Page 85 of Nemesis Mine
“Quite the surprise for all of us, Maximillian turning against his own. But this is so much richer.” Her mouth twisted, a mockery of a pout. “Earthshaker, inlove?”
There was no conscious thought. One moment Cyrus stood motionless. The next his mouth was contorted in a snarl and his eyes were blazing and he did not care how he would do it, what plants he would call on, how they would respond to him. He only knew that he needed Avexa destroyed, now, and every champion with her.
But there was a movement out of the corner of his eye, someone else stepping forward. The air around him seemed to tauten, unease sweeping over every inch of Cyrus’s skin.
One of the other champions, a young man with narrow shoulders and flyaway blond hair, emerging from behind Phelia. Silent until this moment; a pretence at being unassuming. His eyes burned with an unnatural orange light. Another magic user.
Fuck.
Cyrus’s hand shot out, ready to attack with whatever would come to him first, but it was too late. Something hit him in the chest, a solid wall of power that knocked him off his feet and sent him hurtling backwards. The heat of it stole the breath from his body, dragged a howl from his lips. The images that flashed before his eyes were sickeningly brief and out of kilter—the platform, the high towers of the keep, the vivid red tapestries. Then Cyrus’s back hit the wall, and his head cracked into ita second later. Pain lanced through his skull, white-hot and blinding.
He hit the ground in an ungainly heap. He could not think through the pain. He could not order his limbs into action. His daggers had been torn from his hands with the force of the blow and his fingers twitched uselessly, good for neither weapon nor magic. Cyrus sucked in a shaking breath. At least his lungs were obeying him, but they felt like they were filled with ash, the extraordinary heat of that magic scorching him from the inside out. Summer’s power, condensed into a single terrible form.
Avexa was approaching. Her voice sounded like it came from very far away.
“He awake?”
Footsteps crunched towards him, heavier than Avexa’s tread. Cyrus could not even brace himself.
He expected a kick, a rough toe to the ribs. He was unprepared for the hand that knotted roughly into his hair and yanked him upright to his knees. There was no holding back the cry of pain as the roots of his hair wrenched against his throbbing skull.
A scoff from above. “Yeah, I’d say he’s awake. Ergh, I’m getting blood on my fingers.”
“Make sure he’s not alert enough to use his powers.” Avexa again, her voice sharp.
“Why don’t we just kill him?”
“Because he and Maximillian have been plotting together, and the Federation will want answers about that,” said Avexa coldly. “Check him, Felix.”
A hand gripped Cyrus’s face, thumb and forefinger digging into his cheeks. He barely felt it on top of everything else. Felix tilted his face to each side, then tipped his head up to the sky. Nausea rolled through Cyrus and his head pounded and ached. He tried to force his eyes open, but it took all his effort to pry them apart. He caught the barest glimpse of the champions standing around him; the one who had worn Max’s face still sprawled where Cyrus had left him; Max himself, kneeling on the ground and blinking hard as he oriented himself. Felix was a blur of blond hair and a smug smile. Cyrus could barely manage to sway where he knelt, anchored in place by the firm grip on his hair, dazed and heavy-lidded. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead.
“He’s not using his powers anytime soon,” said Felix, and he pulled even harder, forcing out another cry of pain. He arched up towards the hand in his hair instinctively, almost brought off his knees, his throat stretched and vulnerable to the champions around him. His chest heaved with great, ragged gasps. Somebody laughed.
But the pain did one thing. It cut through the haze, bringing the world back into unforgivably sharp focus. Swirling disorientation conceded to its sting. Cyrus could feel everything—including everything he didn’t want to feel—but he would take it, a thousand times over, for the sense of clarity it brought.
Because beyond the champions’ shoulders, he saw Max. He was pushing himself to his feet, shaky and bloodied and bleary-eyed. But he was awake. Alive. His head turned, and his eyes locked with Cyrus’s.
Though Cyrus’s eyes were still scrunched tight withpain, he saw everything in shocking detail, as though reality had slowed itself down just for them.
Max had no sword. His own was tucked into the scabbard of the imposter, sprawled motionless close by. There was no hesitation: Max scrambled for the weapon, his movements uncoordinated but powered by vengeful fury, face twisted into a snarl that would put any wrongdoer to shame. He was on the gathered champions before they could react, sword glinting as he reared back.
The blade buried itself in the back of the nearest champion, bursting out through his stomach. He did not even have time to scream. Max wrenched the sword back and whirled around, slicing another champion’s throat within seconds. He turned to face the rest, teeth bared, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. It was his eyes that struck Cyrus, bound him to that moment, unable to look away. They burned with a rage unlike any he had witnessed before.
Max stepped forward, his hard stare fixed on Felix, and reality rushed to catch up with itself.
Avexa charged to intercept, a clash of metal ringing through the air. The fingers in Cyrus’s hair tightened, just for a moment—and then he was abruptly released, falling forward to catch himself on trembling hands as Felix rushed to help.
A handful of precious seconds, all he had to try and breathe through the pain in his skull and bring his thoughts into focus. Not enough, but it would have to suffice. He knew what he had to do.
Cyrus forced his battered body to listen, clambering to his feet as quickly as he could and slipping his spare knifefrom his boot. He swayed where he stood, a hand rising to his temple—but he stayed upright. He could do this.
One of the champions started towards him, confident he was too weakened to try anything. Cyrus proved him wrong with a single deadly slash of the blade.
Max whirled around, naked relief splitting across his face when he saw it was not Cyrus who had cried out. Felix was already on the ground, wheezing around a stomach wound. But Avexa was still standing, chasing after the sword Max had knocked from her grip. Max started towards Cyrus, but he shouldn’t, they didn’t havetime—
Cyrus could not bring himself to push him away when Max was suddenly right there before him. Their foreheads knocked together clumsily. Cyrus’s headache flared and yet he still clutched at Max, shaking fingers knotted into his sleeves. His heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his throat.
“Cyrus, Cyrus,Cy—”
