Chapter Eighteen #2
“People of Durov.” She had a powerful voice, projected with minimal effort. “We at the Federation thank you for gathering
here today. Much work goes into our triennial elections, and before we begin, I would like to take a moment to acknowledge
the efforts of every champion joining us here today. Though only one steward can be elected for the towns named herein, we
extend thanks to all champions for their efforts in protecting our people and keeping evil from our doors.”
Applause met her words, a few calling out in agreement. Forwick inclined her head, waiting for the noise to subside.
“As you know, the polls closed yesterday and our team has been hard at work overnight counting each vote. The process has been verified twice over.” She raised her voice, looking towards the castle door. “The results, please.”
A young man scuttled out, wearing a crimson tunic that clashed unpleasantly with his pink complexion. He blinked at the sunshine
and cast a nervous look towards the crowd as he hurried up to the podium, holding out a parchment scroll sealed with the Federation’s
wax. Forwick took it from him, breaking the seal and smoothing it out on the podium.
“Here and now, we present your new champions to you. We begin with the town of Beksgard. Please join me in congratulating
Beksgard’s steward for the next three years—your reigning champion, Z’graf!”
Z’graf stepped out onto the castle steps, as intimidating as her depictions, formidably tall and clad in a glinting breastplate,
a spear strapped to her back. The applause was thunderous. Journalists scribbled frantically. Z’graf joined Forwick on the
podium for a confident handshake and a speech, but Cyrus only half listened, too busy wondering what Max was doing behind
that door.
Z’graf was quickly shepherded out of the courtyard to yet more applause. There would be more journalists waiting, keen to
interview the reigning champion. Athaca News would be full of it for the next week, all the fine promises made by so many fine champions.
Forwick announced another, and another. Cyrus shifted his weight from foot to foot with an increasing sense of agitation.
The apprehension in the air was almost tangible, a hush falling over the crowd before every name.
Cepha, Dorre, Durov itself, Eborre. Heliarth’s turn came—
—and went. Cyrus blinked as Forwick moved on to others, Kalkamarsh and Marinhold and Patterwood. Champions appeared to cheers,
shook hands with Forwick, delivered their speeches, and moved on. Cyrus watched, perplexed, as they left the courtyard and
disappeared through the metal gate for their interviews.
Time tiptoed on with no mention of Heliarth, until every other town and city had been named. Cyrus’s nerves were roiling by
the time the shout came.
“And lastly, for the city of Heliarth!” Finally. “We thank you for your patience as we confirmed our votes.”
Cyrus’s stomach clenched tight. Confirming votes. That meant it had been close. He stared at Forwick unblinkingly, holding
his breath. She seemed to drag the moment out, her gaze sweeping the crowd like she was playing up to the drama of Heliarth’s
delayed result.
Forwick looked back down at the parchment. She cleared her throat, conjured a winning smile. At last, she called, “For Heliarth,
I give you your champion . . . Maximillian!”
Cyrus’s breath left him in a whoosh, the vice of his stomach unclamping. A storm of clapping rose, raucous. There were some
surprised mutters too. He hardly heard them, too focused on the castle steps.
Max stepped out.
Cyrus’s eardrums ached from the noise. Everyone else became distant to him, irrelevant.
There was only Max, standing there in the sunlight, more beautiful than ever, because now he knew how Max thought, how he dreamed, how he laughed when there was nobody but Cyrus around to hear.
He knew the way the muscles moved in his shoulders, his thighs, his arms, the feeling of each scar and bone and pore.
He knew how Max looked when he was asleep and vulnerable, how he felt on him and under him and in him.
Max paused on the steps, taking in the crowd, and smiled. Cyrus had tasted that smile. He had touched it, felt it widen in
amusement as the pads of Cyrus’s fingers traced out every part of him.
It almost made Cyrus want to sit down on the ground just to breathe through the enormity of the feelings that hit him. All
his life, he’d forced emotions to the back of his mind, pushed them away with everything he had.
But he didn’t want to push this away. When it came down to it, after Cyrus peeled back the defensive layers and the prickling
resistance from a lifetime of wrongdoing, there was simply a quiet, sincere adoration at the very core of him.
“You did it, Maximillian!” someone cried out from nearby.
Max heard her as he walked towards the platform. He turned, red cloak billowing out behind him. He must’ve borrowed that;
Cyrus had rummaged through his wardrobe at length, and he’d never seen it before. Perhaps he thought it better to dress like
the Federation’s man through and through.
As Max searched for the woman who had spoken, Cyrus pushed his hood back just enough to let Max catch a glimpse of his face.
Their eyes locked.
Surprise.
He was half expecting Max to frown at him—though really, had he honestly thought Cyrus would be content to stay behind? Either
that or he’d grin, election nerves abandoned and eager to flirt with danger now that he didn’t have to worry that his position
was about to be yanked from under him.
Instead Max’s mouth twisted like he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with his face. He looked away. Whoops. Cyrus
hadn’t meant to throw him off in front of all these people. Still, he could always come up with an inventive almost-apology
later.
“Maximillian,” said Forwick, beckoning. “Come, join us.” She stepped aside to make more room. Max jogged up, his movements
light and easy. As he reached Forwick, she embraced him and said something. Max nodded. Forwick turned back to the crowd,
holding up a hand to quieten them.
“Yes, I know. I know,” she said. This too was different. With every other champion she had stood back to let them deliver
their speech, then moved on to the next. “Believe it or not, this is the sixth election that Maximillian has won in Heliarth.
That marks fifteen years of service so far, with three more to come.” She clapped his shoulder. “Maximillian, we thank you.
You have done so much for us over the years. Athaca and its people are eternally grateful.”
Was she trying to steal Max’s thunder? Cyrus frowned, but Max only inclined his head with a gracious smile.
“And he has done so very much,” Forwick continued, turning her gaze back to the assembled listeners.
“More, I imagine, than many of us know. The life of a champion can often seem glamorous to those on the outside, full of prizes and the cheers of adoring crowds; but for the champions themselves, it is a job—and a difficult one, at that. Maximillian, I believe your many years of stewardship over Heliarth can provide much in the way of learning for the younger champions among our flock.”
“It is an honour,” Max said smoothly. “Equally, there is much I could probably learn from them.”
Cyrus stared at the pair on the podium, baffled. This was weird. Why was Forwick acting so differently? Perhaps the remaining champions also thought it odd; out of the corner of his eye,
he saw the castle door crack open, a slim figure emerging. Avexa, leaning against her spear, her face intent as she watched
Max. She had just lost Heliarth; she should be moping inside. Why was she coming out into the public eye during Max’s moment?
“Wise as ever,” said Forwick, recapturing Cyrus’s attention. “A necessary trait for a successful champion, to be sure.” She
paused, looking to the crowd again. “There are many essential traits for champions. Bravery, fortitude. The strength to prevail
when dark forces seek to undermine. I’m sure Maximillian would agree.”
Max inclined his head. “Very true, President Forwick,” he agreed blandly.
“Maximillian has provided us with a master class in courage in recent times,” said Forwick.
There was an odd tone to her voice, a barely suppressed excitement that chased a prickle across Cyrus’s skin.
“The past half year has been spent with a terrible wrongdoer in pursuit—a chase from the western lands to the eastern shores and back again, north and south of the Bek mountains, with a foe causing havoc and chaos wherever he went.”
The urge to pull his hood down further over his face had his hand twitching by his side. Cyrus resisted with an effort. Nobody
knew he was here. There was no need to draw attention to himself.
On the platform Max sighed, world weary. It was a good performance. It almost sounded genuine. “Indeed, it has been difficult
at times.”
“The wrongdoer Earthshaker must be brought to justice,” said Forwick, and Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat. She raised
her voice again so that it rang all around the courtyard and beyond. “He cannot be allowed to stalk our lands bringing misery
and strife wherever he goes! And so—”
Forwick turned back to Max and extended a hand, indicating the space beside her. Max stepped into it with the easy confidence
Cyrus knew so well.
Cyrus’s heart clattered against his ribs. The prickling had spread, all up his spine and into his hairline, like a thousand
ants were crawling over his skin.
Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was—
“We thank you, Maximillian, for coming here today,” said Forwick.
“For working with us to rid this land of the Earthshaker’s stain once and for all.
For you see, this is the mark of a true champion—one who knows his enemy, and can use that knowledge to outwit him.
Maximillian has done that, and his loyalty will not be forgotten.
He has lured Earthshaker to us today, and as such proved himself a true friend to the Federation and a champion greatly deserving of our respect and gratitude. ”
No.
No, no, no, that wasn’t right, Max hadn’t wanted him here, Max was his—
Forwick turned away from Max, facing the crowd. Her eyes roved the faces before her, face set in a small, pleased smile.
“Finally, we can be free of him,” she said, and she looked right at Cyrus. A chill jolted down the length of his spine. Forwick’s
finger lifted and pointed directly at him. “Avexa—attack!”