Chapter 58: Power Plays And Soft Spots

Cyrus turned slowly, his face betraying nothing as he faced Bernard.

The human’s confidence was remarkable, considering he was pointing a gun at a dragon.

"A forgery," Cyrus said, holding up the chalice.

"Quite convincing, I’ll admit. Your craftsman deserves praise."

"Where’s the real one?" Cyrus placed the fake chalice on a nearby table, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." Bernard kept the gun trained on Cyrus.

A low laugh rumbled from Cyrus’s chest, starting soft and building until it filled the room.

Bernard’s finger tightened on the trigger, but uncertainty flickered across his face.

"Bernard," Cyrus said, straightening his cuffs with casual precision, "let’s not pretend. That gun might as well be a water pistol."

Bernard’s jaw clenched. "You’re in my suite, breaking into my safe."

"And you’re pointing a weapon at someone who could reduce this entire ship to splinters before you finished pulling that trigger."

Cyrus took a step forward, his eyes briefly flashing crimson.

"I was merely playing along with your little charade to avoid unnecessary... complications."

"Who exactly do you think you are?" Bernard scoffed, his posture remaining rigid despite Cyrus’s threat. The gun didn’t waver in his hand.

Cyrus tilted his head, studying Bernard with something approaching pity.

The human truly didn’t understand what stood before him. It is fascinating that a person who deals in magical artifacts could be so unaware of the essence of true power.

"You haven’t realized your situation yet," Cyrus said softly.

Bernard opened his mouth, perhaps to scoff again, then paused, frowning as the air grew unnaturally thick. A shiver crawled down his spine.

Cyrus’s form seemed to blur at the edges, his silhouette expanding beyond human proportions.

His shoulders broadened unnaturally, the expensive fabric of his suit straining as massive black wings unfurled from his back, tearing through the material.

Bernard’s eyes widened as Cyrus’s face elongated slightly, scales rippling across his cheekbones in waves of midnight black.

His pupils narrowed to vertical slits within irises that now blazed crimson.

Bernard’s face drained of color. His hand trembled, the gun wavering as his confidence collapsed.

"What—what are you?" he stammered, eyes widening as they fixed on Cyrus’s inhuman gaze.

"That’s hardly relevant to our discussion." Cyrus gestured toward the fake chalice.

"What’s more pressing is how a man of your supposed expertise purchased a forgery."

"Impossible!" Bernard’s voice cracked. "I acquired it myself from a private collection. The provenance was impeccable—dating back three centuries!"

Sweat beaded on Bernard’s forehead. He stepped back, bumping into a side table.

"Then you were thoroughly deceived." Cyrus’s eyes glowed brighter. "Now, where is the real one?"

Bernard’s gun hand dropped to his side in defeat.

"I don’t have it. I never did."

They both knew the truth—in business, in power, and in raw ability, Cyrus outmatched him completely.

The human’s bravado was just that—a performance with no substance behind it.

Cyrus studied Bernard, searching for any hint of deception. The human’s face had crumpled, his earlier confidence had evaporated.

"You’re telling the truth," Cyrus stated, not as a question but as a conclusion.

Cyrus retracted his wings, his features shifting back to human form as the tension in the room dissipated.

Bernard collapsed into a nearby chair, suddenly appearing to be every bit of his sixty-plus years.

"I paid eight million for that damn thing. The seller swore on an ancestral bloodline."

He ran a hand through his graying blond hair.

"Eight million. And now you’re telling me it’s worthless."

"Not entirely worthless," Cyrus replied, examining the forgery again. "The craftsmanship is exceptional. Someone went to extraordinary lengths to deceive you."

Bernard’s laugh was hollow.

"Small comfort." He set the gun on the table beside him, all fight gone.

"What now? You’re going to kill me for wasting your time?"

"I have no interest in your life, Bernard."

The older man’s eyes narrowed calculatingly.

"Take it," he said, gesturing to the fake chalice. "It’s yours. But I want something in return."

"You’re hardly in a position to negotiate."

"One scale," Bernard pressed, leaning forward. "Just one of your scales. Dragon scales are worth a fortune on the black market. It would help offset my loss."

Cyrus stared at him, contempt evident in his gaze. The audacity of humans never ceased to amaze him.

Even in defeat, Bernard Holloway was looking for profit.

"I have no use for this," Cyrus said coldly.

But as he prepared to leave, his thoughts turned to Kane. The fox spirit would be infuriated by Cyrus’s decision to handle this alone, leaving him behind.

Perhaps bringing back something—even a forgery—might ease that inevitable confrontation.

Cyrus paused at the doorway, considering Bernard’s audacious request.

The human’s greed was almost impressive in its persistence.

With a slight grimace, Cyrus reached toward his neck, where the scales were smallest.

He ran his fingers along the edge of one obsidian scale, feeling its connection to his essence.

With a sharp tug and a flash of pain, he removed it.

The scale—no larger than a quarter—gleamed in the dim light, its surface shifting between midnight black and deep crimson.

Cyrus placed the scale on Bernard’s table. It caught the light, pulsing with an inner fire that seemed to hypnotize the human.

"Consider this a one-time transaction." Cyrus’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"But understand something, Bernard." He picked up the fake chalice, turning it in his hands.

"If you breathe a word about what transpired here—about what I am—I’ll ensure your collection of trafficked spirits becomes very public knowledge."

Bernard’s eyes darted between the scale and Cyrus’s face.

"The Bureau would be particularly interested in your upcoming auction. International waters or not, they have ways of reaching those who exploit spirit-kind."

"You wouldn’t dare." Bernard’s voice lacked conviction. "You’re hardly innocent yourself."

"Perhaps not. But unlike you, I have nothing to lose." Cyrus smiled, all teeth and no warmth.

"Your empire, however, balances on secrecy and influence. How quickly that crumbles when the right authorities start asking questions."

Bernard’s jaw tightened. "Our business is concluded."

"Indeed." Cyrus moved toward the door, fake chalice in hand.

"Enjoy your scale, Bernard. It’s the closest you’ll ever come to possessing real power."