Page 247 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Next: his wrist. I seized it, twisted, and drove my knee into his gut. His blade clattered to the floor as I raised mine overhead.

He caught my wrists with both hands. We grappled, foot to foot, strength against strength. I hooked his leg and brought him to his knees. The blade inched closer to his throat with every heartbeat. Our groans of effort blurred with the crowd’s roaring silence.

“Yield!”

Disbelief simmered through me. One more inch and it would be done.

“Cyrus, I ordered you to yield!” Mother. Her voice cracked through the storm cloud of my fury.

I hesitated, blade trembling in my grip, eyes locked on Nix’s. Anger was a tangible entity, peeling free of my soul as I wrenched away, booting the motherfucker in the chest, toppling him over.

I whirled toward her, chest heaving, blood dripping from my blade.

“It is my right!” I bellowed. Murmurs of outrage sparked flames around me—fitting. Their sense of betrayal validated the fire of my own. Paladins did not yield in a sanctioned duel. We did not extend mercy. We won, or we died. I threw a livid arm out toward Nix, where he was fighting his way onto hands and knees. “You rob me of my victory’s honor!”

“And he will live with this shame,” she snapped, steel in every syllable. “Your strength, Cyrus Stuart, is not in taking life but knowing when to spare it. The traitor will live in dishonor, but his death will not be your burden.”

Weak.

Even now, she made me look weak. After everything.

After Poe’s declaration. After a duel fought with blood and fire.

In front of the council and our people—she stripped me of the justice I’d earned.

If I hadn’t already been sure I hated my mother, I knew it now.

Anger in every stride, I moved to Nix, bent down—pain screaming through my gut—and yanked my blade free. Sheathed it. Raised his overhead, basking in a roar of victory.

I straightened, spine tall, turning to let them revel in this. Let them know. Their Prince would defend what was his. And should enemies cross him, mercy would not come from me.

Nix didn’t deserve even a glance.

I turned toward the council, sweat stinging, wounds screaming.

Twelve stone faces stared back.

I met each and every one of them. Then I stormed off the stage.

Mother’s voice followed me, cutting through the din as I fumed, barely able to breathe.

“You do not get the gift of being a martyr, Nix Landry. You have dishonored your coven and your blood. Your days will be spent in exile for the next hundred years.”

Or maybe it wasn’t fury making it hard to breathe. Maybe it was the fucking stab wound.

I needed to get to Jo.

The armchair in the corner of my room was going to have a permanent imprint of my ass if this girl didn’t wake up soon. Jo had patched me up, and between her and the Middle, all I really needed was a nap. It pissed me off to no end that Nix would probably get the same if they granted him access before shipping the fucker off.

Across the room, Jo flipped through a superhero comic like this was any other Tuesday. Carr walked in looking more exhausted than I felt. He and Cali had followed me to the Middle the moment my mother dismissed the gathering, but something bitter had rooted itself in his expression.

“What?” I snapped. I’d had enough for one day.

“The Six have summoned a conclave.”

I stared at him. “What the fuck for?”

“No idea.” He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in his voice. “Cali’s occupied. Your mother expects you to attend in her stead.”