locations Maximillian was visiting, but he clearly had an emotional connection to it.
He’d grown up somewhere nearby, Cyrus had read; he’d committed his first unofficial act as a champion here, when he saved a family from a fire when he was just a teenager.
Perhaps sentiment made up for the fact that Arclee was a tired old backwater, sustaining itself through its own produce without much to offer in the way of trade.
It hardly seemed fitting as the childhood haunt of Heliarth’s noble Maximillian.
Sudden movement recaptured Cyrus’s attention—a handful of people hurrying towards the tavern not far from where Cyrus lurked
among the barley, talking excitedly amongst themselves. They lined up outside like eager children, though as far as Cyrus
could see their ages ranged from midlife crisis to decrepit. He set his mirror down to better part the crops, inching forward
on his stomach to get a better view. More people were heading towards the tavern now, emerging from their homes to line the
streets. There was only one reason why they would be gathering like that—
Aha. There he was.