Page 11 of Nemesis Mine
An intervention was expected: a shove to separate him from his victim, a warning jab with that sword, even a brawl. Yet the way that Maximillian had gone about it, theclosenessof him, was...
It was different. He was different. He was not entirely what Cyrus expected. Arrogant, smug, superior—yes. But unpredictable too. It was unsettling, and Cyrus did not like it.
He grasped for the familiar to make up for it, summoning another sneer and directing it over Maximillian’s shoulder at his would-be victim.
“He would do well to think before he speaks,” he said, deliberately quiet, letting the threat creep in around the edges of each word. “There will not always be someone around to watch out for him.”
Maximillian didn’t glance back. Perhaps he could feel the peasant’s trembling presence well enough; perhaps he just knew exactly what a pathetically grateful villager looked like without the need to turn.
“I’m sure he will,” Maximillian said levelly. “But I must correct you. I will always be watching out for those in need.”
Cyrus scoffed, even as the villagers seemed to swell as one, buoyed by the words of support. Whatever strange atmosphere had descended during this face-off, it quickly dissipated with the urge to roll his eyes.
Cyrus sniffed, tossing his head. “Well...” he said. He let his pause drag out just long enough to be uncomfortable. “We’ll have to see if that is the case.”
Perfect eyebrows, sculpted but nottooneat, inched upwards. “Ah,” said Maximillian. “Yeah, you were saying. You’re here to challenge me.”
Cyrus scowled before he could stop himself. He couldn’t help it—that little patronising smile aggravated him unlike anything else. How Cyrus longed to lash out, paint his own smile across the champion’s smug face. One that would not be nearly so white and straight.
The temptation to snap out a retort was right there at the back of his throat, but he held it back with an effort. He needed to take care, pick his battles. Maximillian had got in the way of Cyrus using that peasant’s throat as a stress ball, yes, but he hadn’t been scared off. If anything, it set up himself and Maximillian as well matched; added allure to whether champion or wrongdoer would win in a true fight. It provided an ideal opportunity for the villagers to gossip about what they had seen before Cyrus returned and ended Maximillian for good. That was the point of this, he reminded himself. Hewantedpeople to talk, so long as they said the right things.
And there were ways that he could manipulate the situation to his advantage. Cyrus loved manipulating.
“No, I came to see if you werewortha challenge.” He threw a lazy glance in the direction of the villager Maximillian had saved, lingering just long enough to prompt a bead of sweat to form on the man’s brow and begin its tremulous journey down his temple. “I suppose you’ve proved yourself interesting. It’s hard to find a good match when you’ve powers like mine, you see. Takes all the fun out of a battle.” A sniff for effect, wetter than Cyrus had intended. He rolled with it, maintaining eye contact and pretending that he’d meant for Maximillian to hear the dislodging of snot in his nasal passages.
Maximillian’s gaze was critical. It was an improvement on patronising, at least. “Why should I let you walk away?” he asked slowly. “If you’re planning on attacking me at some point in the future, it makes more sense for me to stop you right now.”
Cyrus smiled. This was it; his moment to illustrate that he was better than Maximillian. To remind him of how he ought to speak to those more powerful than himself.
He pushed down with his magic, away from the soles of his boots and into the earth below, stirring the tangled civilisation of roots beneath their feet. They twitched to life, inquisitive, but Cyrus bade them still. He only wanted to awaken his magic enough to let his irises glow a faint purple, a warning. He caught the flash of wariness across Maximillian’s face before the champion could smother it and his smile grew.
“You’ve heard of me,” he said softly. “But have you heard whatelsethey call me?”
He wanted Maximillian to say it. Wanted to see thoserighteous lips shape the word, wanted to hear a tremor of unease in that deep voice. Cyrus focused on his mouth, watching intently as Maximillian took a breath, his lips parting in preparation to answer.
“Earthshaker,” whispered a villager from the back of the crowd.
Winter’s frigid nipples, they were annoying. Truly, Cyrus could not imagine why anyone would want to be a champion, tied to theserviceof these irritants rather than dedicated to making their lives unpleasant. He had been so right all those years ago when he had decided to become a wrongdoer because people were annoying and deserved it.
Maximillian looked sharply to the crowd before his gaze slanted back to Cyrus. Cyrus gritted his teeth, unduly frustrated that he would never know for sure whether Maximillian had already known the answer.
But for now, he had to wrap up this encounter. “That’s right.” Cyrus took a breath, allowing himself to savour the word. “Earthshaker.”
A glance at Maximillian from beneath his lashes. The champion was silent. Cyrus luxuriated in it. That name shifted the power balance back to him, where it belonged. It underscored the fact that everything that happened here only happened because Cyrus allowed it. If Maximillian displeased him, he could bring the village of Arclee down on everyone’s head.
Or so they thought, and that was enough.
“I’ll walk away,” Cyrus said in that same soft voice. “You’ll let me.”
A breeze stirred Maximillian’s hair as he nodded stiffly.Satisfaction brewed within Cyrus. He watched a honeyed lock lift and then fall back into place across Maximillian’s forehead, an artist’s touch-up.
It was tempting to throw out some final barb—to try and spook the villagers further, provoke them into scattered chaos. Showmanship, that was what he usually strove for.
But something about the way Maximillian looked at him quelled the urge, made him want to tread softly, to keep the sense of quiet unease that had come to life between them. Cyrus felt almost heady with the realisation that there was true tension there; a mutual knowledge, even if Maximillian didn’twantto know it, that each had met his match. He fancied he could see it shimmering in the air between their bodies, a faint purple haze to match his powers. Could smell it, something catching; a burnt edge.
“I’ll be seeing you, Maximillian,” he said quietly. A promise. It was almost a shame to turn away and break the endless blue of that eye contact.
Cyrus felt Maximillian’s eyes on his back until he was out of sight.
