6. A Game of Spades
Chapter six
A Game of Spades
Cyrus
The hall sweltered with the heat of shadowflame, the hearths burning with a wild, almost hungry fury. The fire snapped and hissed, as if it wanted to break free and consume everything. But it wasn’t the heat that made the air heavy—it was the tension, coiled tight, ready to snap.
Every noble stood rigid, faces pale and controlled, masks of fear and obedience. Even the banners along the walls seemed still, as if the Spade kingdom itself was holding its breath, waiting for a verdict, a command, or a death.
When Cyrus Spade rose from his throne of bone and onyx, the room seemed to bend toward him, drawn by the gravity of his presence.
His crown was made of dark iron, and meteorstone glinted under the firelight, shards of blue light cutting through the room like frozen truth.
Black velvet draped over his shoulders like a funeral shroud, blackened gold chainmail clinging to his form, both armor and adornment.
A ring of living thorns wrapped around his wrist, drawing steady beads of blood, the red drops trailing down his fingers as he moved, never wiping them away.
Endlessly feeding the shadow magic that surrounds him.
He stepped forward with deliberate slowness, savoring the palpable fear that hung in the air. His patience was wolfish, his grace serpentine. He didn’t speak for a long while. The nobles shifted uneasily, their eyes flickering between the throne and the man who wielded it.
Finally, General Halden, his voice shaking like a leaf in a storm, dared to speak.
“Still no sign of him, Your Majesty.” The general asked, his words tight with unease.
Cyrus did not look at him immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the wine swirling in his glass, dark and thick as blood. He tilted the glass slightly, savoring the scent that rose, poison and pleasure intertwined.
Halden swallowed hard as he watched Cyrus, anticipating an outburst.
“Not within the palace,” Halden clarified, growing more anxious. “We’ve searched his chambers, his hunting lodges, and the southern stables.”
The room remained silent. “Do you believe he's gone to the Heartlands?” Halden ventured carefully.
At that, Cyrus finally lifted his gaze; his eyes were sharp.
The general stiffened, unease rippling through the room.
Cyrus lifted his gaze, eyes sharp as blades.
“The Heartlands,” he said, cold and cutting.
He rose from his seat, stepping forward, and the shadows in the room seemed to coil around him like loyal hounds.
His voice grew colder, sharper. “Two Heartland dogs crossed my borders at sunrise. They tore through my Warden's—seasoned soldiers—like rag dolls. My men’s bodies litter the snow. The border runs red.”
He snapped his fingers. A trembling servant brought forward a blood-spattered cloak, torn as if savaged by a beast. The nobles flinched, several looking away.
“And yet,” Cyrus hissed, fury rising, “not a word. Not a warning. Not an alarm. And you come to me… empty-handed. Expecting mercy?”
The hall seemed to shudder under his rage.
Candles flickered violently as if the air itself recoiled.
He hurled the wineglass; it shattered, red droplets splashing across the stone floor, marking the nobles’ boots like tiny explosions.
Just as quickly as the wine spilled a trembling servant approached to replace it.
Shadows twisted and bent, hungry for his command. “He thinks he can hide her,” Cyrus snarled, his voice venomous. “My son. My spineless, heartsick fool.”
He stalked down the steps with a terrifying calmness, his eyes wild with rage, his words biting with each syllable.
“He spat on every treaty I forged, every promise I bled for. He cast aside a kingdom. Abandoned the throne that generations of Spades have spilled blood to protect.”
His voice crescendoed into a terrible roar.
“All for a girl who denied him. A traitor who would rather bind herself to a no-name soldier and that rabbit-blooded advisor, than kneel in a Spade court.”
His lip curled in disgust, as if the very thought of her was poison on his tongue.
“She humiliated him. Humiliated me. In front of the crowns. In front of the quadrants. And he let it stand.” He turned abruptly, the nobles flinching at the sudden movement.
Cyrus’ eyes gleamed with cold, calculating fury.“Seraphine is dead,” he growled. “With her gone, there is no leash on the Heartlands. No voice to tame the unruly magic of the Crimson Deep. No hand to choke their rebellion.”
He took a step closer to the nobles, and they instinctively shrank back, sensing the storm rising.
“The Heartland throne should have been ironbound to Spades decades ago. Crimson power should have been harnessed. Their heir should have been molded into a weapon.” His gaze burned as he leaned in, his voice growing darker.
“Instead, she runs wild. And my son—my disgrace of an heir—follows like a lovesick dog.”
His eyes turned to the massive doors of the hall. They loomed before him, like the gaping maw of some great beast, eager to consume.
“I will bring her here in chains,” Cyrus said, his voice slow and deliberate, as if savoring each word. “I will strip her crown. Break her will. She will kneel before me—whether she wills it or not.”
He paused, a bitter curl tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with cold malice.
“She will marry a Spade. I must secure the line myself.”
The nobles shifted uneasily, glancing at one another, but none dared speak.
Cyrus’ smile darkened. “She will give this kingdom an heir—Crimson magic locked in Spade iron.”
He let the silence stretch, letting the weight of it press down on the room.
“And if she refuses?” A voice called from the crowd. The words cut through the stillness like a drawn blade. The hall went utterly silent. Every noble froze where they stood, their breaths caught in their throats.
Cyrus leaned forward, his voice dropping to a soft, deadly whisper.
“Then she dies,” he said, his voice almost tender in its cruelty.
“Right here. Her blood spilled across this floor, staining it with the price of defiance. Her corpse will be preserved as the foundation of a new empire. A testament.”
The scribe standing, trembling in the corner, could barely hold his quill. His pulse was a frantic drumbeat, the sound of it almost deafening in the eerie silence.
Cyrus walked toward him. His hand shot out, faster than a striking serpent. The dagger blurred as it plunged into the wood of the desk, pinning the scribe’s hand to it with a sickening crack. The wet sound of steel blades slicing through flesh was the only noise that dared break the silence.
The scribe gasped, his body trembling uncontrollably as he felt the metal bite into his skin, the blood spilling freely down his wrist. His eyes widened in horror, his breath catching in his throat.
Cyrus didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause for even a moment. He simply stood there, looming over the man, savoring the terror in his eyes. Then he leaned down, his voice just for the scribe’s ears. “Write.”
The blood spread across the parchment like an ink-black omen, mingling with the official orders—orders that would carry a dark fate. The crimson blossomed across the page, a horrible symbol of what was to come. There was no escape.
Cyrus stepped back, eyes still locked onto the scribe as if he were nothing more than a puppet. The nobles in the room remained frozen, their breath held, unwilling to risk moving or making a sound. They knew that in Cyrus’s court, to blink was to expose weakness.
“Write, I said,” Cyrus commanded. His voice was as hard as stone now, and final.
"Write that Scarlett Heartland is to be brought back to me—alive, if she pleases.
But I will not tolerate disobedience. If she fights, break her.
And if she refuses..." He paused, his lips curling into a smile that was anything but kind.
"Then I’ll have her corpse brought back to me on a silver platter.
But I'd prefer you bring her to me wrapped in ash forged chains. "
He turned away from the scribe, casting his gaze back to the nobles, their faces etched in fear and anticipation.
He stepped back toward his throne, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
His hand gripped the armrest of his throne, and he looked back over his shoulder, a wolfish grin curling his lips.
“Make sure they understand—there is no escape from me. They will learn what happens when they dare to defy the Spade king.”
The silence that followed his command was suffocating. No one dared to speak, no one dared to move. Cyrus's orders hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and unforgiving, ready to burst at any moment. His eyes burned with the fire of a man who would stop at nothing to claim his prize.
“Do it quickly,” he ordered, his tone final and unrelenting. “The longer Scarlett remains free, the worse the consequences will be.”
As his voice echoed through the hall, the scribe—still writhing in pain—scrambled to comply, his hand trembling as he prepared to write the orders that would set the hunt into motion. Cyrus’ eyes glinted with cold malice.
Cyrus stood in a fury, his cloak snapping behind him, as he ascended the dais once more. His voice rang out with finality, booming through the hall like thunder.
“Better to bury a traitor prince, and his Heartland whore,” Cyrus declared, voice booming through the shaken chamber, “Than let this kingdom rot under their delusion of love.”
The nobles dared not move. The finality of Cyrus’s words left them frozen. The hunt had begun.
He knew the game was just beginning—but he was already several moves ahead.