4. The Crumbling Throne
Chapter four
The Crumbling Throne
Cyrus
Cyrus stood alone in the war room, the silence pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating.
This was a place built for victories—kings who had bled, conquered, and bent empires to their will.
Tonight, it felt like a tomb. His tomb. A low, harsh laugh escaped him—not humor, but the sound of a man on the edge, watching everything he’d built crumble.
He slammed his fist onto the marble table.
The crack echoed through the room, sharp and jagged, scattering his thoughts like shattered glass.
“How dare she!” He growled, his voice hoarse with a fury that felt like it could tear the realm in two.
Scarlett had done it. She had killed Seraphine, lifted the Crimson Veil, and torn apart everything Cyrus had worked for.
And Ace? His own flesh and blood, his son, his heir, had stood at that altar like a dog with its tail between its legs, watching her tear everything from his grasp.
And now she had escaped and gone to the Crimson Deep, the heart of the realm, where power was nothing more than a story.
A story he would never be part of. The wedding was supposed to bind the Spades to the Heartlands.
It was supposed to strengthen their claim over the Crimson Deep’s power.
Seraphine was supposed to keep her under control and her power useless.
Ace needed to marry Scarlett and produce an heir with crimson bloodline to secure their place on the throne entirely.
He didn't care if Scarlett ever gained her power or knew the truth. And it had been ruined—by Ace’s indecision, his hesitations, his useless love.
Cyrus paced the room in tight, furious steps.
A sharp, bitter laugh bubbled up again, this time as a guttural snarl.
"Weak. Weak and foolish, just like his mother.
" Cyrus’s fingers dug into the edges of the map spread before him, his nails scraping the leather like claws.
His eyes burned with the image of Ace, standing at the altar, looking at Scarlett like a man broken by love.
The very idea of it made his stomach churn.
It was nothing but a weakness—a disease. A curse.
Ace had been born into power. He was meant to be ruthless and cold. He was supposed to be the prince who took what was rightfully his. The weapon that Cyrus had forged in his own image. A king with an iron fist. A king who would rip the world apart and remake it as he saw fit.
"A Spade doesn’t love," he spat, shoving a stack of maps off the table with a sweep of his arm. They hit the floor like fallen birds. "A Spade conquers. A Spade takes what is owed to him."
His temper flared hotter, burning through every vein, every thought. He kicked a chair out of his path, sending it shattering into the wall.
"Instead of taking his crown, my son chased after a woman who will slit his throat the moment he loosens his grip," Cyrus said, voice sharp and venomous. "Pathetic."
Bootsteps echoed outside the war room—cautious, hesitant. His officers lingered in the doorway, tense as bowstrings. Cyrus didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. His voice cut through the air like steel.
"Enter." His voice boomed.
They obeyed, their armor clinking, their posture stiff with fear.
"Your Majesty," one began, "we've begun sweeping the outposts—"
"Not enough," Cyrus snapped. He spun to face them, eyes blazing. "You will find Ace. And you will drag Scarlett out of whatever corner of the Deep she thinks can hide her from me."
A ripple of unease moved through the group.
"Sire," another officer ventured, "if Prince Ace has chosen to follow her—"
"Oh, he has," Cyrus hissed. "Because he is a fool. And because he thinks love is going to give him strength."
He stepped closer, his presence suffocating.
“But hear me well—if he reaches her first, he will either claim her for himself or try to rule beside her in the Crimson Deep. I will not allow either outcome.”
His hand slammed down on the table again, marble dust drifting like snow.
“Ace Spade is not to ascend as a resistance,” Cyrus growled. “Not with her. Not alone. Not ever. If he resists capture, you will break whatever parts of him you must to bring him back.”
The officers exchanged a grim glance.
“And the girl?” One asked quietly.
Cyrus’ lips curved into something sharp and cruel.
“Bring her to me alive,” he ordered. “She owes this kingdom a debt. And I will have what is owed.”
He began pacing, the storm in him tightening, coiling, sharpening into purpose.
“The Deep and the Heartlands belong to the Spades,” Cyrus said. "It was always meant to. I will not let one runaway princess or my sentimental son rewrite the fate of an empire.”
His voice dropped to a near whisper—low, and absolute.
“I built this Dominion from the ash. And I will burn it back to ash before I let them take it.”
He turned fully toward his officers.
“Send every scout. Every shadow walker. Every loyal blade is still breathing. I want them found before dawn.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmured, bowing as they hurried out, the door slamming shut behind them.
Alone again, Cyrus stared at the darkened window, his reflection fractured across the glass—a king splintered by his own fury.
“Ace thinks he’s won," he whispered. “But he has played his last hand.”
His eyes hardened, cold and merciless.
“The Spade is far from finished.”
The storm inside him surged, consuming what little softness had ever existed. And as the war room plunged into quiet again, one truth settled over him like a crown of thorns.