Chapter 16

Cyril

Cyril pushed Kit behind him as three priests spilled into the corridor.

Fire exploded from Ettienne's hands, the ball of flame heading directly into the humans. There was no cover for the priests to take, no time to rush back into the passage they'd come out of, even if they'd been so inclined. A heartbeat and three charcoaled bodies fell to the stone.

Cyril hadn't seen his father fight outside a training ring, but nothing about the king's brutal efficiency came as a surprise.

"We are almost there," Kit panted, turning her head away from the bodies. "The chamber is just to the right. If we?—"

"Halt!" three more priests strode from the passage ahead. These had more tattoos on their faces and their robes billowed in a phantom wind. They stepped over the bodies of their fallen brethren with more disdain than regard. All three men had their palms raised, their fingers weaving an intricate pattern in the air.

Ettienne didn't wait for them to finish. His magic rushed through the corridor, incinerating the air as it had before. This time however, instead of hitting the humans, Ettienne's magic bounced off an invisible force.

Cyril threw himself atop of Kit, flattening her to the stone floor as the rebounding magic sailed over their heads and down the corridor from which they'd come.

"Your majesty," the lead priest frowned down at Ettienne, who'd likewise hit the floor and was now rising. "What is the meaning of your assault?"

Now on one knee, Ettienne drew a dagger from his boot. Moving as fluidly as water, he threw the knife into the man's throat. Stars he was fast. Quinton fast. Maybe even more so.

The knife hit its mark and the priest fell. The other two closed rank. Their hands were up weaving the next attack.

Rising the rest of the way, Ettienne advanced on the pair. Spears of flame shot from him, pelting the priests from all angles. Keeping them busy.

And creating space behind him for Cyril and Kit to make the turn they needed. Ettienne would hold the line for them, or would die trying. The priests were already adjusting to the magic and Cyril could hear more footsteps approaching.

Cyril pulled Kit along, threading her behind Ettienne and through the intersection. He pushed her into the mouth of the right veering corridor that led toward the circular egg chamber. "Go," he ordered Kit and rushed back to Ettienne's side.

Ettienne's sword was a blur of motion now, his magic either depleted or rendered useless by the priests' ministrations. The footsteps Cyril had heard earlier now materialized into priests. Three more now than before.

"What are you doing here?" Ettienne ground out. He'd gotten one good slice in with his sword, but it was hitting shields of hard air now. The second row of priests, the ones who'd just arrived, didn't need to expend their energy shielding though—they could attack. And they were.

"Thought you'd like the company," said Cyril.

Four sets of robed hands moved in unison. Voices rose in a chant.

"I don't."

The priests all closed their fists. The corridor trembled, the walls wailing so loudly that it hurt Cyril's ears. Especially because the bloody sound was all too familiar. Cave in.

Cyril was moving before he could think, power rushing from him just in time to shield against the rocks spilling from the ceiling, trying to bury them alive once again. The stones crashed against Cyril's magic, their weight and momentum grinding him down, down, down. If he'd been at full strength, he might have not fallen to his knees from the effort of warding off the stones, but he was not. Not after the arena fight and the collapsed tunnels that followed. It was a miracle that he had as much in him as he did.

"This way." Kit grabbed the back of Cyril's waistband, urging him back to his feet.

Not a miracle, then. Just his mate.

"Why are you this close?" he said through gritted teeth.

Kit pulled him toward the corridor on their right. The one she was supposed to have safely stayed inside. "If they follow us, let the rocks down on their heads," she called loudly enough for the priests to hear. "Magic is a double edged sword."

It was. But like any sword, it had a breaking point, and Cyril was reaching his. His muscles screamed, his raised arms trembling as he held them over his head, palms facing the crumbling ceiling. The woven tendrils of blue energy shimmered vividly, casting changing shadows on the stones. He couldn't do it. Couldn't hold up a stone fortress collapsing on their heads.

"Walk backwards." Kit's voice caressed his ear. "I have you. One step at a time."

Yes. He could do that. He could take one step. And if he could take one he could take two. Five. Five large steps. Ten small ones. That's all that they needed to take to get out from under the loose stones. Cyril could hold out that long. He had to.

Catching on to the plan, Ettienne likewise stepped back from the front line where he'd been distracting the priests. A heap of robed bodies lay dead at the king's feet, their blood splattered on his clothes and face. There was little that the king could do to add to Cyril's shield though. Ettienne's magic was honed to attack. He could raise a shield no more than Quinton would have been able to.

"You are an abomination!" A priest shouted and pointed behind Cyril. At Kit. Cyril recognized him now. Juan. The one who'd found Kit wandering during the second trial and turned her in. Juan was the reason she'd been made to sit on the dais instead of returning to the safety of the pack. Likely the reason the priests had tried to kill her afterwards. Now, Juan's face contorted in disgust. "Look at the cunt! She isn't human. Exterminate her like the abomination she is."

A primal roar escaped Cyril's lips.

"Kill her. Kill her now!" Voices joined together, melding into a battle cry. Not far down the passage more shouts echoed from the walls.

Cyril's breathing was ragged, short gasps that barely filled his lungs, and the priests… they had reinforcements coming. Many reinforcements, from the shouts and steps racing toward them. Too many. And if any of them got their hands on Kit?—

"I will peel your scales like a fish." Spittle flew from Juan's mouth as he shouted at Cyril's mate. "I should have gutted you from crotch to gullet when I had you. You?—"

You? You are dead. The voice inside Cyril was his and not his as the dragon inside him flared to life, its fierce hatred heating their blood. Cyril extended his arms toward the priests, his magic powered by strength so primal he no longer controlled it. Cyril's magic exploded, a fierce torrent of swirling power. His shield, the rocks it held at bay, all shifted, responding to his command. Becoming a tangible weight in his mind's grasp.

With a guttural cry, Cyril pushed this weight outward, every fiber in his body trembling with the effort. The rocks, the entire collapsing ceiling, twisted into a vertical plane that hurled itself toward the priests.

There was a single moment when Juan, his mouth still open and spewing its venom, realized what was happening. His eyes—all the priests' eyes—widened with terror so potent that Cyril could smell it even in the midst of his assault.

Terror and piss. And then, blood and debris as the hailstorm of jagged missiles hit its mark.

The priests' shouts, the ones they'd had time to make, died beneath the rumbling thuds of impact. Dust filled the air, a thick fog that stung Cyril's eyes and coated his throat. Then there was utter silence, broken only by the tiny musical trickle of gravel bouncing off the entombment.

"Good gods," Ettienne whispered. And was that awe in his father's eyes? Pride even? Or just disappointment that Cyril had failed to channel all this power in the previous centuries?

Cyril said nothing. He just stood there, his chest heaving until Kit pulled him gently along toward the right corridor. To the door that Cyril knew held the dragons' future.

"It's locked," said Ettienne.

"It isn't." Brushing past the king, Kit pushed open the door. "Not for me." Reaching back, she interlaced her fingers through Cyril's numb ones. The pair of them walked together into the circular chamber, ready to face whatever hold it had on Cyril's mate.