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“Hello?” he called out.
The voices silenced at once.
Shit.
Cyrus moved forward more urgently, desperate not to lose whoever he’d heard. “Please! You must help me. The queen is wounded!”
No response.
“Dammit!” he growled. He inhaled deeply, registering the sharp smell of demons was still close by.
Were they hiding? Perhaps they were frightened of him. It wouldn’t be hard to guess why; the last his subjects had seen of him, he’d murdered someone and nearly torn down the entire palace with his rage.
But that was when Kronos had taken control of him. And, judging by what Prue had told him, Kronos had been devoured by Pandora’s magic. He was gone now.
Even so, his people wouldn’t know that. According to them, Cyrus was just a dangerous and insane king that they needed to steer clear of.
A heavy sigh dragged him downward, and his steps slowed once more.
“I could really use your optimism right now, Prue,” he murmured, his eyes stinging and his heart twisting with grief. A sense of brutal hopelessness flooded his chest, threatening to drown him. With Prue gone, what did he have left? He had turned on his people. He had expended his magic entirely. His realm was destroyed.
A shuddering gasp ripped through him, and he sank to his knees, curling Prue’s body to his chest. Broken sobs poured from his mouth. He hung his head, succumbing to the pain and anguish.
It was nothing less than what he deserved. This was his penance for abandoning his people for so long. For ignoring them in his quest for more power.
A low groan burned in his throat, and he unleashed it with his cries, reveling in the agony.
I will own this grief and pain, he thought. It is mine, and mine alone.
“My—My lord?” said a hesitant voice.
Cyrus’s sobs quieted, and he sniffed loudly before peering over his shoulder.
A familiar figure materialized, stepping out of the fog. He had the body of a man and the head of a bull. His clothes were torn and ragged, and his dark eyes scrutinized Cyrus with part curiosity, part shock.
“Lagos?” Cyrus rasped. He staggered to his feet, then swayed.
Lagos reached out and caught Cyrus by the arm before he fell.
“You’re alive,” Cyrus choked, laughing with relief. “Gods above, you’re alive.”
Lagos’s gaze dropped to Prue’s limp form against Cyrus’s chest, and the demon’s breath hitched. “Is that—No. I don’t…” His voice trembled, his snout quivering as he met Cyrus’s gaze again.
“I’m going to save her,” Cyrus vowed in a low voice. “What else is left? Who else is left?”
Lagos stared at Prue again, his dark eyes swirling with a despair Cyrus understood all too well. If Cyrus watched the demon for too much longer, he would shatter.
“Lagos,” Cyrus growled, snapping the demon to his attention once more.
“I’ll show you.” Lagos jerked his head in the direction he’d come from, then strode into the fog.
Cyrus adjusted his grip on Prue’s body, keeping her close, and followed after him. The murky mist swirled in the air, obscuring everything, but he could barely make out Lagos’s dark shape ahead of him. And, if anything, he could smell the demon. He wouldn’t lose himself in this mist.
The knowledge brought a ridiculous amount of comfort to him. As if all he needed was one semblance of control, of circumstances he could adjust in his favor, and his sanity returned.
One step at a time. He could do this one step at a time.
The first step was following Lagos.
