Copyright © 2024 by Ashley Bresee

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, email ashleybreseebooks@gmail.com.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

ISBN 978-1-7382163-0-7 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7382163-1-4 (ebook)

Cover & Title Page by Artscandare Cover Design

Map Design by Cartography Bird

Editing by Ciara Lewis [Instagram: @clewisedits]

To my teenage, fanfiction writing self; 

You did it girl.

The Mercy of Dawn

A Fires of Carinae Novel

Ashley Bresee

Authors Note

The Mercy of Dawn is a dark, fantasy romance featuring themes that may be unsettling or triggering to some readers. In addition, not all relationships depicted in the story are healthy, and they should not be misconstrued as such.

The themes explored include: graphic depictions of violence; the use and abuse of drugs and alcohol; xenophobia and racism in a fantasy setting; explicit sexual content; moments of dubious consent; post-traumatic stress disorder and trauma-related dissociation; suicide ideation; and incidents of domestice violence.

Please prioritize your wellbeing and read at your own discretion.

Pronunciation Guide

People

Cyril: Sear-ill

Cyr: Sear

Dion: Dee-on

Mikael: Me-kai-el

Mika: Meek-a

Runa: Roo-nah

Places

Carinae: Care-ee-nay

Helia: Heel-ee-ah

Reykr: Rye-kur

Playlist

Control | Halsey

Let Me Down Slowly | Alec Benjamin

Alone In A Room | Asking Alexandria

Panic Room | Au/Ra

Just Pretend | Bad Omens

lovely | Billie Eilish, Khalid

Until Eternity | Blackbriar

DArkSide | Bring Me The Horizon

Glass Heart | Caskets

Cosmic Love | Florence + The Machine

Nightmare | Halsey

Summertime Sadness | Lana Del Rey

Another Life | Motionless In White

Hurts Like Hell | Tommee Profitt, Fleurie

Do It For Me | Rosenfeld

War Of Hearts | Ruelle

Breathe Me | Sia

Make Damn Sure | Taking Back Sunday

Power Over Me | Dermot Kennedy

Contents

Prologue

Part One - Chaos

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

Part Two - Nyx

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

Part Three - Eos

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53

54. Chapter 54

55. Chapter 55

56. Chapter 56

57. Chapter 57

58. Chapter 58

59. Chapter 59

60. Chapter 60

61. Chapter 61

62. Chapter 62

63. Chapter 63

64. Chapter 64

65. Chapter 65

66. Chapter 66

67. Chapter 67

68. Chapter 68

69. Chapter 69

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

Prologue

Aftermath

Cyril was going to die here, afraid and alone, and freezing, in this filthy pit of a cellar.

Just another abrupt dead end of the Rhodea family tree.

And, truthfully? The thought of Dion finding her here like this, broken and bled out to the whims of her stupidity, hurt more than she ever thought possible.

Even after everything, she didn’t want that for him.

But by the time Mikael and the others realized she hadn’t made it to their rendezvous spot… Those were hours she just didn’t have.

Whatever happened to her body down here, whatever surge of blinding adrenaline pushed her beyond limits she could not comprehend, it drained her completely. That usual thrum of life beneath her skin, the dull buzz of fae strength that always simmered through her being? It was gone, and the quiet it left was deafening.

The damp, decay-laced air filling every crumbling corner of the cellar sat heavy in Cyril’s lungs, and every breath she struggled to draw sent an ache of pain through her side. She tried to grip the gaping wound, to put some kind of pressure on it, but her fingers were stiff and her body was shaking and it had become just too hard to care.

Every little shift of her body sent more blood weeping out of her wounds, little rushes of warmth before the painful cold set back in. Even if she tried to move again, she’d never make it up the stairs with her leg mangled like it was.

Cyril’s head settled against the rotted wooden post that provided her only means of support, and she swallowed down the bitter, metallic taste in her mouth.

This…

This was it.

The bloody massacre painted on every surface of the room slipped from focus as a dark haze settled in the edges of her vision, her eyes drifting of their own free will. The flames in the sconces flickered a bit more dimly now, too.

If luck deigned to toss her a favor for once, death would come on swift wings.

Or, in the more likely case, the hours Cyril had left would be lonely and cold, and full of thoughts that would bring her no comfort.

Cyril wanted to go home.

She missed her cobbled-together family.

She missed the great hall, and her bed, and the apple trees.

She missed…Dion, more than she ever thought she could, or should.

Would he even bring her ashes back to Helia, and lay her to rest with her parents?

And Attie? Fuck. The poor horse.

Would she think Cyril just up and abandoned her, after every ride and adventure they’d taken in these abysmal months?

Gods, how long until Mi—

Thump. Thump.

Cyril huffed a sad mockery of a laugh.

Death would see fit to play one last act of cruelty on her. Fool her ears into thinking someone would really pull her out of this fucking hellhole.

Thump. Thump.

Bang.

Her eyes drifted shut, hand dropping from her side to the gritty, blood-soaked stone below. This fool’s hope of her mind was not something she’d let herself entertain.

Cyril was so…tired.

Icy pinpricks clawed up her fingers and arms, and her legs felt like nothing but dead weight. She was ready for this to be over, ready to yield, ready to find out if there was anything after.

Thump. Thump.

“Cyril?!”

Cyril’s eyes flew open.

Chapter 1

Four Months Earlier

The mead was a terrible idea. And the wine. And whatever in the hells that Bron spent the evening passing around in that strange, serpentine-shaped bottle. He claimed it was an exotic and expensive potation, imported from some unpronounceable place in the mortal lands.

To Cyril, all it tasted like was firewater, and the precursor to a fucking miserable morning. The other rogues all agreed too. Not that it stopped a single one of them—herself included—from partaking in another round, and another, and at least another few after that.

It had been such a dreadfully long time since the great hall at the estate ran so rife with the sort of raucous, celebratory energy Cyril happened upon when she went down for dinner. It would have been remarkably rude, she told herself when Bron shoved a bottle of wine in her hand, to not stick around and take part in the revelry.

Never mind the fact she’d never caught whose birthday it was, or why the hells they were celebrating so thoroughly.

Cyril drank and laughed and sang along with her uncles and the other rogues to bawdy, cheek-warming tunes even as the entire great hall became a muddy, distorted thing. She was certain Tyr had stuck her in a chair at some point, though she hadn’t the faintest idea why.

When the first whispers of dawn trickled through the towering windows stacked at the far end of the hall, the debauchery came to a rather abrupt end. Dozens of them all swept out the main doors in a wave of profanities and laughter before singles and duos—and even a few eyebrow-raising trios—filtered off to their rooms and outbuildings.

Cyril remembered little of what happened after that.

She made it back to her bed, at the very least, if the familiar cream and gold canopy draped above carved oak bed posts was any indicator.

Her list of befuddled accomplishments ended there though.

A criminal amount of midday sun poured through the uncovered windows flanking her bed, and she hadn’t even made it under the damn covers to shield her face. Apparently being sprawled out, fully dressed, on top of the bedspread beckoned to her last night.

Truthfully, that she made it that far was impressive.

Less impressive was the steady, wicked beat her head pounded to with increasing intensity every second since she cracked her eyes half-open. It fell in perfect tune with the footsteps that started echoing down the halls just a moment ago. Heavy, determined footsteps that Cyril knew meant she was about five seconds away from being in such deep shit.

Five.

Four.

Cyril slid a pillow over her face and groaned—she didn’t have a single fucking hope in any of the hells of talking her way out of this.

Three.

Two.

Wait. Tyr or Ren certainly wouldn’t be awake yet, not with how much they each put back last night. Maybe one of them would weather Dion’s wrath for her.

One.

The hinges of her bedroom door protested miserably as it was forcefully flung open.

“Cyril Rhodea, get your spoiled ass out of bed, right fucking now.”

“Morning, Dion,” Cyril mumbled from behind her pillow.

His boots thumped across the floorboards. “So, were the horses just supposed to clean out their own stalls this morning, or…?”

Oh. Dion was pissed.

Cyril knew that the moment she braved uncovering her face, her uncle’s gold eyes would be molten with fury. Their most defining family trait shone vividly when fueled by anger—a regular occurrence for them both.

Dion wasn’t even the sort to have unreasonable asks of people, not usually at least, but chores at the estate were non-negotiable. He expected everyone to pull their weight one way or another and, even with being his blood niece and heir, Cyril was no exception.

Hells, she bore heavier expectations for those reasons alone.

Her list of chores was one of considerable length, and spanned all areas of the estate. She would rotate through everything from servicing weapons and organizing their storerooms, to working kitchen shifts and helping to maintain the training grounds. A woman of many talents, Dion always said he wanted her to be. That was an entirely debatable notion, but she was never bored at least.

Unfortunately for Cyril though, this week’s rotation was stable duty.

Not the fun kind either, spending evenings grooming horses and bringing about order to the tack room for the next day. No, this stable duty involved nothing but shoveling shit and hay at the first miserable blink of dawn.

There was the most minute possibility that she conveniently forgot about her last day of duties when the festivities started. Convenient, yes, but completely accidental.

That’s what she’d run with.

“Cyr, I’m not leaving. So for the love of all things good in this godsforsaken fucking world, get up.” Even behind closed eyes, Cyril could picture Dion’s frustrated gesturing. He had either pinched his brow or pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. The man was terribly predictable.

Cyril tossed her pillow off the side of her bed with a full-bodied groan.

If the way the room tilted when she pushed up on her elbows was any indicator, the firewater most assuredly was the mistake. Her wobbling eyes anchored on her uncle, planted statue-still at the foot of the bed.

With his arms folded tight across his broad chest, clad in one of those fine black tunics he seemed to live in, Dion could almost pass for the perfect form of dis-fucking-pleased, if it weren’t for how the corners of his lips tugged outwards. He was fighting it, she knew, but the Rogue Master’s stoic mask had cracked.

“You look like you fought a bush. And where—” A stifled wheeze of a laugh left him. “Where is your other boot?”

Cyril’s eyes dipped to her feet—one boot.

“I…” Cyril hauled herself up, taking stock of the floor around her bed in slow, measured movements. “I have no fucking idea.”

When in the hells did she lose a damn shoe? It hadn’t even been a month since Bron took her to the city and bought these for her. At least Dion’s amusement finally reached his eyes with that.

He shook his head at her and said, “Go wash up, kiddo. I’ll scrounge up some food for you, and then we’ve got a contract to talk about.”

Just like that, it was back to business.

The distance from Cyril’s bed to her wardrobe to the bathroom felt like it had tripled in length from the previous day once she shut the door behind her and peeled out of her day-old clothes.

She didn’t have the faintest fucking clue when a glass of red wine met her once crisp, white tunic, or who the culprit was, but the laundress was going to be furious with her. At least she’d worn her usual black pants.They smelled just like the sweet red wine she drank too.

Dion was right, though. She looked like hell.

Those brilliant Rhodea golds? Something tarnished lingered in her eyes, framed by puffy bags and smudged kohl. There was barely a whisper left of the crown braid she’d wrangled her waist-length hair into last night too. Just loops and twists of black shooting out in every which direction remained.

Gods, she could have used another day or three of sleep.

At least the frigid water from the tap was enough to shock a bit of life back into her as she gave herself a hasty scrub down. Profanities spilled through her clenched teeth for the entirety of those few brutal minutes.

The hinges of her bedroom door whining again carried into the bathroom—a promising sign that Dion had found food—and Cyril hurried to get dressed. She tugged on a pair of soft, loose pants and a fitted top, both charcoal gray, and tied up her hair before slipping back out into her bedroom.

That bright, blistering light was something she hadn’t been entirely ready to reemerge into.

But at least Dion was there, settled into an armchair by the fire with a spread of tea, toast, and fixings on the low table before him. Cyril’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Dion gave her a wry smile and gestured to the seat opposite him as he said, “You look paler than usual.”

Cyril snorted. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Her pasty, wan pallor wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, as much as it irked her to not have the same warm, sun-kissed complexion as Dion.

Her near-total lack of pigment was a gift from her mother’s half-nymph blood that never went away, despite her best efforts day in and out in the sun. Her borrowed uncles liked to say she looked like expensive porcelain or fresh snow. A sharp contrast to the townsfolk, who often wished her a speedy recovery.

Cyril dropped into the plush, welcoming embrace of her favorite burgundy armchair and pried the lid off the teapot to take a sniff. Whatever was in there burned and made her eyes water.

“Sebille said she brewed you something strong,” Dion chuckled.

Cyril sighed and stuffed the stopper back in, pouring herself a mug anyway. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“Well.” A single word and Dion’s voice had taken on that patronizing lilt that made her blood boil. “If you are so desperate to partake in adult activities, you should be prepared to deal with the repercussions.”

Cyril cast her uncle a withering glance as she piled a few bits of bread and cured meat on a plate.

“I’m twenty-one.” She slumped back in her chair, tossing her legs over the arm. “It’s not exactly like I’m a child anymore…”

Dion sighed and shook his head at her.

“A drop in the bucket, kiddo, and you know that as well as I do.”

“Tell that to my—”

“I did not come here to bicker with you.” Dion braced his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his palms over his face.

“Really?” Cyril scoffed and popped a piece of bacon into her mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Cyril.”

He fixed her with a flat, unimpressed gaze. Cyril sighed.

“Fine then, my dearest uncle, what did you come here to not bicker with me about?”

Dion closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving with a slow breath. Something they both had to do, often, to avoid strangling each other.

“I’ve accepted a contract that involves a bit of…traveling.” Dion spoke slowly when he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I hoped you didn’t have any grand plans here in Helia for the summer.”

Plans. What a laughable statement.

The Summer Solstice was still over a month away, and it wasn’t like Dion would let her celebrate anywhere other than under his watchful eye at the estate. Never mind the fact that going anywhere on her own outside the bounds of their property wasn’t something he let her do, ever.

“No, I don’t think so.” Cyril cocked her head. “By travel, you mean…”

Travel wasn’t exactly uncommon with the…variety of contracts that came through the Rogue’s Guild. Some liked to call them mercenaries or thieves or even headhunters—as if those titles were somehow insults—but their services were always in demand. Lords and ladies and folks from all walks of life in Helia, and their neighboring states of Southern Carinae, often hired the rogues to do their more nefarious or clandestine bidding. Trips lasting a few days to a few weeks were commonplace.

From Dion’s tone, though, this rang differently.

The mortal continent to the east would be the experience of a lifetime for Cyril. At least a handful of the rogues that passed through the estate worked over in the foreign lands at some point in their lives, and every story painted it as a lively place full of trade, art, and absurdly good food.

There were always the nymph lands to the west, but Cyril doubted her uncle would be overly enthused about sending his men to work in a land known for its bodily pleasures and little else.

Dion cleared his throat.

“We’re going to Reykr.”

“Reykr.” Cyril nearly choked on her tea. “Why the fuck would we want anything to do with helping those lunatics?”

“That mouth is going to get you into so much trouble one day.” Dion’s sigh carried palpable frustration as he raked a hand through his chestnut hair. “Those lunatics are technically your mother’s people, Cyril, and by proxy yours, too, in case you’ve forgotten. I hardly think you know enough about them to be slinging accusations like that.”

“They are not my people,” Cyril bit out. She wasn’t sure when she shot out of her chair, but pacing seemed like a better alternative to throwing a teacup. “And I know plenty about those oppressive, blood-sucking freaks, thank you.”

“Bloodsucking? Oh, Cyr, for the love of—”

“Yes, Dion, bloodsucking. Virgin sacrificing. Naked seances under the full moon, type fucking lunatics.” Her old governess, Millie, had told her as much. Most of the guildsmen she’d grown up around thought just as little of them and their dark arts, too.

Them, being the moon-fae of Reykr, the secluded and northernmost region of Carinae. They were strange and reclusive fae, marked by the wicked sets of sharp, double canines they all bore, who retreated to their isolated lands centuries upon centuries ago when the Great Kingdom of Carinae first fell. Retreated—or were pushed out, depending on who you asked—to the north of the Stygian mountain range.

“Well, if that’s what you want to believe, then I guess that makes you a quarter lunatic.” Dion had the audacity to look amused. He raised his brows at her in that smug, knowing way of his and took a long sip of his tea before he muttered, “Really explains a lot.”

Cyril ignored that.

“Do I even have a say on if I’m going or not?” Cyril planted herself in front of a window, staring out down the path towards the stables. She waited for the answer she already knew.

It took a single breath for Dion to say, “No, you don’t.”

Cyril picked at the jagged corner of her nail, likely a casualty of her ass meeting the floor one too many times. She hesitated before she asked, “When do we leave?”

She heard Dion stand and turned to see him smoothing down the front of his tunic as he said, “Two days. Well, a day and a half now since you slept half the damned day. You need to be packed for tomorrow afternoon, though. It was the only day I could hire porters to transport our things through the anchor stone in Epheos.”

Cyril felt nauseous.

Mostly the hangover’s doing, sure, but not a single bit of this conversation helped whatsoever. Nothing like a fucking single day’s notice to pack and uproot her entire life for gods knows how long.

“…Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

Another answer she already knew.

Dion usually opted to lead with any information he felt like sharing, which rarely amounted to much.

“For now, yes. Since Bron covered your ass this morning, Sebille is expecting you downstairs to help her prep for dinner. We’ll talk more when we eat.” Dion was halfway through the door when he added, “Besides, we’re looking at a ten-day ride if we’re lucky. We’ll have plenty of time to talk then.”

If it wasn’t for fear of Sebille’s wrath, Cyril would have crawled right back into bed and made all of this tomorrow’s problem.

Reykr. Moon-fae. Ten fucking days on a horse.

It was happening.

Cyril swore as she flopped back on her bed. She tugged the tie from her hair and ran her fingers through its lengths. The brutal grip of her hangover had eased, at least, thanks to a tincture a scullery maid slipped her before dinner, but she was sure no sort of salve or tonic existed to soothe any of her other frustrations.

Dinner was…insightful. Nowhere near enough to sway her opinions on the people she refused to acknowledge made up a quarter of her heritage, though.

Nothing would ever be enough, truthfully.

Cyril wanted nothing to do with the moon-fae and any of their black magic fuckery, and Dion’s argument that they were her mother’s people was bullshit.

The woman who birthed her was little more than a mystery, propped up by annoying comments the rogues and townsfolk loved to make about how kind, caring, and beautiful her mother was. The same sort of empty compliments that are tossed around about every damn dead woman in existence.

It didn’t help that, of their small entourage making the trip to Reykr, the prospect enthused precisely no one. If the ask hadn't come straight from Reykr's royal family—along with a payment that Cyril was stunned to hear the upfront portion of—she bet that not a single one of them would have agreed to go.

How nice for them to even have that option.

Dion prattled on about some old ties he had to the moon-fae kingdom. But, of course, he refused to elaborate any further than that. Apparently, that was all the explanation any of them needed—or deserved, Cyril was more sure of—when they asked why such a lucrative contract fell right into his lap.

What Dion did give them, though, was a handful of details about the contract itself.

In Brynnhold—which he explained was Reykr’s port city—a series of gruesome murders had surfaced over the last few months that had the locals all looking over their shoulders twice. The victims spanned all walks of life—a barmaid, a carpenter, and a popular textile merchant—and not a single one had a jilted lover, bad debts and dealings, or anything to give even a thread of justification for losing their lives. Even after a rather exhaustive search by the Royal Guard, nothing substantial surfaced to tie these three people together outside of the brutality of their deaths.

It wasn’t saying much for the capabilities of Reykr’s military if their entire guard service was now deferring their investigation to a band of rogues from outside their own kingdom, but Cyril kept that thought to herself.

Dion himself hadn’t been privy to the exact details of the deaths, which resulted in no shortage of outrage at the dinner table. But he seemed confident they would have plenty of other details to discuss during their lengthy ride north.

Ten fucking days.

Four to get them up through the foothills and forests north of the estate, another three to reach and clear the Obsidian Rift up in the Stygias, and a final three to get to the palace after they crossed the border into Reykr.

Dion thought they might shave a day or two off if the weather cooperated and they hauled a few long days, but Cyril didn’t plan on holding her breath about that.

Given how high tempers flew just at dinner, she wasn't even convinced they'd make it through the trip without Dion or one of the others pummeling each other. Never mind the idea of having efficient riding days.

She was thankful, though, that Dion picked three of his highest-ranking rogues to round out their merry little cabal for this fucked up trip—Tyriel, Bronson, and Rendal.

They were three men who had seen and done things that gave Cyril the chills to think about. But they also took on the role of surrogate fathers when Dion found himself unexpectedly raising his baby niece. Not a single one of them knew what the hell they were doing raising a child, but they loved to comment that Cyril turned out mostly alright.

And, for what it was worth, they sided with her over Dion more often than not.

There would be no shortage of commiseration between her and the three of them on this trip, and she was immensely thankful for that.

But there was still the daunting matter of packing…

“Fucking hells,” Cyril sighed as she hauled herself out of bed and stalked over to her wardrobe. Maybe, just maybe, if she knew what kind of shit-storm awaited her, she would have forgone the firewater last night.

Chapter 2

Aday to pack? Fucking abysmal. Cyril didn't consider herself to be a high-maintenance fae—especially compared to some wives and daughters of rogues and lords she'd met—but Dion had given her little to go off of.

He assured her their accommodations would be a step up from the hostels and hovels they frequented on their travels, but he declined to enlighten her any further, saying she’d just have to wait and see for herself.

Insufferable. Fucking. Arse.

So, she prepared for something in between palatial living and being stuck in the top bunk of a barracks with one of her uncles snoring beneath her. A stack of black pants and neutral blouses, her tried-and-true ensemble, a couple of simple dresses with their awful matching silk shoes, and a small pack of nightclothes, toiletries, and odds and ends.

Her life for the foreseeable future, tucked away into three travel trunks that departed with the porters the previous afternoon. Cyril wasn’t confident in how goods like that held up being phased through anchor stones—a rare fae magic she never understood—but she tried not to dwell on it as she finished securing her saddle and giving her equine companion a slow once over.

The sleek, midnight black mare, Athena—or Attie, Cyril preferred—nosed Cyril's hands with excitement as she swept them up her muzzle, straightening and fussing over the bridle and its fastenings.

Cyril had spent countless hours with Attie from the moment the horse got her wobbly, unwieldy legs beneath her five summers ago. She was as sweet-tempered as horses came, and never faltered during some of the long, arduous runs Cyril put her through on the estate trails.

Two peas in a pod, her uncles always teased, if only for the lengthy black manes they both sported and a mutual love of apples of every variety. A small mercy Dion gave Cyril, assigning her Attie and not one of their many feisty geldings, like the one Rendal struggled with beside her.

No one was particularly pleased to be gathered in the courtyard at dawn—the cool bite of the late-spring morning air made Cyril regret her thinner choice of leathers—but his horse was fucking pissed.

“Dion, you cannot be serious about this,” Rendall groaned as he grappled for the horse’s reins. The horse—Kingston, if Cyril remembered correctly—neighed with petulance as he bucked and stomped out of Ren’s grasp.

Repeatedly.

Bron looked over at her with wild amusement in his eyes before he and Tyr turned their backs, sparing Ren from more of an audience than he already had.

Dion shrugged from where he sat perched atop his horse. “He’s the only one big enough to carry you for this long. It’s not my fault you’re built like a fucking oak.”

What sounded suspiciously like a snort came from the direction of Tyr and Bron.

But Dion wasn’t wrong.

Cyril spent most of her childhood climbing Ren like he was a tree. Even now, at the five and a half feet she made it to, he towered a foot and then some over her.

None of her uncles were small or slight men, not with the often…physical nature of the guild’s work, but Ren was by far the largest rogue at the estate. He was the most frightening, too.

If his looming stature didn’t have someone questioning their decisions, the death lingering in his eyes usually did it. Ren always defended them as being rich like chocolate, which happened to be his favorite food, but they reminded Cyril of the black depths of a well more than anything.

Lucky for her though, Ren was usually the first to cave whenever Cyril needed help with anything. He loved to remind her that he knew he was royally fucked the moment Dion shoved her wailing and fussing newborn self into his arms for the first time, and she didn't utter another sound as long as he carried her around. Apparently, Ren had no choice but to have a soft spot for her after that.

Dion, who trotted back and forth with impatience in front of their struggling group, couldn’t be any further on the spectrum of appearance from Ren. Despite the often brutal environment he worked his way into, her uncle carried a certain air of regality to him that the other Rogues of Helia did not.

Everything from the neat trim of his dark, chestnut hair—always ‌longer on the top than the sides—to the immaculate tailoring of the clothes he wore left no doubt he bore his birthright title of Lord of Helia before any other mantle he earned. Dion’s head always sat high on his shoulders, his vocabulary and cadence of speech were that of a well-educated fae, and his list of fine tastes ran long.

A handsome man, in Cyril’s opinion, made even more so by the jagged scar that cut down the right side of his face. A slice of brutality through his regal mask.

The origins of the scar, Cyril never learned, and she spent most of her life being shut down by the residents of the estate whenever she tried to broach the subject. Something cruel happened to him, she figured by now, for the fast-healing body of an ascended fae like himself to bear such terrible marks. Something cruel that Cyril doubted she would ever learn.

With his titles and his legacy with the guild, Cyril could almost admit Dion was a respectable figure to look up to. If only he wasn’t such an overbearing asshole.

Tyr and Ren loved to argue that Cyril and her last living blood relative were just too similar, and knew how to rile each other up in just the right ways, but Cyril begged to differ. Dion treated her like she was a piece of priceless glass, and she did not reciprocate that sentiment with him.

“I didn’t realize the ride was supposed to be a formal affair.” Cyril, finally settled comfortably atop Attie, gestured to the ornate brooch holding Dion’s cloak closed in front of his heart.

The sigil of Helia—a rising sun inlaid with precious stones of warm yellow, red, and orange—was not something he usually wore when they traveled.

Cyril chose a simple metal pin to secure hers, solely for the peace of mind that it wouldn't be lost to the wind when Tyr inevitably raced her to wherever they would camp at night.

Dion raised a single, angular brow at her as he said, “And I did not realize we were on speaking terms again.”

Cyril opened her mouth to fumble something snarky and not fully thought out, but Dion didn’t give her a chance.

“For appearances’ sake, it’s more…palatable if the people of Reykr interpret our arrival as something more diplomatic in intent. A visiting lord is easier to digest than a band of rogues showing up at their doorstep.”

“I see.”

A visiting lord and his band of rogues?

Cyril sighed.

“That—”

“—is a wonderful idea, Uncle Dion? Yes. Thank you, kiddo.” Dion smirked. The arse. “I have your brooch as well. You can have it once we get through the mountains, lest you lose it somewhere in the rift.”

Cyril had no angle to protest that.

She avoided most finery out of a mix of personal taste and the fear she might misplace something priceless.

Again.

Six years since the incident with one of the Rhodea family circlets, and Dion wouldn’t let her live it down.

“Four days until we get to the rift?” Cyril asked, skirting around the business of lost heirlooms.

“Give or take if the weather cooperates. And—” Dion steered his horse around, assessing the rest of their entourage who were finally mounted and settled. “If we ever get our asses moving.”

Dion hooked his fingers in his mouth, and his piercing whistle shot through the murmured quiet of the courtyard.

“Are we ready?”

Nods and sighs, and a single “I fucking guess so” rolled through Cyril’s uncles.

“Good. Onwards to Reykr then.”

Cyril eased Attie into a slow trot, glancing back to take one long, last look at the limestone estate and its imposing oak doors. One last look at the sunrise colored segments of stained glass framing them, and the rising sun carved into the wood itself.

Home.

She couldn’t help but feel she wouldn’t see it again soon.

Their first day of riding came and went with remarkable ease.

A tepid breeze and overcast sky guided Cyril and her uncles up through the narrow, overgrown trail that wove its way through the forested lands north of the estate. The same trail that would apparently deposit them right at the base of the Stygian Mountains in a few days.

All around them, the noises of a living, thriving ecosystem filled the relative quiet the group traveled in. The soft, persistent burble of the creek running parallel to their path. Leaves and branches and shrubbery, all rustling in the wind. Squawks and squeaks of curious creatures investigating what in the hells was disrupting their peaceful realm.

Cyril enjoyed the midday chorus of birds perched high in the canopy most of all, though she earned pitiful glances from Dion when she attempted her own whistled rendition of their songs.

And when Bron finally said, “Any chance you brought a book to read aloud instead, dove?” Tyr filled in where she lacked the ability to carry a tune.

Truthfully, the quiet that started their day wasn’t an unpleasant thing, but the longer the silence persisted, the more uneasy Cyril felt. For as cantankerous of a bunch as they were, to not have spent any of the day bickering with each other was unsettling.

There was some sort of displeasure simmering beneath the surface with every one of them, and that meant Cyril was stuck with a group of stubborn, brooding men for the rest of the trip. Or until one of them inevitably took a shot at the other.

Gods help her.

Even then, as they puttered about and settled into the glen that would serve as their camp for the evening, the only words spoken were ones of absolute necessity.

Bron and Tyr took off immediately to find some poor, unsuspecting creature to kill for their dinner—their dried rations, Cyril was told, were to be saved for the alpine leg of their trip—and they left Cyril to struggle with tethering three gods damned horses on her own.

Ren didn’t speak as much as he just huffed and cursed as he hauled around a few half-rotted logs for them to sit on around the firepit, set up by none other than the bearer of the Rhodea Flames himself. He filled a log nearly entirely on his own, with Cyril and Dion taking another, and Bron and Tyr sharing the third when they returned from their hunt.

“What...is it?”

Cyril wrinkled her nose as she inspected the creature as it made slow rotations on a spit over the fire, manned by Tyr’s watchful eye. It was already skinned and cleaned by the time they hauled it back to camp, and Cyril was wary of anything that large with fangs and hooves.

“Do you really want to know what we found lurking in the bushes, dove?” Tyr raised a single, wiry brow at her.

She blinked at him, and back at the roasting…thing. “Maybe not.”

Tyr chuckled—the first bit of normalcy since they left the estate ten fucking hours ago—and turned his attention back to the spit.

It was going to be up to Cyril to get these stubborn arses to do anything other than bore holes into the trees with their eyes. Usually she could rely on Bron to drive a bit of conversation when the others would brood, but considering he was actively taking part in the brooding today, she wasn’t going to hold her breath.

“Have any of you ever been to Reykr before?” she asked, glancing at the three men sitting opposite her and Dion.

“Nope.”

“Never.”

And a fucking snort from Ren.

Cyril took a slow breath. These men were intolerable, and she wasn’t sure how any of them lived this long without strangling each other.

Dion, at least, wore an empathetic smile when she looked at him.

“Many times,” he said, and Cyril was sure she caught Tyr’s hazel eyes rolling in the firelight. A bold statement from the quietest Rogue of Helia. “Not since you were quite young, though. Impossible to leave for a month or two when you’ve got a tiny creature clinging to you, screeching for every strand of your attention.”

Bron stifled a noise that sounded somewhere between a cough and a laugh while Cyril gaped at her uncle. The nerve of this fucking man—

Dion threw his arm around her shoulders and tugged Cyril so tightly to his side that she had to fight to get away from him as he added, “A tiny, screeching creature that I love dearly to this day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Cyril grumbled.

She slid down to the other end of the log, glowering.

“But that is why”—Dion tossed a pointed glance back across the fire—“I can say with confidence the bullshit they spread about the moon-fae and Reykr isn’t true. None of this…what did you say again, Cyr? Bloodsucking and virgin sacrificing?”

His less-than-impressed gaze slid over to Cyril as she found a splinter in her hand to pick at.

“Right,” Ren started, just a low, rippling rumble. Cyril was certain that was the first time he’d spoken to someone other than himself since they left that morning. “Like the bastard that fucks anything that moves knows what these freaks do with their virgins.”

“Nonononono—” Cyril couldn’t clamp her hands over her ears fast enough as she crumpled in on herself. Dion’s own hands clasped on top of hers a half-breath later.

Her uncle's rotating repertoire of personal guests at the estate wasn't a secret by any means. Cyril just actively avoided thinking about or acknowledging it. Ever.

Dion pulled both of their hands away from her ears just in time for her to hear the tail end of Ren’s snap back at whatever her uncle had hissed at him.

“—piss off Dion. She’s a grown woman.”

Yes, a grown woman who wanted to hear nothing about the intimate habits of the man who raised her. She appreciated the near endless vouching the others did for her maturity but, gods…

Cyril dropped her face into her palms and sighed.

“Is the beast almost done?” she mumbled, earning a commiserating squeeze of her shoulder from Dion. Now that she’d gotten them talking, she was desperate for them to preoccupy their mouths with something else.

“I won’t waste my breath trying to convince any of you otherwise about Reykr. You’ll see for yourselves once we get there that everything you’ve heard is nothing but slander against perfectly good people.” From Cyril’s periphery, Dion stood and brushed himself off—assuming his preferred authoritative stance. “And if I so much as hear any of you have made our hosts uncomfortable, there will be fucking hells to pay. Am I understood?”

Bron, Tyr, and Ren all just huffed.

Cyril, at least, gave Dion the decency of a verbal acknowledgment.

How the fuck had it only been a day?

Mid-morning, on their second day of riding, Cyril urged Attie to trot alongside Dion at the forefront of their group.

So far, the day had taken a much more relaxed tone than their first. Still not quite back to normal, to her disappointment, but they’d at least poked a bit of fun at each other when dawn broke and it came time to pack up their camp. Quieter than usual, still, but she wasn’t as worried Dion would get murdered in his sleep.

Ren took up his spot at the rear of their entourage, his gelding a tad less feisty than he had been, and Tyr and Bron fell into line behind Cyril. Dion headed their group again, as he likely would for the duration of their journey, as the only one who had taken this path. Multiple times, at that.

When she finally caught up with him, the forest path wide enough for them to trot alongside each other, he tossed her a wry grin.

“Come to keep me company?”

Cyril nodded. That, amongst other things.

A good rogue always came well prepared, after all.

“It’s been boring back there this morning.” She glanced over her shoulder at the three who trailed just out of earshot.

Dion’s gaze followed hers. “They’ll come around. It’ll just take a bit of kicking and screaming to get them there.”

Cyril doubted that.

Her uncles would follow any order Dion issued them, but they were a stubborn bunch who didn’t have their opinions swayed with any ease.

“Can I ask you something?” She was as untactful as ever, but this had gnawed at her ever since they made their camp last night.

He eyed her with caution. “Oh, that’s never good.”

“No! It’s not anything bad.” Cyril sighed. “It’s just, I know you don’t like it when I pry about personal things…”

Those golden eyes narrowed in appraisal, the movement tugging at his scar before he looked back at the path ahead of them. “Try me.”

“How old were you when your ascension happened?”

A sliver of tension left Dion’s body, and Cyril breathed a sigh of relief.

“How old was I? Oh, gods.” He huffed a breath, though it sounded strained. “Thirty-ish, I think?”

Cyril blinked. “You…think?”

“Forgive me if I’m fuzzy on the specifics of something that happened a century ago, dear.” Dion cast her a sidelong glance. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, well…” Her confidence packed up and fucking ran. She should have thought this through before broaching the subject. “I just…”

Unfortunately, Dion could always read her with preternatural ease.

Softly, he said, “My fire bothered you last night, didn’t it?”

“No!”

Yes, it did.

In an immense, soul-crushing sort of way.

Every time her uncle conjured flames to light a lamp or a hearth—or their campfire last night—without effort, it served as a devastating reminder she had nothing. That not a lick of magic had manifested in her veins in twenty-one years. A tough thing to accept when fire ran down the Rhodea family line so ruthlessly that it smothered anything else that tried to mingle with it.

“Cyr, give it time. You’re young still, and most fae don’t ascend—”

Until they were older than she was now.

She knew, but that didn’t change what ate away at her, and it didn’t stop her from talking right over him either.

“You had some of your fire before your ascension, right? And my father too?”

Cyril knew the answers, but sometimes it felt like Dion needed a reminder of it himself. Every Rhodea recorded in their quaint family archives showed some aptitude for wielding fire long before their ascension opened up their full wellspring of power.

Every Rhodea except for Cyril.

“We did, yes.”

“And your father too?”

“Yes. But, Cyr, that isn’t—” Dion sighed, drawing his mouth into a tight line.

This was a discussion they’d had more times than Cyril could count. Dion always tried a different angle, but he knew how much it pained her.

Most sun-fae looked forward to their ascension solely for the near halt of their aging, hoping to spend the centuries to come locked in their youthful prime. Gaining access to the full breadth of their powers was just something nice they got along the way.

For Cyril, it was the opposite.

She would gladly forfeit every drop of beauty and youth for her fire—for freedom from the gnawing inadequacy she felt in its absence.

Living out the rest of her life as an old hag seemed like a small price to pay for that.

She knew, though, that while all fae would reach their moment of ascension in their early adulthood—in their twenties and thirties, usually—some lacked the ability to wield magic. Like their wellsprings were too shallow to start and ran dry granting their near eternal youth.

Cyril worried she didn’t have a wellspring to begin with.

It was common enough too, that at least a few rogues living at the guild relied on their brute strength alone to carry out contracts, and those men frightened her more than any of the magically inclined fae.

“At some point, you need to accept that until your ascension happens, there is no way for us to know what the gods gifted you with. And it could easily be ten years until then. You’ll drive yourself mad if you obsess over something—”

“That may not happen?”

“No, Cyr!” Dion snapped, and Cyril tensed in her saddle. “You’re as stubborn as a fucking mule sometimes. Something that may not turn out the way you want. Something that you have zero control over. What if it isn’t fire, but your mother’s gifts instead?”

Ah, yes.

The water-bearing healer who couldn’t mend her own wounds as she bled out.

Just who Cyril wanted to take after.

“You’ve made your point,” she muttered. Maybe she could still salvage their conversation, get something out of him that wasn’t his usual runaround. “Was it obvious when your ascension happened?”

Dion snorted.

“Incredibly.” His tone bore a hell of a sharp edge to it—any patience he had for her was gone.

“How so?”

The sidelong glance he cast her was chilling.

“Not up for discussion.”

And just like that, Dion urged his horse to pick up speed and left Cyril to fall back in line. She knew better than to say another thing to him, even if her pounding heart screamed at her to do otherwise.

“Everything alright?” Bron murmured as he trotted up beside her. Strands of his long, golden-blonde hair had already slipped from the braid he let her weave it into before they left camp.

Cyril squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge the burn that pricked at the corners of them, and took a shaky breath.

She shook her head.

No, things weren’t alright and no, she did not want to talk about them.

She couldn’t let Dion get to her, not this early on.

“You’ll get there, dove.”

Bron believed in her to a fault, far more than Dion and her other uncles ever did. And that was why, right now, she couldn’t look at him. Not when his forest-green eyes would be soft and full of so much pity. Empathy, he would argue, but it always felt like pity.

That night, when they settled for camp, Dion tasked Cyril with taking their water skins to the river for refilling.

When she returned, the campfire was already lit.

Chapter 3

Cyril spent plenty of her life on horseback, sometimes days at a time traveling to other guild contracts, but on the fifth day of their trip to Reykr? She contemplated her odds of making the journey on foot.

She hadn’t been able to feel her backside for about a day, and a miserable, achy pain pulsed up her spine with every step Attie took.

The terrain did her sanity no favors, either.

Their cabal reached the base of the Stygia Mountains the previous night, enjoying what would be their last meal of fire-cooked game for a few days. As the first warm, pink, and blue whispers of dawn washed over them from the east, they began their alpine ascent.

Long gone were the gentle slopes of packed earth trails leading them from the dense forests into the copse-dotted foothills. All that carried them now was a cragged stone trail winding up to the Obsidian Rift. Cyril missed the soothing sounds of the forest and its denizens, the soft bubbling of the creek running beside them. Now the only noise that filled her ears was that of hooves on loose rock and the brutal wind howling all around them.

Even donning a thick cloak with a heavy cowl, and gloves she rifled from her saddlebags hours ago, Cyril felt like a block of ice. Her uncles, both blood and borrowed, seemed unphased by the drastic change in weather, and she did not know how.

Hells, they even seemed to enjoy themselves now.

What a cruel turn of the tides.

Ahead of her, Bron and Dion rode together and held some semblance of casual conversation for most of the day—guild business from the bits and pieces she overheard from them. The first time they laughed, it startled her and made her wonder if the cold had gone to her head.

Behind her, Tyr and Rendall rode a bit more staggered, but one occasionally caught up to or fell behind the other, discussing things she could never quite hear over the wind.

And then there was Cyril.

Nestled in the middle for safekeeping, as always.

With a frozen body, a numb ass, and one hell of an ache in her back.

Her mind had just drifted to the delightful and cruel thought of a hot bath or savoring Sebille's stew on the cozy armchair by the fire in her room, when Dion suddenly yelled, “There it is!”

Cyril squinted. The brutal wind left her eyes both watery and dry somehow, and she hadn’t bothered looking further than Dion’s back for most of the ride.

It was the Obsidian Rift, and Cyril gaped at it beneath her cloaking layers. The injustice Dion committed when he described it at camp the night before…

A shortcut, he explained, hewed from the stone of the mountains that significantly reduced travel time to Reykr. A utility gifted to them by nature in a raw form, refined by the travel of Carinae’s denizens over the millennia.

He didn’t mention what a fucking marvel it was though.

The last ridge they crested gave way to the first unobstructed view of it, and the rift was breathtaking in its brutality.

It was as if a god of eld tore the peak of one of the tallest mountains in the range in two. From this distance—at least a few hours away, from the ridges still lying ahead—the rift looked like a jagged and wicked pathway to one of the hells, and not at all like a marker of safe passage.

Despite the gray and overcast thing the sky had turned into, Cyril could see the faintest sheen of slick black stone lining the inside of the rift—its namesake, obsidian.

A thread of excitement wound its way through Cyril, and she grasped onto it for dear fucking life. Anything to get her through the next few days would be a miracle.

“Will we reach it before sundown?” she yelled up to Dion, their entire group having slowed its pace to take in the wonder they approached. “And where the hells are we sleeping?”

Cyril wasn’t confident in any of their abilities to navigate the path after dark. One wrong move on the loose rock would spell disaster.

Dion turned back to her and nodded, a whisper of a grin on his face.

“We’re camping in the rift tonight.”

Up close, the Obsidian Rift bore a striking resemblance to the gaping maw of an incomprehensible beast. The skyward opening running its length was much wider than Cyril thought when she first glimpsed it hours ago, and the thin base she thought it tapered down to was in reality wide enough for their entire merry cabal to ride alongside each other three or four times over with ease.

Tyr, Ren, and Bron all opted to fall back and let Cyril ride down the center of the rift in awestruck silence beside a sort of wistful-looking Dion—which she would not question at all.

A single glance back told her their surroundings even impressed the rest of their cantankerous rogues. Not that Bron was usually one to mask his appreciation for anything, but to see a bit of wonder in Tyr or Ren’s eyes was a remarkably rare treat.

The interior surface of the mountain passageway spoke volumes about how well-traveled the rift was through its history, with sweeping spans of the rock worn glossy and smooth from curious hands or traveling bodies brushing by. If the damn thing wasn’t so wide, Cyril would have veered over and passed a hand along the surface herself.

Down as low in the rift as they were, only scattered traces of late-afternoon light crept over the looming height of the mountain’s peak. What few rays made it over, though, did marvelous things to the scattered bolts of obsidian veins running through the otherwise gray mountain face.

Cyril hadn’t known the usually abyssal, black stone could look like glittering, inky-blue stardust. Remarkable in its difference from the small carved statues and stone idols she often saw being peddled in the city.

“Has the rift always been here?” Cyril finally asked Dion after what had to have been an hour of gawking at her surroundings.

The curved path the rift followed made for a merciful break in the relentless winds, and let Cyril push back her cowl and hoods. Communicating became a whole hell of a lot easier.

“It predates any written history we have of Carinae.” Dion’s gaze slid over to her. “Remarkable, with how thorough the archivists of the Great Kingdom were.”

Cyril didn’t have words.

Carinae had thousands upon thousands of years of written history, if the sometimes soul-sucking lessons from her governess were to be believed. To think of how many people had traveled this passage in that time, how many sights and sounds the stone surfaces had laid witness to…

Far too much for her to comprehend, at least while she was this hungry, cold, and tired. Which reminded her…

“Where exactly are we going to sleep tonight?”

So far, Cyril had not glimpsed a single crevice or inlet that might make a hospitable camp.

Dion smiled at her. “Patience. You’ll see soon enough.”

It turned out that Dion had a wildly different opinion on what soon enough meant compared to Cyril and the rest of her uncles.

Frigid darkness bathed the rift almost in its entirety by the time Cyril noticed Dion veering from the middle of the passageway, towards shadowed openings lining the outer edge of the bend they traveled.

Carved openings. Not jagged splits in stone.

These were smoothed and squared with purpose.

Cyril sagged with relief.

Dion was the first to dismount, with the others following close behind. Cyril's struggle to dismount Attie against the vehement protests of her stiff body went unnoticed, thankfully.

She hadn’t known what to expect when she crossed through the threshold of the angled stone entryway behind Bron, but it sure as fuck wasn’t a hallway carved into the rock.

Wide enough for the horses to move about with ease and twice as high as Ren was tall, the hallway had several posts hewn right into the walls, which her uncles had already begun tethering their steeds to.

Dion must have noticed her gaping.

He took Attie’s lead from her hand, passed it off to Bron, and steered her further into the mountain.

“Better than some inns we’ve stayed in, hey?” Dion chuckled, and Cyril could only nod as her eyes swept around the cavern they entered. She didn’t even care that her uncle conjured a flame in his palm to light their path. That minor fact would circle back to gnaw at her later. But for now…

The cavern had to be three or four times the height of the hall, and easily as wide as it was tall. A pit sat in the center of the imposing space, perfect for the fire Dion already set about starting, and—

Cyril looked at her uncle and blinked.

Dion had a fucking log in his hand. They had packed nothing of the sort, and gods knew nothing could grow in the middle of a damn mountain.

“Where did you get that?”

He pointed at a cubby carved into the stone wall.

Full of logs.

Cyril gave him a sheepish smile. She may have been a well-prepared rogue, but she sure as fuck wasn’t an observant one.

“Reykr royal patrols make sure the basics stay stocked for any travelers, even though they’re scarce.” Dion looked amused at her bewilderment. “You didn’t see the feed for the horses, did you?”

She blinked back towards the hall.

“…I didn’t.”

Truthfully, her mind was struggling just to wrap itself around the fact that the refuge existed in the first place, let alone was stocked.

“It’s almost like those freaks aren’t as bad as everyone thinks.” Dion cocked a brow at her as he rose from the fire pit, his flames now engulfing the logs and kindling.

“You can set your bedroll down into one of those—” He nodded over to a row of shallow basins carved into the stone floor. “More comfortable than they look, and you won’t have to worry about Ren rolling over and smothering you in the middle of the night.”

She wished that was just a joke, but it had happened twice already, and Cyril was dying for a single damn night of uninterrupted sleep.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Cyril glanced between her uncle, the beds, and the fire.

It was all mighty fucking weird.

Chapter 4

With their dried rations stored for the morning, Cyril headed back to where Dion had settled on a folded bedroll in front of the fire to clean his blades.

His eyes darted up to her, a flicker of gold in the cave’s dim firelight as she bit out a string of curses and settled down beside him.

“Is that so?” Dion chuckled.

“I’m sore,” Cyril sighed.

She let her head roll back against the cave wall with a groan. No matter how much she shifted or stretched, she couldn’t get any damn relief. Agony was a better word to describe what she felt, the dull twinges up her spine having settled into a persistent, throbbing pain.

“Your back?”

Dion didn’t bother to look up again from the blade he polished. The warm, orange glow of the firelight bounced off it as he tipped it this way and that, searching for flaws like the perfectionist he was.

“Yeah. I don’t know how you all seem fine. I’m not sure I’ll make it the rest of the way,” Cyril grumbled.

Dion chuckled, the insufferable arse.

“Ask Bron to wrap your back in the morning. He’s the best at it, and it’ll make a world of difference.” Dion tossed a glance in her direction before he started packing his supplies.

He slipped his blades back into their leather sheaths—near identical matches to the ones Cyril wore on her thighs—and tucked the cloth and oil back into a drawstring pouch. Not that there was much point in Cyril bearing her own weapons, with the zero opportunities Dion presented her with using them. Gods forbid Cyril and the possibility of danger ever be allowed to coexist.

“As for the rest of us,” he continued, leaning back and stretching his legs towards the fire, “it’s just experience and how we’re built, Cyr. We’ve spent a long fucking time putting our bodies through much worse.”

She knew it was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Just another way that she would always be inferior. No fire in her veins. No hundred and some years of training. No finely honed body of a fae male.

This entire trip was proving to be one long, painful reminder of it all.

Dion eyed Cyril warily.

“You know, you’ve done an abysmal job getting any information out of me about Reykr,” he said finally, and Cyril blinked. “Ask me something.”

She scoffed.

“What happened to not wasting my breath convincing you otherwise, hm?”

“I meant them”—Dion waved vaguely at the others, mulling about the other half of the cave—“and not you. They’re a lost cause, but there is still hope for you. So go on, ask me something.”

Cyril struggled to suppress a laugh.

Fae men were always quick to accuse women of never being able to make up their minds about things, but Dion was worse than most of the women she’d met combined. He was the living, breathing embodiment of consistent inconsistency, but gods forbid anyone ever tell him that.

Still, it wasn’t an opportunity to squander. Cyril had no short few things she wanted to know about the blood-sucking freaks.

“Who do you know in Reykr?” she asked. “You never explained your old ties or why they hired us.”

“I go back a long way with Lars and Runa Kallan,” he said, as if that meant anything to her. Dion let her blank stare hang before he added, “More commonly known as Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Reykr.”

Oh.

Fucking hells, that shed a little light on the situation.

“So, you just casually know a king and queen?”

Dion nodded, and Cyril knew she had to pick her questions with care now. She had no shortage of unsavory curiosities about the king and queen of such notorious people, but hesitated ever so slightly before asking, “What are they like?”

It was a monumental task to stuff down the urge to insinuate they must be the tolerant sort if they can put up with her uncle for any period. Truthfully, though, Cyril was more concerned with the stuffy formalities that awaited her, if her time spent with the nobility of the south taught her much…

“I would prefer you form your own opinions, based on your own experiences with them…” Dion looked over at her, brow raised.

Point taken.

“Runa is lovely,” he continued. “She fusses endlessly over everyone. Warmer, and more free-spirited than you’d expect from her position. I just never wish to be on the receiving end of her ire.”

Dion blew out a breath, and it took effort to school the surprise in Cyril’s face. She was certain her uncle had never said so many complementary things about a single person in one go.

“And Lars, well…” Dion sighed in a foreign, wistful sort of way. “His duties don’t allow him to be as casual day-to-day, but he still detests unnecessary displays of decorum. And the man has one hells of a bawdy sense of humor once you get him liquored.”

Cyril cast him a wary, side-long glance before closing her eyes.

Dion liked these people. Truly, it seemed, and she wasn’t sure why it made her feel so uneasy.

“I’m not entirely convinced that you aren’t making this all up,” she said, and she did not need her vision to know Dion rolled his eyes at her.

“I’m flattered you think I’m that creative, kiddo, but you know as well as I do I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. Lars and Runa are good people, and you’ll see that when you meet them and their boys.”

Cyril blinked and looked over at Dion.

“Boys? As in, more than one?”

He nodded. “Two. Both men now, I suppose. Not boys.”

For a fae couple to have even one child? A blessing. But two? Exceptionally rare, and just one of the many prices they paid for their lengthy life spans.

“And let me guess.” Cyril forced an unimpressed sigh. “They are two of the most outstanding men you’ve ever met?”

Dion laughed dryly.

“Funny, Cyr. I know it may come as a shock, but children raised by loving, level-headed parents often turn out alright.”

Of course her uncle would find a way to turn someone else's praise into a backhanded comment about her. Gods forbid they manage more than a day or two without a sharp stab of a reminder of the loving, level-headed parents she was robbed of. She was regretting this conversation already.

“Like I’d know,” Cyril muttered.

Dion ignored that.

“Astor is their oldest. Quiet, academic, well-mannered. Everything you could want in a crown prince, really. And his wife, Reyna, is much the same as…”

King. Queen. Crown prince. This all felt fucking weird.

“…and then they had Mikael. He’s a bit older than you, but I haven’t seen him since he was maybe ten or twelve. Complete opposite of Astor, though. Poor Runa couldn’t get him to sit down with a book to save her life. He was nothing but brute force…”

To hear Dion speak with such fondness for people she didn’t even know made her chest tight. And she couldn't be certain if it was that or the fact that Dion never spoke of her in such a way that made it hard to breathe.

“…Cyril, are you listening?”

Shit.

Cyril picked at her nails. “I’m just tired.”

That much was true. Heaviness tugged on every fiber of her being, but it was an excuse Dion would have no patience for. He opened his mouth—to scold her, no doubt—but Cyril cut in before he had a chance.

“You stopped going to see them all because of me?”

Dion sighed through his nose, and tension flickered in his jaw. She was treading dangerous water now, but that pull was too strong to resist.

“What are you getting at?” he asked slowly.

Bron and Ren watched them with caution from across the fire, where they had just settled onto their own bedrolls.

Just in time.

“Do I owe you an apology? For ripping you away from the people that evidently made you far happier than we ever seem to?” Dion cursed under his breath but Cyril’s blood ran hot, and she continued, “It’s not like it’s a well-kept secret that my entire existence has been a burden to your lifestyle, but I hadn’t realized—”

Cyril choked on her words as Dion gripped her by the arm and wrenched her up to her feet. She couldn’t suppress the whine that left her as pain lanced up her back.

“Dion, that hurts—”

Ren issued a low warning of Dion’s name as he rose, Bron only a second behind him.

“Not another fucking word from you tonight,” Dion growled, his eyes lit with fury as he shoved her away. The cragged stone bit into her shoulder with enough force that Cyril knew she’d bruise, but she could only stare at Dion in disbelief as he bit out, “You’re taking the first watch with Tyriel. Go.”

Shouting broke out behind her, but it didn’t register as much more than muffled noises over the frantic pounding of her heart. She staggered toward the cave’s opening. Attie nuzzled her as she passed, but Cyril just kept walking.

If it wasn’t for Tyr grabbing her and forcing her down onto the pack he’d just occupied, Cyril may have very well wandered straight out into the rift.

Truthfully, it might have been the best for all of them if she had.

Her hands shook so badly she didn’t know what to do with them, where to put them. A sour, sick feeling crept up her throat that she struggled to swallow down in a painful lump.

Dion had never…

They’d argued and screamed, and slammed doors, but he…

“Dove, breathe,” Tyr murmured, and a shaky rush of air filled her lungs.

It left her with a quiet sob.

Tyriel sat down beside Cyril, putting himself between her and the roiling echo of arguing still spilling out from deeper in the cave. He splayed his hand over her back, rubbing slow, soothing circles as Cyril drew her knees up and tucked her head down. Tyr could see her unravel, but she would never give Dion the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

The pack Cyril dozed off on shifted suddenly and her eyes shot open.

Dion.

She wasn’t sure when Tyriel let her fall asleep, or what shift of watch they were on now, but seeing Dion sit down beside her was not what she wanted to wake up to.

More often than not, he’d come back after they fought and slammed doors in each other’s faces, but she could never be sure if he was coming back for a second round or for a half-assed patch up.

Cyril assessed the softness in the golden eyes that studied her, and the prominent slouch in his usually refined posture.

Half-assed patch up it was.

“I never should have grabbed you like that. Never. I just…” Dion sighed and slumped back against the wall. He scrubbed his palms over his face. “When you say shit like that, it strikes a fucking nerve, Cyr.”

Cyril knew it did.

She knew exactly how to provoke him to incite the most explosive reaction, and she always had known. As for why she always felt so inclined to do so, well…that wasn’t something either of them likely ever wanted to unpack.

Cyril rested her head against his shoulder.

“It’s alright.”

It had to be.

Cyril didn’t have another option. She had no place to run to or person to turn to if it wasn’t alright. All she had was Dion, and…it had to be alright.

She felt Dion sigh as he leaned his head on top of hers.

“You know I love you more than anything.” He drew out that last word like it had some meaning. “And you have never been a burden to me. Ever.”

Debatable, but Cyril didn’t feel like arguing anymore. She’d let Dion speak his piece, if only because it wouldn’t end well otherwise.

“I’ll admit, our situation isn’t exactly…usual.” Dion breathed a laugh that held little humor. “And yes, my lifestyle changed drastically after, well, everything. But that does not mean for a moment that I never wanted you around. I always have, and I always will.”

Dion was never so generous with his sentimental words. Cyril almost wanted to believe he felt an ounce of remorse for the earlier…incident. She would take what she could, anything to lessen the tension between them even a bit for the back half of their trip.

“I know,” she said quietly, and Dion eased his arm around her, rubbing the shoulder that ached from her collision with the cave wall.

“Go get some sleep, kiddo. We’ll be leaving in a few hours and our next day of riding won’t be easy.”

Even though it pained her to admit, Cyril was almost looking forward to making it to the palace. If only it meant she could spend a few days not being bumped around on the back of a horse.

Turned out Dion was right about one thing.

Bron had a knack for wrapping backs and Cyril was annoyed that no one thought to make mention of his handy little skill set sooner. Like, as soon as they left the estate.

They were halfway through the day and the thick cloth he bound around her lower back did wonders at easing the jarring jolts of pain she suffered through the days past. Not perfect by any means, but tolerable. Bron was even kind enough to dig out an extra blanket to pad his delicate little dove’s saddle with when she grumbled about how numb her ass still was.

All boons that Cyril would take, because Dion had not been kidding when he said their ride wouldn’t be easy today.

Ever since she and her cabal of uncles set out at dawn’s first light, a frigid, moisture-laced wind howled down the mountain channel at them from Reykr’s end of the rift. Where the bend in the passage had provided a welcome barrier to the elements the day before, today it only trapped and swirled the frosty gale right back at them from behind.

Cyril donned every damn bit of layers she’d packed in her saddlebag, and was naught but a strip of pale skin and golden eyes peering out from her hood by the time they departed. Of course, the weather hadn’t fussed her uncles.

It was laughable how fast Cyril had gone from dreading this entire trip to being eager to make it to the palace, if only for the worldly comforts she might have access to again.

The dried rations of jerky and fruit that made up their breakfast had been the furthest thing from satisfying, and Cyril hadn’t the gall to tell Dion she accidentally chugged back the rest of her waterskin when she was half asleep. Despite the abysmal turn of their evening, he seemed in good spirits today, and Cyril was determined to not ruffle that. She just had to hope they’d find a creek sooner rather than later.

As they rode, the howl of the wind left little room for conversation. So Cyril preoccupied herself in the best way she knew, and she let her eyes wander, studying the veining of obsidian through the rift.

In the absence of glittering sunlight, the veining looked like enormous splotches of wet ink on gray parchment, with grand sweeping whorls shooting out from them in all directions. Whorls that sometimes tapered and slipped away into nothing, while others expanded, warping and bursting into jagged bolts of black lightning.

Cyril decided, after countless hours, that she loved those bolts the most. They gave her a faint, yet warm, reminder of home.

Wicked and sweeping thunderstorms rolled through Helia’s southern flatlands often in the late summer and, ever since she could remember, Dion would always drag her outside to watch them. The covered terrace at the back of the estate often served as their impromptu theater box, or the stables did if they felt like braving a run in the rain to get to them.

Sometimes, they would spend hours out there. Just watching and listening as brilliant flashes of lightning tore through the sky and the thunder rattled everything around them, and it was something she realized might not happen at all this summer.

Cyril heard Reykr could be a wet and harshly cold place, especially compared to what she was accustomed to in Helia. But she hadn’t the faintest clue if they experienced the same sort of storms that rolled through to the south of the mountains. Not like Dion bothered to tell her much of anything useful about the damn place.

Maybe once they cleared the rift and these brutal winds, she could ask him what summer in Reykr would be like, and if the jagged veins of obsidian reminded him of anything from—

A petulant snort left Attie as she came to a jarring stop behind Dion’s horse. Cyril cursed as a twinge of pain ran up her spine.

“Daydreaming?” her uncle chuckled.

“I…”

Cyril’s rebuttal dissipated.

They had reached the end of the rift.

And, gods…

Dion grinned back at her as he said, “Welcome to Reykr.”

Chapter 5

Reykr was lush and green and beautiful for as far as Cyril’s dry and weary eyes could see. She couldn’t believe they were still in Carinae.

Even with a heavy, milk-white fog obscuring the finer details of her first view of the foreign land, Cyril knew it was unlike anything she had ever laid eyes on.

The tree canopy sprawling in all directions was impossibly dense. Its rich, verdant shades interrupted only by a handful of roads twisting and curving between settlements that rose from the trees and the haze.

Off in the distance that she had to squint almost painfully to see, Cyril could just barely make out what had to be the palace. An expansive compound built of pale stone nestled into a valley, with spires and towers peaking through the fog that settled into the valley floor. At least a few long days away still, if she had to guess.

Back in Northern Helia, they had their fair share of forests and greenery, but where she frolicked as a child seemed like some sort of sad mockery of the landscape laid out before her. At home, the forests were painfully sparse by comparison, and quickly gave way to the plains and grasslands that encompassed most of the other territories of Southern Carinae, the dry and usually hot place that it was.

“It's beautiful, isn’t it?” Dion mused to no one in particular.

Ren and Tyr said nothing, their eyes wandering through neutral masks.

Bron gave a mildly conflicted hmph.

She was supposed to hate Reykr, Cyril reminded herself, as she fought to clamp down on the awe that pulled at her face beneath her cowl.

The moon-fae were lunatics.

Reykr was full of moon-fae.

Reykr was a dangerous place full of lunatics.

Cyril repeated those words to herself for the next few hours as they worked through the cragged descent of the northern face of the Stygias. Just because she found herself weary did not mean she could let her guard down.

Even over the winds that still howled, Cyril could hear the grumbling of her stomach. The itch to dig through her saddlebag for remnants of dried fruit was hard to ignore, tempered only by the amount of effort it took to peel her damn tongue off the roof of her mouth.

With more hospitable terrain so fucking close, she didn’t want to risk anything that might slow them down for a moment, and the I accidentally drank all of my water conversation definitely would have.

One of her uncle’s curses of relief overtook her whimper when their descent finally brought them below the tree canopy. The crude, loose rock beneath them yielded to a mixture of stone and packed earth. Those merciless, high-altitude winds ceased almost entirely, with the temperature settling into something cool but comfortable.

Cyril would have been perfectly happy if they stopped right here and let her sleep in the dirt. The side of the trail looked awfully inviting. But they continued for another short distance until a marker of civilization came into view—gates.

Just as the last ragged remnants of the mountains mixed with trees yielded to the dense forest, the looming steel and stone structure halted their group. Dion seemed unfussed, but her other uncles bitched and grumbled under their breath.

“Dion—” Cyril started, but the grating squeal of metal on metal had her clenching her teeth.

“Lord Rhodea! You made good time. The road treated you well?”

A man wearing a black military uniform with accents of rich royal blue and silver pushed the gate open the rest of the way. The short, neat cut of his sandy-brown hair left the elongated points of his ears well on display, and his eyes were dark enough that she couldn’t quite make out what color they were. A deep green, or hazel maybe.

Whatever they were, Cyril lost every bit of focus when he grinned at Dion.

She knew double canine teeth were a defining trait of the moon-fae—hells, she even had a scaled-down set herself—but she had never seen them on anyone else before. Especially someone who had to be a full-blooded moon-fae. They looked sharp and vicious and left no questions about the blood-drinking Cyril’s governess taught her about.

“Weather cooperated, half-decent riders.” Dion tossed a look back at her and the others. Cyril scoffed. “Our early arrival won't be an issue, I hope?”

“Not at all! I’ll send word to the palace so they are ready for you.”

The guardsman studied the group for a moment before he turned back to Dion.

“In a couple of hours, straight down this road, you’ll want to fall off to your right at a warped, old willow tree. There will be a glen a few dozen feet in that should serve you well for camp tonight. If you leave at first light on the morrow, you’ll be at the palace in two, three days at most.”

Three days at the most. Relief sagged through Cyril’s body.

Part of her wasn’t convinced they would actually make it to the palace when they left their estate…six days ago. Or was it seven? She wasn’t even sure how long they’d been on the road anymore.

“Much appreciated.” Dion inclined his head in thanks.

The guard smiled again and stepped to the side, waving them through with his other hand pressed to his chest. “May the rest of your travels be safe and swift.”

After the days spent traversing the mountains, and a night spent camping in the rift, their first night in Reykr almost felt luxurious. Almost.

They had a roaring fire, a belly full of boar that Dion hunted, and a flowing, freshwater creek nearby.

Nearly three full waterskins later, Cyril had to wander out into the darkness of the trees to relieve herself.

Twice.

Beyond sated and content for the first time in days, fatigue knocked Cyril’s feet right out from under her. She wasn’t sure when she dozed off against Ren in front of the fire, or how long he let her use him as a pillow for, but she only stirred to a minute level of consciousness when he carried her over to her bedroll and tucked her in.

Most of their camp was already packed by the time Cyril woke up the next morning.

She had finished working her hair back into a tight braid and was starting on the sheathes for her knives when Dion approached her. A bundle of rich red fabric sat in his hands.

“Ready to assume the role of Lady Cyril Rhodea?” he asked with a wry smile.

Cyril had forgotten his promise when they departed.

“As soon as I’m done getting these stupid…” Cyril grumbled as she fought with the last strap of her back sheath. Leather on leather was truly a bitch, nevermind the stiff ache lingering in her shoulder that she refused to pay much heed to.

Dion cast her an appraising glance as he shook out the cloak.

“I’m not sure how many young, respectable ladies show up at a foreign court armed to the teeth,” he murmured, tugging the red fabric around her shoulders.

Cyril did not exactly consider two short swords and a few daggers to be armed to the teeth, especially compared to her travel companions. And besides, Dion was always the first to preach about safety, especially on the road.

“There.” Dion pulled the two ends of the fabric together and fastened Cyril’s brooch just above her heart. “That’ll do.”

This brooch had been a gift for her eighteenth birthday from Dion. Several of them were made for her throughout her life as she grew and grew, but always made of thinner metals and colored glass.

A sensible decision, given how prone she was to beating them to hell.

Or simply leaving them places.

Or breaking them in two.

But the one now clasped at her chest was crafted of solid, polished steel and inlaid with fine gemstones. Garnets and rubies and some sort of rare orange jade from the mortal lands, Dion told her when she opened the box that day and gawked at it. Fancy enough that it spent most of its time living locked away with other family heirlooms, only brought out for occasions that her uncle deemed worthy enough.

Like visiting the court of the moon-fae freaks, apparently.

“You almost look respectable.” Dion chuckled and flicked her chin.

She opened her mouth to spit back a snide comment, but a fierce rumble of thunder tore through the sky above them.

Dion looked at her and winced. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Two and a half days of torrential rain accompanied Cyril and her uncles on the last stretch of their journey to the palace. Fitting, she supposed, that these last days would prove to be the most miserable.

She hadn’t even enjoyed wearing her brooch and finery for more than an hour the other morning before the skies opened up and she was scrambling to wrangle thicker layers from her saddlebags.

Thicker layers that were now beyond soaked.

And heavy.

And cold.

Cyril felt terrible for Attie and the other horses for bearing the extra weight of their waterlogged belongings, even though they didn’t seem to mind. A step up from the treacherous mountain trails, she supposed.

Gone was her curiosity, too, about the sort of weather that was common in Reykr. Wet and cold had proven to be painfully accurate. Cyril had to turn down Dion twice now when he’d caught her clutching her hands and offered to warm them. She appreciated the offer, but another reminder of her inferiority was not what she needed.

The only silver lining to the abysmal weather was the nostalgia it treated her to at camp the night before.

Beneath a piece of waxed canvas strung between trees for shelter, Cyril sat wedged between all of her uncles and watched lightning rip across the sky. Together in silence, save for the rumble of thunder and heavy patter of rain, they peered through the holes in the forest canopy to catch glimpses of the brilliant white bolts, near and far. A small comfort from home she’d gladly take.

Especially as the first view of the gates of Reykr’s royal palace came into sight and reminded her just how impossibly far she was from Helia.

On the road up ahead, two looming, wrought-iron gates sat anchored by a pair of white stone pillars that looked like buildings themselves. On either side, dense hedges sprawled out from the pillars, interspersed by smaller support posts that Cyril lost track of as the surrounding forest consumed each side.

Twisted and woven to mimic vines and tree branches, the black metal decorating the front of the gates circled two staggered birds, shooting upward in flight. The same birds, she realized, that the guardsman at the last gate bore on a patch on his chest.

Reykr’s sigil was…simple. Subtle, maybe?

Cyril expected more from the notorious fae.

The feeling in her gut was strange as they cleared the last stretch of road to the palace. The prospect of a hot bath and dry clothes, and a meal of something other than dried rations and game meat, thrilled her. As was the entire notion of their trip finally ending.

There was just the matter of where—and who—that hot bath and meal would come from that smothered her excitement into unease and even a pinch of nausea. Not that having only eaten a measly breakfast would have anything to do with that.

That unease swelled into something far more akin to fear as they closed in on the gates and Cyril felt the air around them shift. As if a giant ripple of something just tore through it. Like thunder almost, except not a single sound cut through the torrent of rain.

Every instinct in her body screamed danger.

Cyril tugged her hood and cowl down, fighting back wet strands of hair that clung to her face. She opened her mouth to ask Dion what in the ever-loving fuck just happened when a groan echoed out and the gates pulled inward.

A group of guards, dressed in the same black and silver and blue uniform, gathered just past the threshold.

“You felt it too?” Bron slowed to her side, wariness written plainly in his green eyes. She could see a glimmer of distrust in Tyr and Ren’s faces as well, despite their masks of neutrality.

“What in the hells was that?” she hissed through gritted teeth. Somehow, she was infinitely colder than just a few minutes prior. As if that were possible after nearly three damned days in the rain.

“Magic. Old and fucking dark.” Bron glanced at Dion, riding well ahead of them, then back to Cyril. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. “I don’t give a shit about what he’s said. Something fucking reeks here, and I do not like it.”

Well, at least she wasn’t the only one feeling off-put.

“Do not trust anyone here, dove, and use every damn thing we’ve taught you to keep yourself safe. Understood?”

Cyril nodded.

“Observe and assess everyone. Who they talk to. Where they go. What they will or won’t eat and drink. And for the love of the gods, dove, do not go alone with anyone, anywhere.”

Of all her uncles, Bron was the second most overbearing. After Dion, of course. Ren took on a very ‘toss her into the rapids and she’ll figure out how to swim’ approach for most of Cyril’s life, and Tyr usually watched at his side. Even if there was always a little quiet uncertainty in his eyes.

But at least Bron’s worry always came as harsh warnings, of things she knew had roots in his personal experiences, and laced with reminders of the skill set she possessed.

After all, one didn’t get raised by an entire guild of rogues without picking up a few useful tricks along the way.

“I understand.” Cyril leaned towards Bron and raised her brow. “The same goes for you.”

He set his hand on his heart, and his chuckle was the most pleasant noise she’d heard in a while. “As my lady wishes.”

Ahead of them, Dion already cleared the gates and was dismounting his horse at the group of guards. Cyril watched with bewilderment as he grinned and clasped hands with these men, flaunting the sort of casual ease he typically reserved for only his most trusted inner circle.

Something definitely reeked about this place.

“They’ll deal with the horses so we can walk the rest of the way,” Dion said as he extended a hand to Cyril and helped her dismount Attie. “Thought you might enjoy stretching your legs.”

“Immensely,” she replied with a smile that stemmed from a place of genuine relief. Dion didn’t need any reason to suspect she and Bron were conspiring.

And truthfully, with how her hips ached after being saddle bound for so long, the prospect of walking sounded fucking amazing. Even if it was still pouring and the soles of her boots squelched miserably with each step along the soaked gravel roadway.

Ren and Tyr got a laugh out of that, at least.

Dion hung by her side as they walked, surrounded by shrubbery and potted plants galore. She was sure it all must look lovely when it wasn’t pissing rain. A disarming front to whatever debauchery happened within the palace proper, Cyril forced herself to remember, because the moon-fae were notorious for a reason.

Despite all this talk of the palace, Cyril couldn’t help but think that compound may have been a more apt description.

The white stone building that came up to meet them looked to be maybe three stories tall, with a few spire-tipped towers shooting up from its black slate roof, but it was sprawling.

From the wood and iron doors that somehow dwarfed the main gate, she had to turn her head to glimpse the end of the stately main building, where covered walkways connected it to smaller stone buildings that traveled out of sight.

Plenty of opportunity to stretch her legs, she supposed.

“You’re thinking,” Dion said to her quietly, as if that was something she rarely did.

Cyril scoffed.

“All of this”—she waved at the potted plants and ivy adorning every window on the front of the palace—“reminded me I didn’t ask anyone to take care of the plants.”

“What a tragedy,” he chuckled.

A tragedy indeed, for those two miniature trees and three flower pots that Dion finally conceded to letting her scatter through the foyer at the estate. They’d be nothing but kindling by the time she’d make it back to Helia.

Another eerie pulse rippled through the air—magic, she understood now thanks to Bron—and a wave of nausea washed over Cyril. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

Bron’s attention snapped over to her, and Dion noticed.

“Everything alright?” her uncle asked.

Cyril nodded. The urge to void the contents of her stomach eased as quickly as it came. “Did you not feel that? The air, it—”

Dion looked at her curiously.

“Nevermind,” she sighed, “I think I’m just worn out.”

There was nothing but empathy in Dion’s smile as he set his arm across her shoulders and drew her closer, their soaked outer layers pressing together.

“You’ve done well. That trip can be taxing.”

A compliment? Gods…

By the time Cyril looked up, Dion’s attention was already elsewhere.

The doors to the palace sat wide open, and they had an audience.

Chapter 6

Dion had the decency to wait until they cleared the overhanging roof to tug Cyril down with him as he lowered onto his knee. A sharp glance back toward Tyr, Bron, and Ren had them down on their own a heartbeat later.

And Cyril? She could have sobbed.

Warmth poured out from the open doors of the palace and, for the first time in two fucking days, she didn’t feel a drop of rain. Hells, she barely even registered the reverent murmur of “Your Majesty” that left Dion. Every bit of her focus had gone into trying to stop the incessant chatter of her teeth.

A swath of silver and blue robes hanging from a gracefully curved body swept down the steps in front of Cyril, and Dion hauled her upright with him.

Cyril couldn’t help but stare.

Rolling waves of copper-red hair framed the delicate face of the woman who approached her uncle. She beamed as she took Dion’s face in her hands and pulled him down to meet her short stature, kissing both of his cheeks.

“Oh, Dion.” The woman’s voice overflowed with fondness, reciprocated entirely with the smile on Dion’s face.

She moved to embrace him, but Dion took a step back.

“Runa, I am soaked—”

Runa, the Queen of Reykr.

She laughed at Dion.

“Like I care. Come here, you stubborn fool.”

Dion followed her order with so little resistance that Cyril just blinked at them. The man who never took an order, yielding with such ease to this soft-spoken woman.

“Miss. I’ll take your—”

Cyril went rigid when hands were suddenly on her, working at the clasps of her heavy over-cloak.

A slight woman, much shorter than herself, with hazel eyes and neatly tied blonde hair, eased the dripping cloak from her shoulders and slung it over her arm. She had to be staff, with the modest, pale blue dress and practical leather shoes she wore.

“Ah— Thank you. Oh, no. That’s—” The woman already had Cyril’s brooch undone, and she went stiff as a board. Handling by anyone, at any time, was not something Cyril enjoyed. “That needs to stay with—”

“Not a worry, miss. It is safe with me.” She smiled warmly at Cyril and dipped her head, taking a step back with an armful of sopping outer layers. “I will bring these to your room.”

Her room.

Cyril wasn’t sure if a whimper actually left her lips.

“And you…” The queen’s voice came from her right.

In hindsight, Dion may have had a point when they departed camp a few days prior. Now, facing the Queen of Reykr in her soft, flowing robes of silver and blue, Cyril’s fighting leathers and assortment of weapons may have been a poor choice of base layers.

If the queen took any offense, it didn’t show.

Runa stepped towards Cyril with that same grin still plastered to her face, double canines gleaming, and took Cyril’s hands in her own. They radiated warmth even through Cyril’s gloves. Eyes like fine crystal tinged with blue roved Cyril’s face, like Runa couldn’t take in the details fast enough.

“I have waited so long to meet you,” Runa said quietly, and something flickered in her eyes Cyril didn’t quite catch. She reached up and tucked a strand of dark, damp hair behind the point of Cyril’s ear.

The queen turned to her uncle. “She’s stunning, Dion.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Cyril felt her cheeks warm. Moon-fae were supposed to be dark and twisted people, but this woman exuded unsettling kindness.

Dion eyed her expectantly.

“It is nice to meet you, Your Majesty,” Cyril got out with no small amount of effort. It wouldn’t do well to piss off the royalty already.

“Likewise, dear.” Runa squeezed Cyril’s hands one last time before she stepped to the side and looked past them. “I did not want to make assumptions about where the three of you would like to stay. There are accommodations here and in the city, whichever you’d prefer.”

Cyril turned and watched as Tyr, Ren, and Bron glanced at each other, having one of those silent conversations that she fucking hated. Bron, as usual, spoke.

“The city, Your Majesty, will do us perfectly.”

“I thought that might be the case.” Runa smiled. “We’ll have your things brought down, and one of the guards can show you the way.”

Bron must have caught the pout that tugged at Cyril’s mouth, because he stepped up and squeezed her shoulders, saying, “Be good, dove. We’ll see you soon.”

At that, Cyril saw the queen’s smile grow.

“Now, before I send the two of you to your quarters,” she glanced between Cyril and Dion. “Come meet my family.”

With the thin strands of her attention tied up meeting a damn queen, Cyril failed to notice the modest crowd congregating in the palace entryway.

At the front of the group, standing atop the glittering, white stone steps, was a couple that oozed an air of composure and regality. Behind them stood nearly a dozen others—more staff, she assumed—who probably came to investigate the foreign arrivals. Truthfully, Cyril would have done the same at home.

“This is my firstborn, Astor, and his wife, Reyna,” Runa said quietly as she steered Cyril towards the couple.

Dion had already cleared the steps ahead of them, clasping hands with the crown prince. A man who, much to Cyril’s surprise, was remarkably plain-looking.

He had short and neat dark brown hair, a warm complexion, and sky-blue eyes. With his well-fitted cream tunic and black pants, Cyril was certain this was the same prince she’d read about in at least a dozen folktales as a child.

His wife, however, made up for any shortcomings in his appearance.

The silver-haired woman tethered to his side was nothing short of ethereal, with her own dark, sweeping robes and eyes of the lightest, opaque green Cyril had ever seen. She had skin as fair as Cyril’s own, but with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that added to the youthful air of her soft features.

The crown prince and princess inclined their heads at her, and Cyril did the same.

“This is Dion’s niece,” Runa said to her son. “Lady Cyril Rhodea of Helia.”

Astor’s smile was warm and welcoming.

“We’ve heard much about you, Lady Cyril,” he said, and just like Dion mentioned, the crown prince was soft-spoken. “Despite the circumstances, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, I hope so too. I—oh. Oh, thank you, that’s…”

Reyna had taken half a step forward and extended a small box wrapped in tan canvas towards her, a simple white bow tied around it. Cyril took it with a smile plastered on her face.

The entire display was so many levels of fucking awkward.

“A gift for your welcoming,” she said, with an unusual lilt to her voice. Reyna’s smile was small, and almost shy, as she stepped back beside her husband.

Cyril never considered that Reykr’s crown princess might not hail from Reykr.

“Thank you, that is very thoughtful.”

Mercifully, Runa splayed her hand on Cyril’s back and motioned towards the door. “Let’s get everyone in from the cold, shall we?”

The gathered crowd of staff scattered like mice as Astor and Reyna made their way back through the open doors, and Cyril was ecstatic to trail in behind them. The prospect of warmth, of soft surfaces, or gods, a bath had Cyril feeling more energetic than she had in days.

The only problem? Cyril and Dion didn’t even make it past the threshold before Runa stopped dead in her tracks and turned to them.

“Oh! I almost forgot. The council, unfortunately, has Lars all tied up this afternoon, but he asked me to send his regards to the two of you.” Runa gave them a tight, apologetic smile. As if it mattered that a man Cyril had never met wasn’t here to greet her. Honestly, she was thankful for one less set of appraising eyes. “I know he’d love it if you both joined us for dinner tonight, though, if you feel up to it.”

“Of course we will. We’ve got quite a bit to catch up on,” Dion chuckled.

Cyril cared little—not that Dion would give her a choice—as long as there was a hot bath and dry clothes between now and then.

“Gods, do we ever,” Runa sighed.

It was a wistful sound that made Cyril’s skin feel tight. This woman being a friend of Dion’s would never not be fucking strange.

“I’d hoped Mikael would be back in time to greet you both,” the queen continued, “but he is—”

“Right here?”

Runa’s eyes widened, and she spun around to face the man leaning against one of the open doors. Auburn-haired and with a predatory gleam in his ice-blue eyes, Reykr’s second prince looked nothing like his brother.

He must have known how to move quietly, because Cyril hadn’t noticed his arrival. If the flicker of surprise on Dion’s face said much, he hadn’t noticed either.

“My boy. Oh…” The queen pulled her towering son into a tight embrace, and whatever else she said was lost.

Where Astor was polished and refined, a streak of something wild glimmered in the crystalline depths of this man's eyes. Even his attire came as a stark contrast to the crown prince’s—a uniform almost identical to what the palace guards wore, with a few pieces of leather armor fashioned to look like scales.

This prince was also the first person Cyril had yet to witness in Reykr bearing more than a single weapon, with a baldric saddled with knives hanging off one shoulder, and the hilt of a short sword peeking up over the other.

“Were you already speaking ill of me to our guests, Mother?” he mused down at Runa with a feral grin.

Cyril wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the sharp gleam of full-blooded moon-fae canines.

Runa laughed at him, the sound soft and melodic.

“Only the necessities.” She reached up to cup his face in her hands and gave him one hell of a scrutinizing look. “When did you get back? You are never this scruffy, and gods, your hair—”

“I haven’t even been back for an hour.” He swatted his mother’s hands away as she tried to run her fingers through the auburn waves that hung just above his shoulders. “I’m in one piece, so you can stop fussing.”

The queen feigned a scandalized gasp. “Fuss? Mikael, I would never…”

The entire exchange was fascinating to Cyril, and Dion even looked pleasantly amused as he watched on beside her.

Was it…normal?

It wasn’t like Cyril exactly had, well…any true parental relationships to go off of, and the volatility of her interactions with Dion was something she hoped wasn’t normal for anyone.

“Our guests?” the prince murmured, glancing over his mother’s shoulders.

Fuck. His gaze was piercing in the sort of way that made Cyril shift a half-step closer to Dion, and the prince fucking smirked.

“Mikael, you remember Dion?”

Runa turned to stand between them, one hand resting on her son’s arm.

“Somewhat vaguely, but yes.”

He offered Dion a tight, polite smile and a nod as they clasped hands.

“You were young last time I came to Reykr, and much smaller,” Dion said.

The prince was at least a few inches taller than her uncle, but had the same lean sort of build as him. All practical, well-honed muscles.

Mikael laughed. “I seem to remember you being much larger.”

“He’s taller than Astor now,” Runa added, directed entirely at Dion, and he shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. Just another thing Cyril assumed had to be a normal conversation piece between normal parents.

The prince turned his unsettling attention back to Cyril, and every muscle in her back ached as she tensed.

“And you are…?”

Her lips parted, but, thank the fucking gods, the queen interjected.

“This beautiful young woman is Lady Cyril Rhodea, Dion’s niece and his heir.”

Mikael cocked his head at her like a wolf would size up its prey, and his eyes roamed far too freely. Cyril wanted to crawl out of her skin.

“Do all ladies of the south travel so heavily armed, or…?”

Shit.

She swallowed down the lump creeping up her throat, but her voice still cracked as she said, “Ah, well…”

“Entirely unsurprising for the daughter of the Rogues’ Guild, Mika.” The queen came to her rescue again. “And I’m sure the two of you will have no shortage of things to discuss later, after our guests have had time to settle from their travels.”

Runa raised her brow at Mikael and he lowered his head, hands clasped behind his back. Cyril knew the queen’s move well from her own experiences with Dion—a silent dismissal.

“Welcome to Reykr,” was all the prince added in his rough timbre before he turned on his heels and headed back into the palace.

When he was well out of earshot, Runa sighed and looked at Cyril. “Mikael is the more…outgoing of my two children. I think the two of you will get along, though. Dion has mentioned how much you enjoy training, and not only is Mikael responsible for organizing most of the manpower here at the palace as commander of our resident contingent of the King's Guard, he oversees all of the training exercises as well.”

Outgoing was an interesting choice of words.

Cyril would’ve opted for several others that started with arrogant and ended somewhere around predatory, but it wasn’t her place to comment. The prince reminded her of too many of the young, foolhardy rogues that came through the guild, riding the high of whatever meager contract they butchered.

They never lasted long.

Cyril doubted she and the prince would do much getting along, but she offered the queen a tight smile and a nod anyway. Manners.

“Well, let’s get you both to your rooms.” Runa linked one of her arms through Cyril’s—only slightly fucking awkward, with a gift clasped in her hands and too much of this strange woman in her personal space—and motioned for Dion to come to her other side. “You must be weary from such a long trip.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

Guided along by Runa, they walked for what felt like forever.

Cyril was certain she had never seen so much moonstone in her life, and never would again. The glittering, iridescent stone made up nearly every interior surface of the damn palace—from the walls and archways to the floors and stairs. Save for strips of obsidian breaking up the sweeping tiles lining the halls and common areas, the moonstone stretched on without end.

Beautiful, but cold.

Nothing like the warm and well-loved wood paneling and plaster at the Rhodea estate.

For what had to be Cyril’s benefit, the queen pointed out her favourite parts of her humble home—the ballroom, archives, and royal gardens—as they trekked up to the royal residence. She pointed at doors and staircases, and through imposing, crystal clear windows as she talked, and Cyril fought a losing battle to keep track of it all.

A key tenet of the guild was to always be aware of your surroundings. It meant learning exits and entrances, mapping halls and stairways, and making sure you knew the best places to slip away unnoticed.

Not a simple task, when the palace faded into a blur of moonstone and rich, silver and blue wallpaper, and Cyril realized that damp and warm travel leathers were even worse than ones soaked through and cold.

After climbing a staircase tucked down the end of a hall, and leading Dion and Cyril across a catwalk overlooking the main atrium below, Runa stopped in front of a set of doors that were nearly double her height.

The face of the doors bore the same design of twisting greenery and soaring birds as the main gates—a common theme Cyril saw carried through the palace’s tapestries and wallpaper. Two guards, armed and dressed in blue and black finery, stood watch on either side of the doors.

“The private wing of our royal residences. Guarded at all hours, so you never have to worry, even if you’re stumbling in drunk at daybreak.” Runa’s eyes lingered pointedly on Dion and, gods, that said plenty. Dion didn’t even have a rebuttal for her outside of a half-shrug.

Runa pulled them half a step forward, but every fiber of muscle in Cyril’s body went rigid. That same eerie feeling rippled through the surrounding air, tying her stomach in knots.

The doors to the residences groaned open.

“Ah.” Runa gave her an empathetic smile. “You, my dear, haven’t spent much time around magic, have you?”

Cyril shook her head. “No—”

“We do not use it for frivolous convenience like you do, Runa.” Dion cut the queen a cool, sidelong glance.

It was the truth, even if Dion was less eloquent in his delivery.

The fae in Helia, and the other southern states, rarely spoke of their magic, and never used it in public. Hells, even broaching the subject of elemental affinity with someone you didn’t know well was an act considered offensive, as Cyril had learned no few times herself as a child. It was like people were ashamed of the gifts given to them by nature, and Cyril had never understood why.

“A pity, really.”

Runa squeezed Cyril’s arm and guided her down the hall.

More wallpaper, more moonstone, more obsidian. Planters and tapestries lined these walls, at least, in a greater density than the rest of the palace.

“Now, you’re the third door down there, Dion, like usual.” Runa gestured vaguely to the left. “And you, my dear, are the second door here on the right. Lovely views of the gardens and lake, but with a bit of privacy if you like to sit outside.”

“I…” All the generosity was making Cyril wary. “Thank you.”

Runa beamed at her.

“Of course. And if you need anything at all, we are all close by. Mikael is down there, and Astor and Reyna are just there.” She gestured at two doors opposite a seating alcove at the end of the hall, just before it turned and continued out of sight. “Lars and I are around that corner and down at the end.”

Cyril nodded along and made a mental note of each room as the last place she would turn if she needed anything. Thankfully, Dion’s room—that he was already making his way to without even saying goodbye—was closest to hers.

“Now, make yourself comfortable and get into something warm and dry.” Runa gave her arm one final, affectionate squeeze before she released her and started making her way out of the residences. “Dinner is not for a few hours, so take your time.”

Nothing but pure relief carried Cyril’s feet over to her suite door.

Well, maybe that and the prospect of the hot bath she knew must be waiting inside. A few hours to unthaw in a bit of luxury before an actual damned meal was something she’d dreamed of for days.

But a sliver of reality hit Cyril, and she spun around—Runa was just approaching the grand double doors.

“Your Majesty?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, dear?”

“Should I wear a dress to dinner, or…?”

Runa smiled.

“Only if you’d like to. Come in whatever you are most comfortable wearing.”

A minor victory that Cyril was glad to take.

She thanked the queen and headed into her room.

For the first time in almost ten days, Cyril was alone, and the solitude was blissful.

No uncles snoring and grunting and swearing at each other.

Or at her, for that matter.

No howling wind or pelting rain, or the unsettling rustle of bushes in the night.

Save for the soft crackle of logs in the hearth, her suite was silent.

And from a cursory glance, the Kallan’s spared no expense for the comfort of their guests.

Her assigned room was generous in its size and furnishings and, much to Cyril’s relief, an assortment of plush, patterned rugs sat overtop of the moonstone tile that continued through the room.

From the spacious, canopied bed tucked between two arched windows to the well-appointed sitting area nestled around a grand fireplace, the linens were all cream-colored and airy, accented with hints of silver and blue. Freshly washed too, based on the subtle scent of laundry soap that hung in the room.

Off to one wall was even a quaint writing desk, stocked with stationery and built from the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture, though Cyril doubted she would get much use of it. Not like she had anyone to write home to.

What held Cyril’s attention the firmest, though, of all the finery and comforts, was a set of ornate glass doors beside that little desk, and the view that she could glimpse beyond them.

Setting down the gift she’d clutched in her damp gloves for the duration of their tour, Cyril headed straight to the doors. Straps and fastenings of her leathers fell away as she went.

The torrent of rain had let up just enough that, as she nudged one door open, an unobstructed view of the palace gardens and the sweeping landscape beyond came up to greet her.

She stared for longer than she’d care to admit.

The balcony was covered and modest in size, with a matching set of table and chairs, and a chaise for lounging. They could have been dilapidated for all Cyril cared with the views they granted.

The palace gardens went on and on and on, full of hedges and trees, flowerbeds of every color imaginable, and dotted with bubbling fountains. Some plots were well manicured, while others were left to grow more wildly. Even through the smothering scent of rain that hung in the air outside, soft floral notes wove up through it.

If Reykr ever had warm and sunny days, Cyril was sure it would smell remarkable.

The lands were lush and green, and full of the sort of vibrancy that seemed to be commonplace if her few days in Reykr were anything to go off of. A hint of mystery hung in that vibrant greenery, too, from the lingering wisps of mist and fog that settled amongst the foliage.

On either side of the expansive gardens—originating from the palace itself, it looked like, as Cyril hung her head over the railing—wide walkways of gray flagstone set out down the terraced lands, until lawns gave way to a rocky backshore.

The lake Runa mentioned.

And what a wicked-looking thing it was, with black waters and jagged stone shores all the way around. Not a lake for leisurely activities. The dense forest that swept up the valley walls beyond it, rolling over hills and out of Cyril’s eyesight, came as no surprise.

What a strange and beautiful place.

It was a shame about its inhabitants, and their—

“Miss?”

Cyril nailed her knee on the stone railing and cursed. So much for awareness of her damn surroundings.

“Ah, sorry Miss, I didn't mean to startle you.” The same blonde maid who took her things earlier stood between the open balcony doors, smiling softly at her. “I only came to see if you require my help.”

“Your help…?” Cyril blinked, and the woman looked amused.

“With bathing and readying for dinner? Her Majesty asked that I see you taken care of during your stay.”

Oh.

“I…well.” A nervous laugh slipped out of Cyril. “I don’t usually have help with those things…”

Truthfully, she’d never had help like that. In Helia, the estate staff served only to keep the estate running and clean, and all the mouths within fed. She always bathed and dressed on her own—save for a time or two that Sebille helped lace her into a cumbersome gown—and the thought of someone bathing her felt intimate enough that her cheeks warmed.

“…and I would prefer to do them on my own.”

“Of course, Miss.” The maid gestured back in the room. “May I show you where we’ve put your things?”

Oh gods, her stuff.

Cyril didn’t have to be asked twice.

Off to the side of her bed was a short hall lined with cupboards and drawers that the woman walked her through one by one. Her shirts, pants, nightclothes, and underthings were all folded or hung and tucked away with care, with a tall cupboard at the end reserved for her few dresses and cloaks.

Cloaks that were dry already.

Frivolous magic, indeed.

“Her Majesty had more of the like ordered for you to be brought from the city,” the maid said, gesturing to the casual clothing Cyril brought. “But, ah, Miss… Do you not wear many dresses, or were you not able to pack them for the trip?”

“I only wear them if I have to. I usually just wear shirts with pants and boots like the men do.” Cyril smiled, and the maid nodded in understanding.

“Your bathing chamber is just through there”—she gestured to the closed door at the end of the hall of wardrobes—“and will have everything you need. I will ready your clothes for dinner if that is alright?”

Cyril’s instinct was to protest, but she nodded.

This woman had been nothing but polite so far, and Cyril knew at some point she’d have to forge relationships to gather information. No better place to start than with the woman who had access to her sleeping quarters, she supposed.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

The maid bowed her head as she turned back to the cupboards, and Cyril realized just how terrible she was at everything.

“Wait—what’s your name?”

Her hazel eyes widened a bit, and she smiled. “It’s Rika, miss.”

“Thank you, Rika.”

Chapter 7

Bathing chamber— what an understatement. It was bigger than any bloody bathing chamber Cyril had seen in her entire life.

And the tub—gods, if it could even be called something as simple as that—had her somewhat frantically trying to sling off her weapons and leathers and base layers. She’d apologize later about leaving it all in a damp heap on the floor.

Tantalizing steam scented like sweet jasmine rose out from the pearlescent stone basin built down into the very floor itself. Neatly carved steps, inlaid with more strips of decorative obsidian, beckoned her down into the waters.

She could inspect the well-stocked vanity afterward.

Cyril was glad no one was around to witness the involuntary mewl of a noise that left her when she reached the last step and sank to her shoulders. The achy cold that had been her constant companion the last week washed away in an instant.

The bath was large enough that she could swim a few strides to the far end, where stone trays housed soaps and oils and hair tonics—a somewhat daunting task she’d face in a bit. For the time being, Cyril folded her arms on the edge of the tub and nestled her head on top. She felt her sigh down to her damn toes.

No matter how hospitable and disarming it was all proving to be, Bron was right. It would be unwise for Cyril to trust anyone here, and awareness of her surroundings was paramount to her safety. Unlike her uncles, however, Cyril could not rely on intimidation and brute force to fulfill any work issued to her by Dion. If he even bothered to issue her anything meaningful, that was.

Cyril would have to mingle, if only a bit, and build a few false relationships if she had any hope of gathering information.

But for the night ahead, she would attempt to enjoy dinner with the Kallans, if only to appease Dion. Getting acquainted with her surroundings and any strategizing could wait until the next day, when her uncles were back and they’d all spent an evening unwinding.

A long night’s rest and a hot meal would do them all good.

“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m really not,” Dion mused from Cyril’s doorway.

She shrugged and finished lacing her boots.

“Runa told me to come dressed comfortably, and you know I don’t place dresses high on my list of comforts.”

Dion didn’t even need words to express his displeasure at seeing the white blouse and dark pants Cyril wore—hand-picked by Rika—instead of whatever sort of elegant ensemble he’d foolishly hoped she’d wear. His eyes said everything.

Cyril didn’t care. He had such uncontested control over every other aspect of her life, but her choice of attire would never be one of them.

Dion sighed his annoyance, but let that thread of conversation die. Instead, he offered her his arm and led her out of the residential wing. They had descended halfway down the sweeping staircase in the heart of the palace when he turned to her and asked, “What did Reyna give you?”

Cyril blinked.

“Shit.” She winced. “I put it down and forgot.”

“Of course you did.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she grumbled. “Like you weren’t just as eager to get in a hot bath.”

Dion’s lips quirked.

“You look…refreshed at least.”

Cyril snorted. An indignant sound in such a refined place.

“I know I looked shit earlier. Thank you so much for the reminder.”

His eyes widened. “Cyr, that is not what I—”

“You don’t even want to know how long it took me to wash that many days of grime out of my hair,” she chuckled, and Dion only shook his head.

He led Cyril through hallways that felt endless, with the sort of ease that came with someone who traveled them many times. Something told her he wouldn’t appreciate questions about just how many times he’d been a personal guest of Lars and Runa though.

Lars.

Cyril tugged Dion to a stop a few feet from a door he seemed intent on leading her straight to.

“Wait. With the king—”

“Lars, you mean?”

Cyril sighed. A few hours away from him was nowhere near enough.

“Yes, Lars, do I have to…do anything?”

“What, like get on your knees and offer yourself as a sacrifice?” He raised a brow at her, the insufferable arse, and Cyril smacked his arm. Dion only laughed. “No, nothing like that. Lars detests formality in private. He’ll have my head if I let you do anything like that.”

A small comfort she would take gladly.

Dion didn’t give her a second more to dwell before he was tugging her through the door and down another damned hallway. This time, though, it was narrow and carried the sound of casual chatter, and something that made Cyril’s stomach growl.

Food.

The smell of charred meats and spices hit her nose, and her mouth watered like she’d never fucking eaten before.

Cyril hadn't been sure what to expect when they rounded the last corner through an open doorway, but a dining room with wood-trimmed accents, lit by the soft glow of candles and sconces, certainly wasn't it.

Warm, cozy, and intimate, it reminded her of the estate in a way that hurt.

Fuck.

She missed home already.

Across the room near a sideboard plied with wine and spirits, the two princes held some sort of quiet conversation as Runa fussed over place settings and covered dishes. Beside the crown prince, his wife stood quietly, and they seemed to be missing any semblance of a king.

Cyril also hadn’t expected each one of them to turn their attention on her and Dion the moment they stepped through the door.

She gripped her uncle’s arm a bit more tightly.

“Oh, good!” Runa swept over to them with a look of pleasant surprise. “I’d started to wonder if you’d changed your mind about joining us.”

“I was going to blame Cyr’s primping for us running late,” Dion chuckled and Cyril shot him a narrowed look, “but truthfully, I fell asleep.”

“You take longer to primp than I do anyway,” Cyril grumbled.

Her uncle didn’t look amused, but the queen did.

“I’m glad some things haven’t changed.” Runa gave Cyril a knowing smile before she looked past her, and warmth sparkled in her eyes. “There you are, my love.”

The voice that came from behind Cyril was a low, rich rumble.

“Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting. You know how Matthias can be sometimes.”

Cyril turned slowly with Dion’s guidance. She knew he told her not to do anything, but she felt obligated to at least dip her head in acknowledgment.

Lars was an imposing man, almost Rendall’s height if she had to guess, with shoulders that commanded every bit of space in the entryway. She understood quickly where the streak of wildness she saw in the arrogant prince came from.

He grinned at Dion, gleaming white double canines a stark contrast to the deep olive tone of his skin, as he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. The fine lines and creases that formed around his eyes spoke to just how often happiness gripped his features. Far more warmth existed in the midnight-blue depths of those eyes, too, than she ever would have thought to find in a king. Especially one ruling a place of such nefarious reputation.

“I’m glad to see you looking well, my friend.”

Lars embraced her uncle—still a strange thing for her to see him doing so freely.

“Likewise.”

Dion clasped Cyril’s shoulder and the king’s attention slid to her. His feral grin slipped into something a bit more refined. Far more kingly.

“And you must be the young Lady Cyril?”

She nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

“I'm glad to finally meet you. We’re happy to have both of you here, truthfully, despite the circumstances.”

Right. Murders. The contract. How quickly had that all slipped from her mind?

“Thank you,” she managed—awkwardly, if the amusement gracing both mens faces said anything.

Lars, thankfully, rounded them and headed straight for his wife. He took her delicate, freckled face in his palms and kissed her with such intensity that the queen made a quiet, protesting noise and pushed him away.

“Lars,” she intoned, as he swept her back into his arms.

“I haven’t seen you all day…” he murmured, though it was plenty loud for them all to hear.

No one else seemed the least bit phased. Cyril was the only one who took a sudden interest in the floral pattern woven into the dining chair upholstery.

“You heathen,” Runa laughed as she broke free again. She pointed at the chair at the head of the table. “Sit, my love. And as for the rest of you…”

Her appraising glance slid around the room as she tapped her finger on her lip and then herded them all like cattle.

Dion and Astor she sat on either side of the king, followed by herself and Mikael opposite each other, and finally Reyna and Cyril across from each other at the end. Meaning Cyril was stuck beside the unsettling prince for their entire meal.

Fucking wonderful.

Mikael looked a little less feral than he had earlier, clean shaven with his auburn hair tied back. If someone told her that he and Dion shared a tailor with the dark, well-fitted tunic he wore, she’d believe them.

What hadn't changed, though, was the way his eyes roamed with unearned comfort as she settled into her seat beside him. It made her fucking skin crawl.

“Wine?” he asked, the bottle in his hand already tipped towards her glass.

Cyril hoped the prince had a heavy pour, because she was going to need it.

“So you don’t paint, sew, or play an instrument…”

“No, I do not,” Cyril sighed, “and if this is just some ploy to get me to ask you about yourself, you can stop. I’m not interested.”

Mikael’s third attempt at uncovering what ladies of the south do for fun had gone just as poorly as the first and the second. Cyril’s patience was stretched so fucking thin she was certain there was nothing left to it.

She could only explain so many times that, yes, it was possible for her to be that pale and have hobbies outside, and, yes, she knew how to use each of the weapons she arrived with.

The prince just would not stop.

All Cyril wanted was to eat the rest of her meal in peace, but all the wild, auburn-haired prince wanted to do was listen to himself talk. Cyril even tried to catch the eye of Reyna sitting opposite her, but her attention never strayed from her plate or husband.

Mikael’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“I’m sure they briefed you on everything you needed to know about me before my arrival.” Cyril took a small sip of her wine. And then a longer one, thinking. “Unless, of course, Reykr’s intelligence from outside its borders is so lacking that you did not receive a briefing. Or maybe commanders aren’t important enough to receive briefings here?”

Cyril kept her voice low, but that didn’t stop her from drawing out her amusement with his title.

If Dion overheard a word of her speaking to the prince like that, he’d have her head. But for better or worse, he hadn’t even bothered to look at her end of the table for their entire meal.

“Am I not allowed to take an interest in a guest from a foreign land?” Mikael said cooly, his jaw tense

Cyril stifled her laughter into a quiet snort.

“Not when it’s some shitty ploy to talk about yourself. I have no interest in your rank, or title, or hobbies, Your Highness, and best of luck finding someone at this table who does.”

The sidelong glance Mikael leveled at her was chilling. She clearly struck a nerve, but he said nothing and Cyril started back at her food.

A small win to shut the arrogant arse up.

“Lady Cyril Rhodea, age twenty-one. Unwed and childless,” Mikael started suddenly, his voice low, some few minutes later.

Cyril blinked at him.

“Daughter of Hector and Malia Rhodea, both deceased. Malia lost to childbirth and Hector to a suspected self-inflicted injury two years later.”

Her utensils clattered against the plate as she set them down. Runa’s attention snapped over, but Cyril avoided eye contact like her fucking life depended on it.

“Ward of Lord Dionysus Rhodea, with no known attachments outside of the Rogues’ Guild of Helia,” Mikael continued, leaning into Cyril’s space to top off her wine, like they were a couple of friends catching up. “She has thus far shown no affinity towards any known magics, elemental or otherwise, and, outside of receiving base rogue training, is an otherwise unremarkable fae of mixed race.”

Any lingering wisps of Cyril’s appetite were gone.

Cyril knew she wasn’t anything special, and always had, but to know it was so plainly written in the records of a foreign court was just fucking lovely. As if she hadn’t been through enough reminders of that on their trip.

Mikael eyed her with a look that dripped smug satisfaction, like he enjoyed being cruel. The prince and her uncle were going to get along perfectly.

“Was that everything? Or is there something missing from our intelligence that might make you remarkable, Lady Cyril? I’m just dying to know.”

Cyril could think of about a dozen remarkable ways to tell him to fuck right off.

Instead, she called across the table, “Dion?”

His eyes found hers, a flicker of gold in the room’s dim candlelight. He only looked somewhat irritated that she’d interrupted whatever enthralling conversation he’d been having with Lars.

“May I be excused?”

Dion’s gaze narrowed. “Is everything alright?”

Her responding smile was tight, and the prince rolled his eyes beside her.

“I think—”

The queen cut her uncle off.

“Of course you may, and never worry about asking for such a thing.” Runa smiled at her, radiating a warmth that Cyril still wasn’t sure how to handle. “You must be eager to get some proper rest after such an arduous trip.”

“Thank you for dinner,” was all Cyril said as she pushed back from the table and exited the dining room. She didn’t give the prince, her uncle, or anyone else the benefit of a look back.

The path she walked back to her room was a determined one, full of slow and steady breaths to ease her racing heart. She ignored the curious gazes and the nagging pull to wander in this unfamiliar place.

Upstairs, she bid both of the guards outside the royal residences a polite goodnight—two fresh faces from the pair standing watch earlier—before she slipped through the double doors and down the hall.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to see Rika standing beside her door, rocking on her heels as she hummed to herself, but the entire notion of someone waiting on her was still weird as fuck.

She met Cyril halfway down the hall, her eyes lit with hope. “Did you have a nice dinner, Lady Cyril?”

A solid fuck no almost clawed its way out of Cyril.

“I did,” she said instead, forcing a tight smile. “It was nice to eat some proper food after that long.”

“Oh, good.” Rika smiled. Then she looked at Cyril’s door and hesitated before she said, “I’ve turned down your bed, and left some nightclothes out. I tidied up your things—”

Fuck. Cyril knew full well she left the room in a half-disastrous state when she headed for dinner with Dion and, frankly, this was embarrassing as all hell.

“—from earlier, as well, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted the drapes closed or not, so I left them open. I hope that’s all alright?”

“That’s perfect, honestly.” Cyril winced. “I’m sorry it was such a mess. I usually—”

Rika shook her head and laughed.

“It is my job, Lady Cyril, and truthfully, I have had to clean much, much worse many times before. So please don’t worry about that.”

“Are guests usually a lot of work?”

Rika’s eyes flared, and she nodded.

“Just the other week Their Majesties had a guest from the city.” She took a step closer to Cyril, lowering her already soft voice. “She wanted someone in her room at sunrise every day to put on her slippers for her before she got out of bed.”

Cyril blinked.

“Are you serious?”

Rika’s little chuckle brought a smile to Cyril’s own face.

“Painfully so. She would never sip from the same glass twice, either, and always wanted every one of her dozen dresses laid out every day to pick from.”

“She sounds awful.”

“A peculiar woman. But that is all to say, please do not worry about being a bother. We deal with worse regularly and—”

Rika’s eyes snagged over Cyril’s shoulder and she stilled. Just like that, her smile vanished, and she dropped her attention to the floor, her hands clenched in front of her.

“What is—” Cyril turned. “Oh.”

Hand in hand, the crown prince and his wife strode down from the doors. At least Cyril wasn’t the only one turning in early.

“Have a good night, Lady Cyril,” Astor said as they approached, wearing the same reserved smile that Cyril had yet to see leave his face. Reyna looked like she just wanted to go to bed, and Cyril appreciated that sentiment.

“Ah, you too!”

She looked back at Rika, whose eyes still hadn't left the ground, ready to ask what in the hells spooked her like that when she had an abrupt realization—the fucking gift.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for the gift!” Cyril called out down the hall, to where Astor and Reyna were nearly at their suite. She still didn’t know what the fuck the gift even was, but… “That was very thoughtful of you!”

From this far away, Cyril could only see Reyna dip her head in acknowledgment before Astor was opening their door and leading his wife in.

“I won’t keep you from your rest any longer, Lady Cyril,” Rika said, and it was like the casual playfulness Cyril had just heard in her voice never existed. “I’ll come by in the afternoon tomorrow to see if you need anything.”

Cyril blinked.

These people were fucking strange. Talk about hot one minute and cold the next. At least when Dion wanted nothing to do with her, it lasted a few hours at a minimum.

Rika was halfway back to the main doors before Cyril could think of anything to say. Instead, she shook her head and opened her door.

Inside her suite—now tidied and turned down as promised—Cyril pulled every drape shut, left her clothes piled on the floor, and crawled right into bed. The duvet’s weighty press and crisp, clean scent that saturated her senses had her lulled halfway to sleep in a matter of minutes.

She hoped the morning wouldn’t come anytime soon.

Chapter 8

Mikael was three-quarters of the way to freedom when his mother’s all too familiar lilt reached his ears.

The woman had the most uncanny ability to come out of fucking nowhere.

He stopped a few feet from the side doors leading out to the covered walkways and outbuildings beyond. Not even a gods damned arm’s length away.

“Mika,” she chided, “did you think you could just slip away to the barracks without me noticing?”

Truthfully? He had.

Once his father cracked opened a bottle of spirits, and the fleeting remnants of their dinner party filtered into the lounge, Mikael took that as his opportunity to get the fuck out.

After three grueling weeks overseeing alpine training in the Stygias, he was desperate to unwind on his own terms, to get even an ounce of normalcy back in his veins. The barracks were his sanctuary. The one place he could fucking breathe without the refined bullshit of the palace proper. Plus, by this time of day, they were bound to have women and booze in no short supply.

And after that piss-poor excuse of a dinner? He’d take either.

Both, preferably.

But as his mother looped her arm with his and guided him back into the palace, that budding hope withered.

She looked up at him with feigned sadness gleaming in her eyes and said, “Come and have a drink with your poor mother. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Mikael sighed and followed his mother back through the halls and corridors, up the main staircase and to the residential wing—right past the door that he hoped the miserable Rhodea woman was having an awful time behind—and into his parents’ suite.

His mother was quick to pour them each a generous glass of red wine and drag him straight onto the sprawling terrace. Even though the rain had stopped some few hours ago, dampness clung to the cool night air, and Mikael was grateful all the braziers were lit.

But before his damn ass even made full contact with the chair his mother led him to, she had questions. For being a woman who usually had little concern with day-to-day military operations, she had a sudden vested interest in how the training exercise went.

How did the guards perform at their drills?

Who was promising? Who wasn’t?

Did they have any injuries?

How was the weather?

Even though she went on and on, her questions were simple enough to field after the three damn weeks cooped up at their mountain base. He knew, though, that an interest in his duties as commander was not why she guilted him into coming here.

His mother had taken a healthy sip of her wine and soaked in a moment of silence before she turned to him and asked, “What happened with Cyril at dinner?”

And just like that, there it was—her ulterior motive.

“What do you mean?”

He settled back in his chair, the picture of casual ease.

Runa raised her brow at him.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice she looked upset, and I know Reyna certainly wasn’t responsible for it. So I’ll ask you again, my prickly son, what happened with Cyril?”

Mikael had two options here.

He could give his mother the runaround and feign ignorance in hopes she would eventually fold, but that could take hours. Or he could endure her wrath now and get it all over with.

He didn’t feel like waiting.

“She refused to be cordial and thought it was appropriate to insinuate something was lacking about our military intelligence.”

Runa’s eyes flared as she bit out, “Mikael, what did you say to her?”

“I told her what Ezra’s briefing said about her.”

Mikael shrugged. Simple, really.

“Which was…”

“That her parents are dead and that she is an unremarkable person.”

“Mikael,” his mother hissed. Her chair scraped on the stone tile as she pushed it back and started pacing. “What in the hells compelled you to do that?!”

“The woman is abrasive and rude.”

“Good gods, so are you!” She set a hand on her hip and pinched her brow. A groan of exasperation left her. “Gods forbid a woman doesn’t throw herself at you the moment she meets you…”

Now it was Mikael's turn to stand.

He gripped the back of his chair with one hand and pointed the other back inside. “So that miserable woman gets to show up and be rude in our home, but I’m the one—”

Runa set her hand over his and lowered it.

“Be patient with her, Mika,” she said in a soft, near pleading tone, that biting edge nowhere to be found. “Cyril is far from home and has had an…unusual upbringing. I…I think she could use a friend.”

Mikael barked a laugh.

“You cannot be serious…”

“I am.” The look she leveled at him spoke volumes to the truth of that. “In fact, the training of the new guard starts soon, doesn’t it? Invite her to join you for some of it.”

This had to be a joke.

“My last statement stands. She”—he gestured vaguely inside again—“does not belong anywhere near the training grounds.”

“An entire guild of rogues raised her, Mikael. There is nowhere better for her to be than there. And I don’t care if Ezra’s briefing said she was unremarkable. I think you’ll find she is anything but.”

He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Arguing with his mother was always so fucking fruitless.

“Would you prefer I run it by your father first, get his thoughts on the matter?”

Not a question, but a threat under a thin veil.

Lars rarely gave two shits about what Mikael did, or about his existence at all, unless word made it back to his father that he had done something unfavorable. Then there was some sort of fresh hell to pay.

“No, gods, please do not,” Mikael groaned.

He walked over towards the terrace’s edge, running his hands on the polished moonstone cap of the railing. He just needed a second to think, and the cool night air was settling.

His mother followed a few moments behind him. “Well?”

He eyed her reluctantly.

“It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

Her silence served as confirmation.

“Against my better judgment, I’ll invite her. But if you expect me to go knocking on her door now...” Mikael did not need a repeat of tonight anytime soon.

“No, no. Give her a few days to settle in and find her feet here.” Runa smiled up at him, rubbing his arm. “Thank you, my boy.”

“…Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.”

Mikael hesitated—he had to tread lightly here. Careful words.

“Why are you so fond of her?”

It gnawed at him ever since he saw their interaction on the palace steps that afternoon, but even more so now. Not that his mother wasn’t a warm person, but this was the sort of overbearing protectiveness she usually reserved for family and not her first day meeting someone.

She opened her mouth but sighed. A sad sort of smile crept onto her lips. “A story for another day, Mika. Go to the barracks, have your fun.”

Despite the precisely nothing his mother did to quell his unease, Mikael did not need to be told twice. He drained his glass, kissed his mother on the cheek, and he was gone.

Chapter 9

Morning didn’t end up arriving anytime soon for Cyril. But when it did, its arrival was abrupt, driven by blistering sunlight and an all-too-familiar growl.

“Cyril, get your gods damned ass out of bed right now.”

Dion flung open her drapes and stomped around her room, cursing to himself.

She tugged a pillow over her face, whining, as he ripped back her covers.

“Oh, for fuck’s—”

The covers flew back over her with remarkable speed.

After stripping down to just her underthings last night, Cyril never put on the nightclothes Rika left out for her. Why would she? She was too damn tired and frustrated, and hadn’t expected her morning to start like this.

“What is your problem?” she groaned.

“My problem?” Dion’s tone dripped with frustration. “Cyril, you missed breakfast and lunch, and our briefing was supposed to start ten fucking minutes ago.”

Oh shit.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit—

Cyril tossed her pillow and nearly fell as she tried to untangle herself and get out of bed.

“I’m so sorry Dion,” she whined, stumbling over to the wardrobe and ripping open doors and drawers. Dion at least had the decency to turn his back to her as she tried to remember where in the fuck her things were.

“I just—I was so damn tired and I—”

Blouse. Pants. Socks.

“—I did not think the drapes would block out that much of the light—”

She awkwardly hopped into her pants and towards the bathroom.

“—and I—”

“Cyr, it’s fine,” Dion sighed, his voice closer than before. “Just hurry, please. They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

He leaned in the doorframe, watching her through the mirror.

She grimaced at him, flinging open a few drawers before she finally found a brush and a tie for her hair. No time for braiding, so she brushed it quickly and swept it all up into the neatest ponytail she could manage. It was a wavy and kinked mess from her braid yesterday, but it would have to do.

A quick splash of water on her face and a half-assed brush of her teeth, and they were out the door.

Dion said they were going to the royal offices, down in some partial basement of the palace, but the area he led her to felt more like a decrepit war room than a damn office. Swords and axes adorned the walls of the gloomy, vast space, alongside almost illegible maps. Besides a solitary rack housing logbooks buried under a thick layer of dust, there was no trace of anything office-like.

Well, there was a table.

Imposing and rectangular, it spanned the length of the room with wildly mismatched chairs. An ornate piece in a past life, she was sure, with a faint inlay of whirling ivory she could see along its edge. But time and use hadn’t been kind to it, its surface dulled with scratches and brutal gouges.

The room even smelled like she imagined a war council would: like smoke and old paper, and just a hint of too much cologne for her taste. That courtesy came from all the damn men packed in the room—about a dozen of them, all in uniform except for the king and her uncles.

She was relieved to see them. Less so for the abrasive prince lingering by his father’s side.

Dion’s hand met her back and urged her forward as he said, “Apologies for our tardiness. Cyril sleeps like the dead.”

It took a remarkable amount of restraint to turn slowly and stare at Dion, her eyes wide. Embarrassment burned hot in her cheeks.

The fucking arse.

“That is quite alright,” Lars said with a chuckle, low and rich, as he straightened from where he stood at the head of the table. His hands sat splayed over a map Cyril didn’t recognize at all. From beside the king, though, she saw Mikael shake his head.

As if the pretentious prick never slept in a day in his pampered fucking life.

Gesturing at the table, Lars added, “Shall we?”

Bron caught her eye from across the room, pointing to a chair between him and Tyriel. She slipped over there before Dion could tell her otherwise, and he took a seat on the other side of Bron.

A day apart from her more amenable uncles had felt like an eternity.

“Already lazing your days away in bed now, are we?” Bron murmured in that knowing, teasing way of his as he squeezed her knee. His green eyes sparkled with amusement.

She opened her mouth, but something yanked on her ponytail and drew all of her attention to her other side.

Tyriel, grinning like a fool, slid a steaming mug in front of her.

“You need it more than I do,” he whispered.

Cyril gave it a discrete sniff and wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t place the smell, but it was heavily spiced and probably bitter.

Tyr sighed. “Good Hells, woman, it’s tea. Drink.”

She took a sip—bitter, but not unpleasantly so. It was almost reminiscent of the black brew Sebille always had on hand for anyone having a rough morning at the estate.

Anything to rouse her faculties at that point was welcome.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, and Tyr nodded.

Cyril kept the mug clasped between her hands, letting the warmth of the earthenware seep into her fingers. The office was fucking freezing, and Cyril wished she’d had more than two jarring seconds to get dressed before she came down.

Hopefully, the briefing would be just that. Brief.

“Am I correct in assuming everyone has a basic understanding of what we are discussing?” Lars started, and nods bobbed through the room. “Good. Now, before we get into it, introductions.”

Motioning first to Dion, Lars introduced her uncle as both Lord of Helia and Master of its infamous Rogues’ Guild, and as a long-standing ally of Reykr and the king himself.

Ally of Reykr.

Cyril wasn’t sure the strangeness of that notion would ever wear off.

Lars introduced the rest of Lord Rhodea’s party as high-ranking members of the guild, gesturing vaguely to Bron, Cyril, Tyr, and finally Ren, who took up residence at the rear of the room. Brooding, as usual.

The king’s introduction sounded much nicer than the niece who was forced to come here, and she owed him her thanks.

Then Lars moved on to Reykr’s personnel.

Seated to the king’s left was Ezra Hallowes, General of Reykr’s royal forces. He was tall and broad, with short dirty-blonde hair and a sort of darkness in his eyes that made Cyril shift in her seat when he looked across the table at her. That man had seen some wicked fucking things in his life.

To Lars’ right was Mikael, who looked…bored. Not that they needed introductions, but Lars addressed him as Commander Kallan and Cyril fought against rolling her eyes. She had little doubt the title was given to him without merit. Some sort of consolation prize for being their spare heir.

But she sipped her tea quietly, and Lars continued down the line.

The rest of the men at the table were all captains or commanders of some division or another of the royal forces, and had all been involved with these murders. Either responding to the scenes, handling interrogations, or sourcing information from the streets.

Something they all found little success in, but a bit of time would tell if that was a skill issue or not.

“I assume,” Dion said, “you left the specifics of the murders out of your correspondence for a reason?”

“You are correct.” Lars nodded and turned to his general. “I’ll leave this to you?”

“There is a ritualistic pattern happening that we’ve never seen before, and therefore could not take any risk of that information falling into unintended hands,” General Ezra said, his voice flat. Cold. “The state of mutilation each victim’s body was found in, and the markings left behind at each scene are not coincidental.”

“And by markings, you mean…?” Dion asked.

“Runes of the old language.”

General Ezra shuffled through the only neat stack of papers on the table, handing one with a rough sketch on it to Dion. He set it down so Cyril and the others could take a look.

“These four along the top here suggest the representation of the core elements—fire, water, earth, and air. Those”—leaning across the table, General Ezra pointed to the ones drawn along the bottom of the paper—“translate roughly into dawn, tribulation, estate, and thorn, though there is some debate on the alternate interpretations of them.”

Dion rubbed his jaw.

“Knowledge of the old language is scarce, isn’t it?”

“Exceedingly. Outside of a handful of temples still devoted to the old faith, we have not used it with any regularity in centuries.”

“The temples, have they—”

“Questioned and searched thoroughly. No tangible connections.”

“I see.”

Dion sat back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face. His eyes scanned the paper laid out before them, and Cyril knew the inner workings of his mind were moving at a breakneck speed. She turned her attention to the piece of paper and tried to ignore the set of icy blue eyes that had been observing her from across the table for the entire briefing so far.

Arrogant prick of a prince. She would not let him get to her again.

“No connections between the victims, no jilted lovers or bad business. All carved up and defiled the same, missing the same organs…” Dion said, more to himself than anyone else. He had conveniently failed to mention missing organs to her… “Outside of the…brutal nature of the killings, there was nothing else unusual? Nothing noteworthy from your street sweeps?”

“We believe the victims were each killed elsewhere, then transported to where their bodies were found. But we’ve yet to find that other place, or places,” one captain added.

Dion nodded, lost in thought.

Another man sat up straighter. “It also seems that anyone living or working in close quarters with the victims may have been drugged on the nights they went missing.”

Dion’s head tipped.

“Each victim went missing at night?” he asked.

General Ezra nodded. “Correct, and found up to four days later.”

He picked up the stack of papers set in the middle of the table again, squaring them off before passing them to Dion.

“I recommend reading these. Reports for each of the murders, in addition to everything uncovered through our investigations.”

“The royal archives. Do you have records on the old language?” Dion asked no one in particular, thumbing through the documents.

Lars huffed a dry laugh.

“An unfathomable number of them. All our scribes have some fluency as well. They assisted Ezra with our initial translations.”

“Good.” Dion looked down the table at Cyril, and she knew what was coming next. “You’ll make yourself comfortable in the archives?”

It was difficult to smother down the disappointment that had every part of her wanting to sag in her seat, but Cyril kept her shoulders squared and forced a pleasant smile across her lips.

“Of course, I’d be happy to.”

Relegated to safe work, like always.

Dion gave her an appreciative nod, but Cyril heard little of what came afterward. Something or other about Lars wanting them to settle in before they started working, and a trip into the city that she knew wouldn’t involve her. Trips into the city for work never did.

At least her new prison had plenty of things for her to explore, she supposed.

Tyriel's hand inched its way to her shoulder, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

A silent acknowledgement.

Cyril knew it bothered the others as much as it did her, and maybe even more, to see the work Dion deemed appropriate for her.

Bron, Tyr and Ren, and countless others, spent most of her formative years teaching her how to be a proper, full-fledged rogue. There wasn’t a weapon she didn’t know how to handle or a body she couldn’t disarm if the circumstances were dire. She could climb and run faster than half the rogues at the estate, and carry herself on silent feet when she wanted to.

Hells, Bron even took a concerning amount of enjoyment in teaching Cyril where to place her blade to slit a target’s throat—the left side was most important, he stressed, to drop them in a breath or two. A grotesque skill she never wanted to use, but one that she was immensely thankful for anyway.

Years and years of effort by the army that raised Cyril, all to prepare for the day she would handle contracts of her own.

But that day never came.

Dion always mustered up an excuse.

The stakes of the contract are too high.

The contract is dangerous.

The client requested the services of a senior guild member.

The contract is too complicated.

The list went on and fucking on.

Some variation of excuse that let him avoid giving her a contract of her own, without him ever taking a single ounce of responsibility for it. Without him ever having to admit it was his personal decision to hold her back, and nothing more.

And so he always relegated her to the safe tasks.

Research, more often than not, or visiting scenes of crimes—chaperoned, always—to gather evidence. Occasionally, when Dion felt generous, she accompanied him to parties that doubled as reconnaissance operations. Floating about the room, listening and observing, and accepting dance offers from men that made her skin crawl, all in the name of information gathering.

That was the extent of her work as a Rogue of Helia, if she could truly be called that.

Her other uncles, at least, still made efforts to see she was ready and able to take a contract if the miraculous day ever arrived. Despite her birthday being a miserable day that she loathed celebrating, they always banded together and bought her a new blade or bow, or took her into the city for new fighting leathers.

Gestures that meant the world to her, and that Dion often overlooked.

Cyril realized, a bit abruptly, that everyone sitting around her was starting to rise. She stood too, as casually as she could. Their briefing was over, and captains and commanders began filing out of the room.

Cyril couldn’t say she felt any more informed now than when Dion first told them about the contract, but maybe everything they needed was in the records Dion held in his hands. If he deigned to let her read any of it, of course.

Bron nudged her with his elbow, and mirth filled his face before he even started speaking. “Any big plans for your afternoon?” he said. “Breakfast, perhaps, seeing as you just rolled your ass out of bed?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “I had a rough night.”

It was impossible to ignore Mikael’s attention snapping over to her.

Bron noticed too.

He casually turned his back to the prince, leaning against the table.

“How was dinner?” he muttered.

Cyril only scoffed.

“I heard,” his voice dropped even lower, “that someone may have thoroughly rubbed you the wrong way at your little welcome party.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she mumbled back.

Leave it to Dion to know something happened and say nothing to her about it.

Bron offered her one of those empathetic smiles that she couldn’t tolerate from anyone other than him.

“He’s nothing, no one. Take nothing the entitled arse says to heart. Spoiled fucker is probably just threatened.” Bron straightened up and brought his voice back to just above its usual volume. “The stables sound like a wonderful idea, dove. I’m sure Attie is wondering where you’ve run off to.”

Gods. That did sound like a wonderful idea. Shame it hadn’t been hers.

Bron slung his arm across her shoulders and made to lead her out of the room.

“Actually, Cyril?” The direct address from Lars had her whole body going taut. Bron stiffened beside her too. “My wife hoped to spend some time with you this afternoon, if that’s alright. I can walk you over to see her.”

Chapter 10

Aprivate audience with the Queen of Reykr was not something Cyril expected on her second day at the palace.

Or ever, truthfully.

Even for all the unsettling warmth and kindness she showed at their arrival the previous afternoon, the queen had to be a busy woman with no shortage of people vying for her time.

And Cyril certainly had not expected the king himself to offer a personal escort to the Royal Archives to meet his wife.

He wanted to stretch his legs, apparently, after a morning confined to counsel, and Cyril wasn’t in a position to decline. Even if Bron had cut her a withering stare she was sure said, I told you not to go anywhere alone with anyone.

But if she couldn’t even trust the fucking king long enough to walk her in plain sight over to the archives, this trip was going to be an ordeal. So she took the risk and followed his lead out of the war room. Dion at least looked pleased with her decision when she took a final glance back.

Beside her, Lars walked in silence with his hands clasped behind his back. The picture of poise and rugged grace save for the flicker of wariness she spotted in his eyes. That made two of them.

“Does Dion usually assign such work to you? Research and the like?” Lars asked, as quiet as she was sure he could manage, once they were out of earshot of the offices.

“Usually, yes. He…” Cyril hesitated, lips parted. A fine line she had to walk, speaking honestly about her uncle to people whose loyalties seemed to lie with him. “He prefers I work more behind the scenes.”

“I see.” Lars nodded slowly.

He was thinking, she could tell, as he fell silent again. It wasn’t until they had ambled down a few more halls and up the half-flight of stairs to the atrium that he stopped and looked down at her.

He hesitated this time before he spoke.

“You’ve received…training at the guild?”

Cyril nodded.

“An extensive amount, in all areas.” He’d understand what that meant, hopefully.

Lars’ thoughtful hum and shake of his head spoke volumes.

“I can’t say I’ve always entirely understood your uncle.”

“That makes two of us.” Cyril forced a chuckle, and the king treated her to a wry smile and a huff of a laugh.

A sliver of common ground.

Lars guided her in silence for the rest of their walk until they reached a set of polished steel doors that Cyril vaguely remembered Runa pointing out during their whirlwind tour.

“You should find my wife somewhere inside.” Lars smiled and dipped his head. A show of acknowledgment she still wasn’t quite used to. “If you have any problems, the scribes will know where she is.”

He was already halfway down the hall—just a few strides for a man of his size—by the time she stopped staring at the doors and turned to thank him. She’d have to apologize for that later, lest he think her both lazy and rude.

As she extended her hand out towards the door—engraved with the same sort of winding pattern of whorls carved into the wooden doors of the palace, and a pair of birds in flight—the surrounding air surged with that sickly, dark feeling.

Her stomach lurched halfway up her throat and Cyril swore.

The steel groaned as the doors pulled in, and any irked thoughts Cyril had about the Kallan’s method of opening doors floated away like an ember in the wind.

She had underestimated the archives.

Immensely.

From the doorway, a rich royal blue carpet pulled her eyes right down the center of the room. A dozen or so worktables, each expansive and well-loved and dotted with chairs, ran the length of the carpet. They ended just before a modest sitting area set in front of a stained glass window that left Cyril awestruck.

She was walking straight towards it before she even realized.

It had to be twice as tall as she was, if not more, and almost that same width across, swooping up into a neat point at the very top.

At its bottom, jagged mountains were depicted in various shades of gray glass, with lush greenery filling the gaps between in rich bits of emerald and pine. Above the peaks, swathes of colors mingled. Sections of soft pinks and oranges and blues were all woven together, capped off with a crescent moon cut from pieces of a milky, opalescent glass.

A stunning depiction of dawn, Cyril realized, as she looked at how the light painted color over the cream fabric of the furniture placed in front of the window.

“That was a wedding gift from Lars. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Cyril bristled and cursed.

She’d been so busy gawking that she never noticed the queen herself standing beside her. Either the woman was deathly quiet, or Bron was going to be very disappointed with Cyril’s attention to her surroundings.

“I did not mean to startle you.” Runa smiled empathetically and rubbed Cyril’s arm.

“It’s alright, I—” Cyril loosed the breath held tight in her chest. “It’s more than beautiful. And this”—she gestured broadly at the room—“is amazing too. I’ve never seen anything like it...”

The Helia family archives, which also doubled as Dion’s office, had no shortage of bookcases and shelving, but none of them were two stories tall. Or had spiral staircases. Or greenery-shaped bits of ironwork trimming the railings of the open second floor.

They had one sliding ladder, she supposed.

“I’m quite fond of it here, I’ll admit.” Runa glanced around the room, beaming at the few people dotted along the workbenches, their noses buried in tomes.

She turned back to Cyril as she said, “Did Lars say why I wanted to see you?”

Cyril shook her head.

“Ah, well, no matter. My motives are entirely selfish,” Runa said with a bit of a chuckle. “I have something I wanted to show you, and hoped you might join me for a bit of a walk in the gardens after. The clouds finally broke, and it is lovely outside.”

Even with the bit of discomfort that bubbled up in her, Cyril nodded and offered the queen a smile she hoped came across as eager.

“I’d like that.”

Another tenet of the guild—unsolicited gestures of kindness always have a price.

Where the main chamber of the archives was grand and spectacular, the private room housing the royal family’s records was surprisingly quaint.

One small work table with a handful of chairs and a set of plush armchairs occupied the center of the room, flanked by various cases and cabinets along the length of the walls.

Fae lights provided the only source of light in the room, the warm, swirling orbs dotted in carefully placed clusters on the ceiling. Cyril had only seen them a few times before, at some rather lavish parties back in the city, and it was equal parts fascinating and odd to see them used in such a mundane application.

Reykr’s frivolity knew no end.

Truthfully, she might have found a little enjoyment in it if the magic didn’t make her feel so damn sick.

While Cyril settled in at the table, Runa went to retrieve whatever it was she was so eager to show Cyril from behind the glass doors of a wall cabinet. She returned with a book bound in a plush, white leather, an intricate silver stitching fashioned like stars bordering its cover and spine.

The book was twenty-five years old, according to the date embroidered on the bottom.

Runa sat down with a bit of a huff and looked at Cyril. “Now, I am not sure if Dion explained much about…how we came to know each other?”

“Nothing, actually,” Cyril sighed. “Other than it was a long time ago.”

She couldn’t help the fledgling kernel of hope that flickered to life in her at the prospect that maybe, just maybe, the Queen of Reykr would finally be the person to paint a bit of color into her uncle’s history.

That hope died quickly.

“Ah, well,”—Runa gave her a small, empathetic smile—“his story to tell, not mine.”

Cyril scoffed at that.

“Dion is not fond of telling anyone stories.”

“He has his reasons, I’m sure. We all have things we’d prefer to keep beneath the surface.”

The queen slid her hand over the surface of the book, sighing softly.

It was only then that Cyril realized her severe lack of observation skills. The queen’s hands were tattooed, and heavily at that. Combinations of dots and lines and little symbols she did not recognize sat like ornaments on her fingers and the backs of her hands. They looked like they wrapped around her palms too.

“What I can tell you, though,” Runa continued, “is that through your uncle I had the immense pleasure of meeting both your mother and your father.”

Cyril blinked at the queen. “You—”

A knot took hold of her stomach, and it wasn’t entirely from the two meals she already missed.

“My parents?” she said with a rasp in her voice.

Convenient, for Dion to never mention that.

Runa nodded eagerly.

“They came with Dion at least a few dozen times over the years. One of the last times I saw them was when they came for my and Lars’ wedding anniversary.”

There was some sort of fond recollection in Runa’s eyes as she flipped open the cover of the book. Oblivious to the discomfort churning its way through every fiber of Cyril’s body.

This was not part of the deal, and Dion fucking knew that.

Cyril had a right to know what the hell was waiting for her here—a right to know that she might get fucking cornered about her gods damned parents.

But no.

Of course.

Why would the self-centered Lord Rhodea ever—

“It was a bit of a milestone anniversary, you see, though I’d prefer not to share which one to preserve a bit of my dignity.” Runa chuckled, and a smile forced itself across Cyril’s lips.

“That’s alright,” Cyril replied, as casually as she could muster. Her knuckles had blanched from how tightly she clasped her sweating hands in her lap.

“We had a wonderful party with guests from all over, and it was Lars’ idea to do this guest book.” The queen looked at her a bit hesitantly. “I…I wasn’t sure if you had ever seen any of your mother’s handwriting. Dion said—”

“There was a fire,” Cyril said hoarsely. “I’ve never…”

“He said as much.”

Had Dion told the queen everything, though?

How a few months after Cyril’s birth and her mother’s death, her father was so lost in his grief that he went back to their home on the edge of the Rhodea estate and burned it to the ground?

How, because of a single, selfish act of a cowardly man, Cyril’s mother was as good as a myth to her? There were no paintings or letters, no books or clothes or belongings. He wiped every trace of her mother from existence.

Had Dion also told the queen that he never had the balls to tell Cyril any of that himself? That he let her find it all out second-hand when she was old enough to ask questions? She doubted that.

Runa turned back to the book and started flipping through page after page of scrawled well-wishes. She finally landed on one, a couple of neatly written sentences, and slid the book over to Cyril.

“That is why I thought you might like to see this.”

But Cyril didn’t want to look.

She wanted to push back from this stupid table and book and leave.

But Runa watched her, her eyes brimming with such softness and warmth that Cyril panicked and let her gaze flicker up to the book.

The first glance at a beautifully signed Malia & Hector Rhodea had her swallowing thickly. Bile burned at the back of her throat, her chest already tight and aching.

Above that signature, Cyril got through “And even on the hardest days, remember that your love—” before she had to take a slow breath to ground the nausea surging through her.

If Runa noticed, she gave no indication.

Not as she eased up from the table and ambled over to another cabinet at the far wall, rummaging through it with a sort of lightness that bordered on offensive.

“Understandably, your father preferred the company of Lars and Dion, so I admit I did not know him as well as I would’ve liked,” Runa said as she plucked out a leather sleeve and made her way back to the table, “but I spent plenty of time with your mother, and we wrote to each other often between their visits.”

Lithe tattooed fingers pulled out a stack of letters from within and spread them out in front of her. Cyril recognized the stationery right away, the same cream-colored parchment stamped with the family crest that they kept at the estate house.

It did nothing to help the unease clawing its way up her spine.

“I tend to keep things, the sentimental old fool that I am, but I’m especially glad that I kept these.” Runa gave the letters a thoughtful glance and picked up the fourth from last, holding it in front of Cyril. She took it cautiously. “This one in particular, I…well, truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I would ever meet you, but I always hoped you would see it someday.”

Even for the broad smile she wore, Cyril could see a flicker of sadness in the queen’s eyes.

For another moment she shoved down that budding urge to run, to get as far away from this room and this woman and these feelings as possible, and she let her gaze drop to the paper in her hands.

My dear Runa,

It is with overwhelming joy that I write you this letter.

After so many years of hoping, Hector and I are expecting our first child this fall. My sudden penchant for sweets and terrible sickness in the mornings means we are having a girl, or so the midwife said. I will be overjoyed if that is true.

I’ve convinced Hector to visit a seer in the city with me before I’m too round to travel. Perhaps they too will tell me I carry a daughter, and that she will grow to be a formidable force of nature.

My only disappointment is that I won’t be able to make the trip to see you for the foreseeable future. We had intended to visit this year, but that will have to wait. I will hold on to the hope that our next reunion will be a joyous one…

The letter continued for another few paragraphs, but Cyril had to set it down. Her hands were shaking and her vision blurred, and this was something she no longer wanted to be a part of.

Every bit of fond recollection Runa watched with fell from her face.

“I…I hoped it might bring you some joy to see—” Runa reached for her hand, but Cyril wanted nothing to do with that. “Oh, Cyril, I never meant to upset you.”

Cyril straightened in her chair, wiping at her face with her sleeve. Another slow, deep breath and she could pull herself together enough to get the fuck out of here. “I’m just not feeling very well. I missed breakfast and lunch, and the briefing was a lot to take in…”

She was rambling a bit, she knew, but it served its purpose.

Runa eased away, putting a healthy measure of distance between them. Her silver-blue eyes were full of so much sadness, but Cyril couldn’t find it in her to care.

“Of course. We can visit the gardens another day.”

Cyril nodded, every bit of her focus tethered on getting out of her chair and the steps she took towards the door.

She paused at the threshold.

“If it means anything, I…I’m sorry that I’m here and she isn’t.”

Runa’s eyes went wide and Cyril walked out of the room.

Chapter 11

Dion was going to kill Cyril when he found out what she said. And it wasn’t if, but when, because there was no way in hell Runa wasn’t planning on telling him what happened. It was an impulsive decision, she knew, and a poorly made one at that, but Cyril was fuming.

She didn’t care if she offended Runa as the Queen of Reykr or as the friend of her mother and uncle. And she didn't care if she lost favor with the royal family that she didn't give two fucks about either.

Whatever sentimental bullshit Runa thought she could ply her with to get her guard down, Cyril wanted no part in any of it.

The path she mapped back to her room from the archives was direct, and Cyril walked it with determination. She breathed, slowly and deeply, counting to five on every inhale and exhale like Bron had taught her. It quelled her nausea enough that she no longer tracked every planter she passed, but her anger was a far more fickle thing to please.

A distinct Rhodea trait, she knew, for their love and hate, and everything drifting between, to blaze as red hot the fire that thrummed through their veins.

Well, the fire that should thrum through her veins.

Not that she needed to think about that too.

Dion always lectured her on redirecting her anger into something productive, even though he did a piss-poor job of redirecting his own at anything other than her and her uncles.

At least taking off was an option back home.

Never outside the bounds of the estate, of course, but the stables, sparse forests, and training grounds served as good a sanctuary as any. The kitchens too, if the weather was miserable. Sebille always knew when she needed a cup of tea and a mountain of dishes to wash or vegetables to cut.

But in this godsforsaken place, those weren’t options.

The unfamiliar lands were likely riddled with things she wanted nothing to do with, and Cyril didn’t know where anything was. Hells, even if she did, she doubted their kitchen staff would much appreciate a guest just wandering in.

So silence and solitude would have to do, to ride out the hours until dinner.

“Cyr?”

She paused and blinked, looking around.

Dion jogged up the stairs behind her. A cursory glance back told her she blew right past him and the rest of her uncles in the foyer. The other three waved with varying levels of enthusiasm and made their way out the main doors.

“Sorry, I…” Cyril didn’t have a reasonable excuse. “I didn’t see you.”

Dion carded his hand through his hair and chuckled. “No, I gathered that.”

He gestured for her to continue up the stairs.

They were walking together. What a joy.

“How was your visit with Runa?” Dion continued with that feigned, casual ease he wore so well. Like he hadn’t been anxiously awaiting hearing about every damn thing she spoke with the queen about.

Cyril only scoffed.

“…Not good?”

“Good is not a word I would use to describe it, no.” They were almost at the doors to the royal residences now, and Cyril picked up her pace.

“What happened?” Dion spoke softly as he reached for her arm.

She shook him off.

“I do not want to talk about it,” Cyril ground out, offering the guards posted at the doors each a tight smile.

Dion waited until they made it clear through to the other side before he caught her wrist and pulled her to a stop. He did not let go this time when she tried to twist out of his grip.

“Cyr, stop.” His casual ease was gone, replaced with something far more impatient. “What is your problem?”

“You,” she hissed, turning back to glare at him. “You are my problem.”

Dion’s brow narrowed.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You and your fucking secrets.”

Cyril jerked her arm back and Dion finally let go.

“My secrets?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, please enlighten me.”

Her uncle's unwavering gaze held a clear challenge, like the gold blazed with the prospect of putting her in her place, and Cyril met it with her own.

“Were you ever planning on telling me that Runa and my mother were friends? Or did you figure she would corner me at some point and do it herself? Try to push some sentimental bullshit on me like she just did?”

The wave of anger she’d struggled to smother in the archives was sparking to life again, and Cyril didn’t know if she had it in her to stuff it back down.

Not for Dion, at least.

“Cyril…” he sighed, rubbing his brow. “We’ve only been here a day. I did not think that she would—”

“A day?” she spat. “What about the ten fucking days we traveled for?! Or were you too busy brooding the entire gods damned time to think about anyone else?”

“Lower your voice, now.”

Dion cast a pointed glance over his shoulder.

Cyril wasn’t sure when the prince commander, or the guard he was standing with, took up watch at the half-open door to the residences. But she didn’t care. Let the arrogant asshole listen. His opinions on her were abundantly clear, and she had no plans to improve on that.

She let all of her attention hang on Dion as she seethed, “You had ten days to tell me one simple thing, and you didn’t. Because you’re a selfish fucking coward and you never have the balls to tell me anything.”

Dion’s eyes blazed, and he was in her personal space in an instant, crowding her back against the wall. He grabbed her chin with a brutal grip and jerked it upward, forcing her to look at him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Have you ever considered,” he seethed, “that I don’t tell you anything, Cyril, because you act like a fucking child? That every time you throw one of these little fucking tantrums, I find you a little less deserving of my so-called secrets?”

The inferno pumping in Cyril’s veins banked into ice and she stilled.

“I thought as much.” Dion huffed, his breath warm on her face. “Deal with your fucking baggage, Cyril. You’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone and you need to grow the fuck up about it.”

Dion released his hold on her, and he could have vanished into thin air for all that she knew.

Her vision was blurry and her ears hummed as every word he just maimed her with sank in. It was such an effortless thing for her uncle to wound like that. Easy, she supposed, when it was the truth. When the words were always there in his mind, waiting for the right time to deal their blow.

It took a minute for the feeling of his fingers digging into her face to subside, for her to feel sure enough of her legs to clear the final few paces to her room.

She needed air.

She needed cold, or warmth, or something, anything, to take away the tightness that threaded itself through her chest.

Cyril made it halfway to her balcony before her knees met the floor.

So Cyril’s mother had been a friend of his own.

At least now Mikael knew why Runa was so fond of an abrasive woman she had never met. She was a deeply sentimental person on a good day, but to have the daughter of a dead friend staying under her roof...

It shed a bit of light.

Watching Cyril and her uncle go head to head in the hall wasn’t something he should have watched, but Mikael had never been one to enjoy doing what he should do.

When his mother mentioned Dion wasn’t always an easy man to deal with, he hadn’t doubted her. A man of his rank and order was bound to have a confrontational streak. He just hadn’t realized that would include such a wicked streak of cruelty too.

To his own flesh and blood, no less.

Not that the dark-haired wisp of a woman didn’t have a lick of venom in her own eyes, of course. But he saw the fear that existed there too. And so did one of the stationed guards, who had taken part in the less-than-subtle eavesdropping with him. He’d surged a step forward when Dion moved in on her, but Mikael held out his arm and shook his head.

This was not the type of thing they'd engage in without cause. Was the entire display entirely inappropriate? Absolutely. But there wasn’t any danger in that domestic pissing contest.

So Mikael and the guardsman observed in silence as the Rogue Master berated his niece with a chilling calmness. To say the sort of things he’d said, to pick her to pieces and wield the entire notion of her dead parents as, what…some sort of leverage? Some sort of playing piece to get her to act on his terms? It was sickening, honestly, and familiar in a way Mikael wasn't proud to admit.

They’d continued watching, even as Dion stalked past them with a look of lethality in his eyes and muttered curses on his breath.

And Cyril had just stood there. She’d looked…absent, with her hands clenched at her sides and her eyes fixed on the floor.

Mikael wasn’t exactly a stranger to the burdens of familial conflict—and he almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

The miserable Rhodea woman had an equally miserable life, and, gods, if that’s how she was used to being spoken to…dinner made a shade more sense now.

The guard had just shrugged at him when Cyril finally turned and walked the rest of the way to her room, and he slipped back through the doors to join his partner at his post. That was likely the most excitement the poor man would ever see being posted in the residential wing.

Mikael should have followed him out and made his way back to the barracks. He had a criminal amount of paperwork left to finish for his reports on the alpine assessment, but his curiosity got the better of him.

It always fucking did.

With careful steps, he approached Cyril's door.

The last thing he needed was for her to hear someone poking about outside her room and come investigate. Explaining his way out of this would be…awkward, and being on the receiving end of her ire was low on his list of interests.

Truthfully, he expected to hear some sort of manifestation of anger on the other side of her door. Swearing and stomping, or things clattering about—she seemed expressive.

Instead, the sound of quiet sobbing reached his ears.

Mikael frowned and pulled himself away from her door.

Not his people, not his problem.

Chapter 12

“Isee they put you up somewhere nice too, sweet girl,” Cyril murmured as she unlatched Attie’s stall door and slid it open. The sweet mare nickered with excitement and tossed her mane from side to side.

At least someone was happy to see her.

The royal stables were quite a spectacle, and Cyril wasn't sure why she expected anything less. They must have been able to house hundreds of horses in the imposing sandstone and wood building Rika walked her down to, just a few minutes along a side path from the palace proper.

The maid had finally lost her patience, watching Cyril mope about her room over the last day. The third time she came by and said, “Miss, are you sure there is nothing you’d like to see?” Cyril caved in.

The stables seemed like the most reasonable place to go, and she knew the chances of running into anyone she didn’t want to deal with were slim.

Dion, Mikael, and a contingent of guards left at the crack of dawn to head into Brynnhold, the port city a couple hours’ ride away. They would join the rest of her uncles there for the more hands-on portion of their briefing, and likely wouldn’t be back until well after nightfall.

Naturally, they didn't invite Cyril, but she thought it was the best, for once. Nothing productive would come from being in close quarters with Dion so soon.

The stablemaster, Boone, was a friendly and weathered man that Rika introduced Cyril to before making her departure.

Boone was not entirely fae, if Cyril had to guess, with dark eyes and a warm smile. He was all too happy to set her up with a brush and a couple of apples before he pointed her down an aisle of stalls.

Attie eagerly watched those apples as Cyril tucked them between the bars on the stall’s window.

“Later,” Cyril chided, smoothing her hand down the horse’s side. “You need a good brushing, then we can have a snack. Alright?”

Attie snorted.

The slow and quiet work that came with grooming horses was unmatched, for Cyril at least, in the way it washed away tension. You couldn’t be angry or loud and animated around the horses without unsettling them—they were smart animals and wanted nothing to do with pissed-off handlers.

She didn’t blame them for that.

Cyril started in slow, sweeping strokes with the brush, following each with a pass of her hand. She knew Attie always enjoyed the grooming, with the way she’d nuzzle and nudge at her as she went, but there was a chance Cyril enjoyed it more.

She murmured to Attie as she brushed her, asking pointless little questions about how she liked her stall and if the stable hands had been treating her well. It wasn’t like Cyril expected answers, but Attie’s little grunts and snorts brought her some amusement. Especially the petulant neigh she let out when Cyril asked if she'd been stuck with Kingston as a neighbor.

The unwieldy gelding rubbed everyone the wrong way.

A smile crept over Cyril’s face with each pass of the brush, and that heavy, icy feeling lingering in her veins from the day before eased, if only a bit.

She wasn’t sure if the weight of those cruel words would ever fade entirely, truth be told, not with how easily Dion tore into her with them. He was getting more volatile and unpredictable, and Cyril didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

Even in the months before this stupid contract came about, their relationship had begun to feel more strained than ever. It wasn’t just with her, either. It was like his fuse had shortened with everyone at the estate. Everyone else just had the option of getting away from him.

But for Cyril, she had no way out or away.

As Dion’s nights got later and the smell of smoke lingered longer with him, his iron grip on Cyril squeezed just a bit tighter. Not enough to suffocate her, but enough to make it hard to breathe.

So she fought back.

Cyril challenged and provoked her uncle every damned time he decided where she would or wouldn’t go, who she could or couldn’t see. No one or where was trustworthy enough for her, he would say, outside of their estate and the people he had handpicked to live there. It was like he wanted to keep her tucked away from the world, all to himself, yet he couldn’t seem to tolerate ever actually being around her anymore.

And maybe she deserved it.

Cyril had ruined his life, after all.

The lord with a reputation for his parties and proclivities forced into fatherhood. It was a life Cyril knew he never wanted, never asked for, so logic dictated it was only a matter of time before he lost his patience with having her around.

Cyril let out a shaky sigh and Attie nudged her arm.

“Shit, your apples. I’m sorry, girl.”

She offered the horse a weary smile, as if it meant anything to her, and pried an apple from between the bars. With the single knife she’d strapped to her thigh today, she quartered it and gave the pieces to Attie.

“We’re sharing this one,” Cyril said, as she gave the second apple a hasty wipe on her pants and halved it. Attie didn’t seem to mind and happily took the core when Cyril finished her half.

It pained her to admit it, but the apples in Reykr might have been better than the ones in Helia. Gods, Sebille would have been furious with her for even entertaining that notion. She was of half a mind to go see if Boone or one of the stable hands wouldn’t mind giving her another to split with Attie, but her equine companion was suddenly off-put.

Attention fixated down the aisle of stalls, Attie snorted and stomped her hooves on the ground.

Cyrill took a step back out of the stall only to see Runa.

Fuck.

All ethereal grace and sweeping robes, she spotted Cyril from halfway down the stables and smiled. Apparently, a single day alone was too much to ask for.

“I’m glad you found your way here,” Runa said when she cleared the last few stalls between them. Still, she kept a healthy distance from Cyril.

“I needed some air.”

Runa only nodded and watched as Cyril moved back into Attie’s stall and started brushing her again. Something to occupy her hands and her mind.

“We missed you at dinner last night,” the queen finally said, “and at breakfast and lunch today too.”

“I’ve been eating in my room.” Cyril was sure she was insulting no few customs, talking to the queen with her back half-turned to her.

“I figured as much.” She heard the soft shuffle of Runa’s robes as she took a few steps closer. “I…I owe you an apology, Cyril.”

So they were going there, then.

If there were ever a time for Cyril to ascend without warning and find out she could phase, now would be a great fucking time.

“Last night, Dion…enlightened me as to how painful of a topic it is for you, and I…” Runa sighed. “I never would have broached it had I known. I made a hasty assumption, and I am sorry for that.”

Cyril glanced back over her shoulder, just for a moment. The queen’s brows were low, and her eyes spoke to a tiredness that she understood well. Runa looked…defeated. She almost wondered if Dion had enlightened them both in the same way yesterday.

“It’s alright,” Cyril mumbled, turning back to Attie. What fell out of her mouth next came as a whisper. “We don’t talk about her, ever.”

Cyril heard the soft shuffle of robes again, and Runa’s hand settled between her shoulders. Her touch was warm and steadying, a little sickening too.

“Maybe you should,” she supplied quietly. “If Dion isn’t receptive to that sort of thing, I’d be happy—”

Cyril shook her head.

That was not a bridge she even wanted to think of crossing.

Runa eased back from her and silence swelled around them again for a painfully long moment before the queen finally broke it.

“Dion owes you an apology too, doesn’t he?”

Cyril turned, and whatever sort of unease settled into her face, Runa understood it in a heartbeat.

“Mikael told me what happened yesterday in the hall. He said Dion was…rough with you.” There was wariness in the silvery depths of Runa’s eyes. Like she didn’t want to accept that her friend had that sort of streak of cruelty in him. But she had to know. “And I realize what happens between you two isn’t necessarily my business, but…Cyril, if you ever feel unsafe here, will you please let someone know?”

The implication in Runa’s words hung heavy.

A reality Cyril was sure neither of them wanted to accept was a possibility.

That Dion would cross that line someday…

Cyril only nodded. She did not trust her voice.

That heavy implication grew into discomforting silence.

Her hands felt unsteady as she brushed Attie again, but the sweet black mare nuzzled and nudged her insistently. She even drew a short huff of a laugh out of Cyril when she wedged her muzzle so aggressively under her arm that she stumbled a step back.

No more brushing, then.

“Is there somewhere I can take Attie to ride?”

If Runa took any offense to Cyril’s decision to not pursue any bit of their previous conversation further, it didn’t show.

“There is a lovely trail just out here, to the south.” The queen gestured out the sliding doors nearest them. Cyril noticed as the sleeve of her robe slipped down her arm that those ornamental tattoos decorating her hands extended up Runa’s forearms as well. “It’ll take you to a beautiful glen in the woods and back in a couple of hours.”

Cyril offered her a smile. “Thank you.”

Runa turned to leave, but stopped a few steps away.

“You are welcome to join Lars and I for dinner tonight. Everyone else is away or occupied, so it would just be us three.” She gave Cyril a small, tentative smile. “Only if you feel up to it, though. Don’t feel obligated.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Runa nodded and left Cyril to saddle up Attie.

Chapter 13

If someone had told Cyril how she'd wake up on her third morning at the palace, she'd have laughed and called them a liar.

She’d slept terribly the night before, even after her ride with Attie. They rode that trail twice, hard and fast until they were both spent and the sun slipped towards the horizon. She bathed and changed, and decided that an evening alone with the King and Queen of Reykr was low on the list of things she felt like doing.

So she’d eaten alone in her room, again.

When Rika came to clear away her dishes and the entire bottle of wine that she put back on her own, the maid must have picked up on Cyril’s lingering unease.

Rika had stacked all the dishes neatly by the door and started asking Cyril questions. First about her time at the stables, and how her ride with Attie was. Then she wanted to know about what other things Cyril liked to do back in Helia, and if she liked books or art, or boys.

Books? Absolutely.

Art? Sometimes.

The last one was something she vehemently denied.

All simple and light-hearted things, but an hour came and went like nothing. Rika’s entire face tinged pink when she realized how long it had been and she excused herself with the promise of seeing Cyril the next morning.

Cyril had realized then, as the emptiness and quiet unease settled back in, that perhaps the woman’s kind demeanor was something she sorely lacked in her life. She hadn’t had any sort of true female companionship since, well…it had been years, and she didn’t want to dwell on the circumstances of why for long.

Left with little to do other than sit on her balcony in silence, Cyril had wrapped up in a thin blanket and settled on the chaise. The evening breeze was warm, a touch humid, and laced with the sweet scent of the palace gardens.

It had her dozing quickly.

The third or fourth time she woke, the breeze had cooled into a late-night chill and Cyril dragged herself into bed.

She hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of solid sleep when a shrill, bloodcurdling scream echoed through the hallway and jolted her back to consciousness.

It took a minute for Cyril to get her bearings and for the sound of slamming doors and noise in the hall to confirm that she wasn’t dreaming.

Bleary-eyed and out of sorts, she never considered throwing on a robe over her night slip or even donning shoes, for that matter, before she cracked open the door to her suite. The polished stone floors felt like ice on her bare feet when she stepped out into the hall.

A hushed sort of commotion came from further down the hall, and Cyril’s legs were leading her there before she knew it.

Other heads poked out of the sparse doorways along the residential wing as she walked. Most seemed to decide they wanted nothing to do with whatever in the hells was happening and returned to the comfort of their bed. Two maids, crying softly as they held each other, walked right past her.

Cyril continued on and on towards where a small group gathered near the seating alcove at the bend in the hall. A group, she realized about halfway there, comprised of Dion, Mikael, and Lars.

The men were all in various stages of dress and undress—Dion in his night pants, Mikael in nothing but shorts, and Lars with a hastily tied robe—and they all held grim, tired faces.

“Dion?” she called out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Each member of the group gave a bit of a start in her direction. “What happened?”

“Shit, Cyr.” His shoulders heaved with a sigh. “It’s…I…”

Dion never struggled to find words. He motioned for her to come instead.

Noises started up from behind her—guards, it sounded like, with the echo of heavy boots on stone—as Cyril hurried the rest of the way down the hall.

The smell of blood—sharp, metallic, and a little sweet—hit her first. Then the thick, foul smell of death. Goosebumps rippled across her bare arms and legs.

Dion stepped back a bit, and Cyril laid eyes on what had left them all with such grim looks on their faces—a nude and gutted body, female, sprawled out on the floor in front of the alcove.

Runes of all shapes and sizes painted around the body in blood and—

Cyril clamped a hand over her mouth when she took in the woman’s face.

The gouged-out eyes that should have been hazel and full of bright curiosity. The golden blonde hair, soaked half through with burgundy.

A muffled noise still escaped her.

No. Nonononononono—

Mikael sighed from her left. “If she can’t handle—”

“She’s been tending to you, hasn’t she?” Lars asked, his voice uneven with what Cyril could only assume was shock.

She nodded.

“Rika. I…I just saw her last night…” She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, and she couldn’t pull her eyes away from Rika’s mutilated face.

“And when did you get in? You’re usually the latest one of us all.”

Cyril hadn’t realized who Lars was speaking to until Mikael cleared his throat.

“Midnight? One, maybe,” the prince said. “And this was not here.”

Lars said something else, and Dion replied to him, but Cyril didn’t hear any of it over the low humming in her ears. A twisting knot of guilt worked its way up her stomach, and she felt like she was going to be sick.

How long after their lighthearted conversation had something so vile happened to the poor woman? Rika was so small and gentle that Cyril didn’t know if she would have it in her to fight off an attacker. Maybe Cyril should have told her to stay, should have told Rika to shirk her responsibilities for the rest of the night, and keep her company.

Dion’s hand smoothing over Cyril’s shoulders served as an abrupt tether back to reality as Mikael began issuing orders to the group of guards gathered behind them.

Some were to head to the servants’ quarters to begin questioning, others assigned a full sweep of the palace, and he tasked two with moving Rika’s body. If Cyril hadn’t been in such disbelief over this, she may have had a sliver of appreciation for the respect the guard had for the prince, given the circumstances.

She wasn't sure anyone at the guild would've listened to Dion if he was issuing orders bedraggled and wearing nothing but his shorts.

“We need every bit of this cleaned up before the palace is alive.”

And just like that, all of Cyril’s senses came rushing back to her.

“Absolutely not,” she said as she whirled around.

Her uncle, Lars, and Mikael all stared at her.

“Excuse me?”

Oh. There was the bite of the Prince Commander.

"These runes can’t be touched yet," Cyril asserted, standing up taller. The Rogues’ Guild Heir could bite back. “They need to be documented, exactly as they are, so we can compare them to the others.”

The prince’s glacial eyes narrowed.

“Right…” he sighed, turning back to his men. A point for Cyril. “You heard Lady Cyril. Move the body, but touch nothing else.”

His men exchanged a few words with each other before departing and Mikael turned, cutting Cyril a look so spiteful she struggled to not take a step back. She likely would’ve, if Dion’s hand hadn’t stayed firmly planted on her back.

The prince opened his mouth, nothing but a gleam of sharp canines, but a door down the hall creaked open.

“Mika?” A woman’s voice, sleepy and like a songbird, said, “Are you going to come back to—oh.”

She was a slight thing, with warm, olive skin and a mane of curly hair. Mortal, Cyril realized, as she tucked her hair behind a rounded ear. She looked utterly bewildered and was wearing a shirt that seemed…prince-sized.

Cyril felt her cheeks warm as Mikael swore under his breath. He scrubbed his hands over his face with one hell of a sigh before he trudged over and steered the woman back into his room.

Dion cleared his throat, and Lars just shook his head.

“Well, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.” Her uncle squeezed her up against his side, giving her a wry smile. “Get yourself decent and start on the runes. I’ll send word to the boys that their vacation in the city is over.”

Cyril was on her last nerve.

In the two hours she spent carefully documenting the runes, the intolerable prince spent nearly an hour of it just hovering. He was dressed now, at least, his black and blue uniform giving a feigned air of respectability that nearly made Cyril laugh when he first came down the hall.

Sometimes he just leaned against the wall, watching. Other times, he paced behind her or around the runes at a slow, measured speed. More than once he nearly kicked or stepped on—entirely on purpose, she was sure—the paper and charcoal the archive’s scribes so graciously gave her to use.

Cyril wasn’t sure if his presence or the lingering whisper of blood and death hanging in the air was more off-putting.

Mikael said nothing the entire time, giving barely even a grunt of acknowledgement when she had the decency to say hello to him. For having a mother and father who were such polite, warm people, he was an arse.

Now, leaning back near a window, he cleared his throat, and Cyril’s last nerve frayed.

“Is there something I can help you with, Your Highness?”

She didn’t bother restraining the annoyance in her voice as she set down her charcoal and wiped her hands on her pants. She enjoyed quiet work like this, and he had ruined nearly all of it.

Amusement glimmered in Mikael’s eyes.

“Oh, me?” He chuckled, and Cyril clenched her teeth at the smug, grating sound. “No, no. I’m fine. Just observing.”

“You like to just observe, don’t you? Stand around and watch things you have no business being part of?” The words tumbled out of her a bit clipped, but based on the way his brows climbed, the prince knew exactly what observation she was referring to. “I’m sure you have far more pressing things to attend to now.”

Mikael pushed off the wall, starting that slow, infuriating pace again.

“My men are more than capable of carrying out their orders.”

Doubtful, Cyril thought, considering that four people had now died like this and his men did not have any leads.

“Your girlfriend, then?” Cyril waved a hand vaguely toward his room. “I’m sure she’d appreciate some attention after that rude awakening.”

“Girlfriend? Oh, no.” Mikael barked a laugh so rich Cyril nearly dropped the papers she was stacking with care. “No such thing. Just a bit of fun.”

“Fun?” Cyril snorted.

She shouldn’t have expected anything less from him—he was an asshole and a pig, and, gods…he was just like Dion.

“Yes, Lady Cyril. Fun. I’d highly recommend you try a form of it someday. I think it would do you a world of good.”

Cyril needed to walk away, and she needed to walk away now. They’d only interacted like this twice, and he already knew how to get under her skin almost as easily as Dion did.

As calmly as she could manage with annoyance simmering under her skin, Cyril gathered her last few papers and the box of charcoals, and started walking as far away as she could from the prince. Slow, measured steps she hoped conveyed nothing but calm confidence.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as if she had any obligation to keep him apprised of her whereabouts.

“To use my brain in the archives.” Cyril waved her stack of papers in the air, not giving the prince the benefit of looking back at him. “It might do you a world of good to try that someday.”

She grinned to herself as she left the residential wing.

Earth, air, fire, water.
Dawn, tribulation, estate, thorn.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Day, need, heritage, danger.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Dawn, need, estate, danger.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Day, need, estate, thorn.

No matter what order Cyril wrote the runes down in, or what combination of dialects and interpretations she used, Cyril couldn’t make any sense of the meaning.

The runes of the old language left with Rika’s body were the same eight as the first three murders, drawn again in a slightly different arrangement, like the elements had completed some sort of rotation. But Cyril couldn’t figure out why.

It wasn’t for a shortage of reference materials either.

An entire row of the Royal Archives teemed with tomes and scrolls and texts on the language of old, but none of them painted a picture any clearer than what they’d already learned in their briefing.

Some runes had different meanings, she knew now, like day being interchangeable with dawn, or danger with thorns. But despite spending almost all day working through every different combination of meanings her brain could muster, all Cyril had to show for it was a splitting headache.

Oh, and about a hundred tiny parchment cuts on her hands.

The trio of scribes working in the archives was the only silver lining.

They understood her plight more than anyone else and seemed happy to watch over her. The most tenured of the scribes, Tobias, plied her with tea and water and small plates of finger foods to fuel her, always waving off her thanks with a smile before he’d hurry away.

Her uncles didn’t need to know she hadn’t the faintest idea of where any of it came from. The rumblings of her stomach overran any semblance of caution.

With the genuine smiles the scribes bore as they hunted down texts for her, Cyril got the impression guests were not a regular occurrence. Not to mention one so hells bent on digesting every bit of literature they had on old runes.

Isa, a sprightly young woman, even stopped by every couple of hours to remind Cyril to stretch her limbs, offering to show her this and that in the archives. The woman didn’t even bat an eyelash when Cyril asked to borrow a couple of their tomes on ascension.

Cyril had barely been at the palace for four days, and its working people were eroding the wall of resentment that had been steadily constructed against the moon-fae throughout her entire life. Truthfully, she didn’t know who the fuck to believe about anything anymore, and focusing on her work was a much easier thing to do.

But the moment the smell of hot, spiced wine wafted into the archives and cut through all the dusty old tomes? That wall threatened to come crumbling down entirely.

As Tobias rounded a few carts of tomes to be returned to their homes, carrying a tray of four mugs, Cyril scrambled to clear a spot on her worktable. She hadn’t realized just how thoroughly she’d invaded their little world until she was frantically compiling pages and pages of notes.

“I thought, perhaps, you could use some gentle encouragement to end your research for the day.” Tobias set down the wine and gave Cyril a quick, teasing grin as Isa and Konnor drifted over.

They, too, sniffed out the wine.

“Thank you,” Cyril said, as she gave her eyes a hearty rub.

She would have lost track of herself for a day or two unsupervised, truthfully.

“And thank you for all of this”—she gestured at the table, the stacks of papers and tomes—“as well.”

“Oh, we are more than happy to help with your research.” Tobias handed her a mug. The others nodded their agreement as they each settled into a chair. “Most of the younger folks around the palace seem to have an aversion to the smell of our old books.”

“I love how it smells here.” Cyril grinned, and the three scribes treated her to a round of warm laughter. “Does the family not come down often?”

The trio exchanged glances, and Tobias sat up in his chair—their spokesperson.

“Well, Queen Runa is quite fond of the archives and has been since she first moved here. And the princes, well…” Tobias tapped his fingers on his mug. “Astor always had a nose in a book when he was a boy, just like his father did, but the duties of Crown Prince do not seem to leave much time for such pleasures now. Mikael always preferred steel to parchment, so we do not see him often. Ever, really.”

Just like his father did.

Cyril processed little after that.

“You… How long have you each worked here?”

“Right into the serious questions now, Lady Cyril?” Tobias chuckled.

Cyril’s eyes flared.

“I… Gods, I’m sorry. My manners—”

“I only tease you. Drink your wine before it goes cold.”

Cyril grabbed her mug and took a hearty sip of the soul-warming, spiced potation. Hopefully, it would get into her system fast enough to mask the warmth of embarrassment in her cheeks.

“I started my tenure under the earlier years of the reign of His Majesty’s father,” Tobias continued, and Cyril gaped. “Isa joined our merry little band just a couple of years ago. I believe you are close in age. Konnor has been here for what, seventy or so years now?”

Konnor nodded. A man of precisely zero words since she had arrived.

Cyril did not want to be rude, but she was stunned. She met plenty of old fae at the guild, but never more than a few hundred years.

If her rough math and the few details she knew about Reykr were correct…

“Were you… Were you alive when the Great Kingdom fell?” Cyril must have looked like an awestruck spring babe to Tobias, but she was too fascinated to care.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Now I’m not sure how old I look, but that was a bit before my time.”

Cyril tried to reign in her disappointment as the other two scribes traded amused glances, taking another sip of her wine.

“Can I ask you a question, Lady Cyril?”

Cyril blinked over at Isa.

“Me? Of course. And you can just call me Cyril.” She winced. “I’m not fond of the title.”

Isa opened her mouth, but she hesitated.

“In the south, do they talk about us? Moon-fae, I mean. The village I grew up in is near the mountains, you see, so we would sometimes get scholars or tradespeople passing through from Theras, I believe. They seemed to have…strange opinions of us.”

Cyril swallowed.

So far, she had seen none of what her staunch sun-fae upbringing wanted her to believe. It had only been a few days, sure, but they were nothing but kind and welcoming to her—except for the fucking intolerable prince—and she already felt a twinge of guilt. But if Cyril couldn’t trust what her damn governess taught her…

There had to be a tactful way to say this.

“I don’t think the time spent divided has done our people any good in that regard.”

Isa nodded, if only a bit sadly. Cyril didn’t know what else to say.

“I heard that the woman who lost her life today was your maid?” Tobias asked when the silence sat a bit too heavy.

“Rika is—was her name.” Gods, that felt awful. “She was such a sweet woman.”

“It’s heartbreaking to hear of such a young life being taken from us, in circumstances like that too.” Tobias offered her a sad smile. “Are you alright?”

Cyril blinked.

“Am I alright?”

“Has no one asked you?” He tipped his head at her. “La—Cyril. Someone you knew, for however short of a time, died today. If no one has checked to see how you are doing, I am disappointed.”

Truthfully, no one had.

This was work, after all, personal feelings aside.

As soon as she’d gotten dressed and had a bit of food in her system, Dion had her documenting the runes. He was dealing with getting the rest of their cabal back to the palace—he wanted them to stay for a few days, do some supplementary investigation to the King's Guard—and everything settled into the regular flow of business.

Cyril hadn’t even stopped to think if she was okay.

“I’ll be fine,” she tried to reassure, but all the scribes looked wary.

There wasn’t an easy way for Cyril to explain that she had to be fine.

She was in Reykr to work, to carry out the guild's business, and Dion wouldn’t tolerate anything other than her total focus. And truthfully, now she had even more of a reason to work with determination—she wouldn’t let that kind woman’s death be in vain.

Chapter 14

If there was a single, minuscule thread of silver lining to Rika’s death, it was that Cyril was no longer stuck alone with Dion.

Her uncles had been at the palace for days now, put up in another corridor of guest suites, and they occupied most moments of free time she had. One of them always came banging on her door in the morning to drag her down to breakfast before she’d slink away to the archives for the day.

Not that any of them were having much luck getting any closer to understanding what the fuck was happening in Reykr. From what Bron just finished telling her, residents and staff of the palace all said the same things that the city folk had.

Everyone felt like they had witnessed someone or something out of place, but no one could definitively say where or when. It was common, Cyril knew, in the aftermath of crimes, for people to become paranoid, to notice things they may not have paid any heed to before.

The only fruitful thing to come of their questioning was the uncovering of a get-together down in the servants’ quarters on the night of Rika’s death. It was the birthday of one of the tenured cooks, and they’d all enjoyed food and drink as duties wrapped and the rest of the palace went to sleep.

Not an unusual night by any means, except about half the staff couldn’t remember anything that happened after midnight.

Bron sighed. “Apparently, most of them thought a groundskeeper spiked their glogg again, whatever the fuck that is.”

“Again?”

“I know,” he sighed. “So needless to say, we know fucking nothing useful.”

Bron shot back the rest of his drink, his frustration palpable. She could tell that all of her uncles were frustrated, and she sympathized with them entirely.

There was one thing, though, that always improved Bron’s mood—gossip.

“You know,” Cyril dropped her voice and Bron leaned in immediately, “we had an interesting…interruption when they first found Rika’s body.”

A bit of life sparked up in Bron’s eyes again.

“Go on, dove…”

“We were all standing there, and some mortal woman came stumbling out of Prince Asshole’s room wearing nothing but his shirt, wondering when he was coming back to bed.” Cyril tried and failed to imitate the woman’s singsong voice, but it got a hell of a chuckle from Bron.

“Talk about a hell of a thing to wake up to,” he said.

“Right? And the prince did not seem happy about it at all.”

Bron eyed her. “You enjoyed his suffering, didn’t you?”

“Do I even need to answer that?”

“No, you don’t.” Bron shook his head. Something crept into his mind, though, and he narrowed his eyes. “The prince isn’t…attached to anyone, yeah? We talked to all the family, but I don’t think—”

“Oh, no. He made that crystal clear. She was just a bit of fun, apparently.” Cyril rolled her eyes.

“Look, dove, when two people just want to—” Bron’s own eyes flared wide with amusement when Cyril clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Don’t you dare finish that.”

He pulled her hand away and laughed.

“In all seriousness, though. This woman, was she about this tall”—he held his hand halfway up his chest—“and curly-haired? Generously endowed, too?”

Cyril sighed. These men.

“You’re disgusting, but yes.”

“We questioned her. Violet or Daisy. Rose, maybe? Some kind of flower for a name. She’s a courtesan from the city, apparently, and an expensive one at that.”

“Oh.”

That was…more than Cyril needed to know. A true testament to the prince’s demeanor too, if the only company he could get had to be paid for.

“Mm. But the prince’s warm bed aside”—Bron bumped her shoulder—“I take it your research hasn’t been very fruitful?”

“Not exactly,” she grumbled. “I don’t even know how many hours I’ve spent in the damn archives, but I haven’t found anything useful. One of the poor scribes even spent an entire day translating this decrepit old scroll with me, and it ended up being all for nothing.”

Cyril sighed and took a healthy swig of her wine. Tobias easily took the spot for the most patient person she had met in her life thus far, but she still felt awful about wasting that much of his time, even if he insisted he’d be happy to do it again just for fun.

“Just an ancient bread recipe?” Bron chuckled.

“Not even!” she groaned. “It was about this practice of the old culture here, called elemental cleansing. Apparently, they were big on using these displays of the elements to balance evils. They had all kinds of ceremonies for it too, but it seemed like most of them involved making some sort of offering back to the gods, like salt for the earth, or incense for the air. I just—”

She sighed again. It had been one thing to admit defeat to herself, but it felt a special kind of awful to say it out loud.

“You just, what? That doesn’t sound like it's nothing to me, dove.”

Leave it to Bron to find her infallible.

“I thought that maybe this meant someone was trying to do some cleansing, you know? Take matters into their own hands and clean up Reykr like that vigilante in Epheos a few years ago.”

“I’m still failing to see where this is nothing.”

“I was getting there.” Cyril shot a narrow look at Bron. “Honestly, I thought I was onto something, so I asked Dion if I could see the victim files.”

Bron’s brows climbed. “Did he let you?”

“He did.”

“And?”

“Crystal clear records, all four of them. Everyone who knew them loved them, too. The carpenter used to make toys for kids at the infirmary with his wood scraps, and I found out Rika volunteered at a temple in the city whenever she had time off.”

Bron’s nose wrinkled before he said, “That’s sad, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly. And it also means we don’t have some vigilante trying to purge Reykr of its filth.”

“Maybe not…but don’t discredit yourself yet, dove.” There was that empathetic smile that Cyril could only ever tolerate from Bron. “Just because the piece doesn’t fit where you think it should right now, doesn’t mean it’s the wrong piece, if you catch my drift?”

Cyril sighed. “You’re trying to talk to me about patience again, aren’t you?”

At that, Bron chuckled.

“I’ll spare you that tonight.” He slung his arm across Cyril’s shoulders, steering her out of the loop of hallways that they spent the last half-hour wandering, trying to get some peace after a raucous dinner. “We’ve both got empty drinks, and you know Dion will be pissed if we’re not in there batting our eyelashes at everyone.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

With the guild, royal family, and a handful of high-ranking guards in attendance, dinners at the palace had become a bit of a production. They spent their evenings in a larger dining room that also had an attached lounge well stocked with everything they might need for a night of unwinding.

Bron and Ren flanked Cyril in the back of the lounge, standing comfortably around a tall table with their third bottle of red wine—the first two of which Ren nearly drank all to himself.

The room was dim and warm and smelled like worn leather and the rolled tobacco Lars and Dion enjoyed smoking with their spirits. Normally Cyril didn’t love the way the smoke burned her eyes and itched at her throat, but she’d had enough to drink that she barely noticed it tonight.

Like each dinner and wind-down before, the groups kept to themselves—Cyril and the guild, the guards and the arrogant prince, Dion with the rest of the royal family—except for Tyr tonight, who had taken to flitting about from group to group.

He was either right hammered or trying to gather intel. Both, maybe.

It all reminded her of home.

Like when bodies and booze and laughter would fill the great hall shoulder to shoulder. Admittedly, this wasn’t as rowdy as a room full of drunken rogues and house staff, but Cyril didn’t mind that at all. Even just the hint of home was welcome.

What she did mind, however, was that Rendal decided she would be the target of his harassment.

At least three times in the last few hours, he hip-checked her right into Bron or the wall when she wasn’t paying attention. After a near disaster on the first one, she stopped holding her wine glass when she wasn’t rushing it to her lips.

On the third hit, she tried shoving him back. Bron and Ren both threw their heads back with roaring laughter as she slammed all her body weight into the physical embodiment of a stone wall that was Ren.

He did not budge.

And now, gods help her, Ren was using her head as an armrest.

“I swear to each and every fucking god,” Cyril hissed as she swatted at his arm. She ducked out from under the weight of it as he started rubbing circles into her hair. “I’m going to take out your knees when you aren’t looking, you oaf.”

Ren’s chasmic eyes met hers.

Something diabolical flickered in them and he grinned.

“It’s going to be hard to do that”—he reached for her, and Cyril wasn’t fast or sober enough to get away from him—“when you’re busy swimming in the lake.”

A shriek of laughter left her as Ren hauled her under his arm, like he was carrying a piece of damn lumber, and trudged towards the door.

“Ren, no!” she barked, all flailing limbs and fruitless attempts to get out of his grasp. She assuredly kicked someone, but she couldn’t see past the curtain of hair that hung around her face.

“But I thought you loved swimming, dove.” He jostled her around, pretending to adjust his grip. Cyril swore and laughed, and a few indignant noises left her. “Besides, the water looked lovely.”

“Stop! Ren—” Another shriek of laughter left her as he jostled her once more. Her face felt so hot she knew it was an ungodly shade of red. “Ren, you’re going to make me sick!”

“We’ll just have to”—he shook Cyril around again—“dunk you in the—”

“Enough.” Dion’s unmistakable growl had Ren freezing. “Would you two knock it the fuck off?”

Cyril hadn’t noticed how silent the room was.

With a slow, measured movement, Ren set Cyril down on her feet. He let her hold on to his arm as she tried to blink through the wave of dizziness rolling through her.

Standing in front of the armchair he’d spent all damn night planted in, the stare Dion cut them with was withering. His eyes fucking dripped with displeasure.

“Dion, it’s alright. They’re allowed—” Lars tried to ease the tension that held the entire room hostage, but Dion cut him off.

“Was I not clear with you?” He looked right at Cyril, holding his glass of spirits on its sixth or seventh refill. “Stop acting like a fucking child.”

Cyril took a deep breath.

They’d had such a nice last couple of days.

“Piss off, Rhodea,” Ren spoke before Cyril even exhaled, and everything about his posture changed. He was nothing but a long line of coiled tension, ready to strike. “It was me, not her,” he spat. “Stop looking for excuses to treat her like shit.”

The room's wary eyes focused on Cyril and her uncles.

Cyril just wanted to slip back into the shadows and disappear. The few brawls she’d seen break out back at the estate were nasty things, full of black eyes and bloody noses. She did not want to imagine the chaos that would ensue if one happened in this room.

Bronson, mercifully, appeared out of thin fucking air. He clasped Ren on the shoulder and jerked his chin towards the door.

“Let's turn in, yeah? Busy day tomorrow.”

Ren breathed a few colorful profanities, but let Bron lead him out of the room after he kissed Cyril on the forehead. Tyriel followed with a sway a few steps behind, and Dion’s caustic stare trailed them the entire way out.

Behind Cyril, the hushed conversation started back up as the guardsmen decided whatever threat they were assessing was no longer of concern. Cyril just stood there, avoiding eye contact with anyone in particular, because she didn’t know what the fuck to do.

There was a half-full glass of wine back at her table she wanted to finish, but she wasn’t sure Dion would tolerate her presence anymore. With how he shot back his drink and quickly poured himself another, she didn’t know if it was worth sticking around to find out, either.

Soft silver robes swept into her vision before she had a chance to think on it much more, and Runa’s hand settled on her shoulder. The smile she gave Cyril was knowing.

The queen looked past her and called out, “Mikael?”

Cyril’s body tensed.

They hadn’t interacted since he was hells-bent on driving her fucking mental while she documented the runes, and she was plenty content with that.

Mikael filtered through the groups of men and came to stand beside them, hands clasped behind his back.

Cyril realized then, glancing up at him, that he really did remind her of Dion, and not just a little. From the same swaggering, arrogant way they walked, to the black fitted everything they wore, and the shirts left open far lower than they had any right to be.

Mikael was just bigger than Dion.

Not bulky, but taller. A touch broader in the shoulders.

A dash more wild and handsome—

Oh, fucking hells.

She’d had too much to drink.

And if Mikael’s smirk was to be trusted, her observations…well they were less than fucking subtle.

“Have you told Cyril about the training yet?” Runa eyed her son expectantly.

He stiffened, and that smirk slipped right off his face.

“Ah. No, I haven’t had a chance with—”

“Well?”

Mikael’s gaze slid to Cyril. Flat, unimpressed. “We have new guards starting their base training next week, and my mother”—Runa grinned in her periphery—“suggested that you may have some interest in participating in their training drills.”

Cyril’s eyes widened.

“Oh, that sounds—”

“It’s not glamorous,” Mikael interjected. “Morning runs, drills, basic hand-to-hand and weaponry.”

“No, that sounds amazing.” She looked from Mikael to Runa and back to the prince. “I’d like that.”

That might’ve been a flicker of surprise that graced his features.

“Alright.” He nodded, giving both Cyril and his mother a tight smile. “I’ll see that someone gets you the schedule.”

It might have mostly been the wine speaking and warming her thoroughly, but…gods, Cyril was excited. The last time she’d had something to look forward to was, well…

She wasn’t entirely sure.

Months ago, maybe? Anytime she tried to think of something she enjoyed doing, all her mind would treat her to was Dion calling her a child. Just like she was sure he was thinking now as he watched her, half-heartedly having a conversation with Lars.

Her excitement wilted.

“I…should turn in,” she said quietly, looking between Mikael and Runa again. Their own eyes followed hers to Dion and back. “I have some books I’ve been meaning to read.”

“Of course,” Runa smiled and squeezed her arm. “Mika will walk you back upstairs.”

They each stuttered a noise of protest, but Cyril overtook the prince. “I appreciate it, Runa, but I don’t need an escort…”

“Nonsense. I’m still uneasy after what happened, and I don’t want you walking alone this late. Besides,” she said, casting her son a knowing look, “he was going to slip out to the barracks any moment now.”

Mikael sighed and gestured towards the door.

“After you.”

Chapter 15

Cyril wasn’t sure how Runa still felt uneasy in the palace.

It crawled with guards now, as it had every day since Rika’s death, with each station or post doubled or tripled. There also was not a single moment since that terrible day that Cyril hadn’t encountered at least a handful of patrolling guards while she walked from place to place. They even made sweeps through the archives now, much to the apparent annoyance of Tobias.

It was unsettling, she was sure, to know something so heinous happened in your home, but Cyril had never witnessed such a level of security before. She slept well at night, at least.

Beside her, Mikael was the picture of stoic indifference as they wove through the hallways leading from the lounge, his eyes trained anywhere but in Cyril’s direction. He exchanged nods of acknowledgment with each guard they passed—six, she counted, in that short time—but did not say a word to her.

Cyril didn’t mind.

When they finally made it to the main atrium, she stopped and looked up at him. “You don’t have to walk me the entire way.”

Mikael smiled at her, a bit bitterly, and laughed.

“Oh, no, I do. If my mother finds out I didn’t, which she will because she has eyes and ears everywhere, she will kill me, find someone to stir my corpse back to life, and then kill me again. So please, Lady Cyril”—he gestured vaguely to the stairs across the atrium—“after you.”

Cyril struggled to school the amusement out of her face.

She kept walking.

“Do you usually train the guard?” she asked, though she didn’t have a fucking clue why. It had to be the wine, urging her to fill the silence. “I…I appreciate the invitation.”

“I usually do, yes.” He eyed her for a moment. “Like I said, it was my mother who thought it was something you might enjoy.”

Right, because he never would have invited her.

He seemed like the type to have some archaic views on the places where women belonged, and combat training surely wasn’t one of them.

“That was kind of her,” Cyril said, a bit more quiet, as they started up the stairs. Just a few minutes and she’d be back in her room, and freed of this awkward excuse of a conversation.

“It was.” He paused. “I have a question for you, Lady Cyril, if you’ll humor me.”

She looked back at Mikael, trailing a couple of steps behind her. This entire interaction was downright civilized, and it was really fucking weird.

Cyril forced a wry smile and said, “It’s not about my hobbies again, is it?”

A flicker of surprise lit up his face and he chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, I’m afraid not. I was wondering…” He hesitated. “Is your uncle always such an asshole, or is this just some special act we’re being treated to?”

Oh.

“He…” Cyril weighed her words carefully as Mikael stopped beside her at the top of the stairs. “I wouldn’t list acting high on Dion’s strengths, if that answers your question.”

She hoped it did, desperately, and loosed a quiet breath when Mikael nodded slowly. Not a conversation she felt like delving much further into. Besides, she knew the prince had witnessed what happened with Dion in the hall the other afternoon.

That gave him everything he needed to know.

Mikael looked past her and caught the eyes of the guards standing watch over the residential wing.

“Will one of you see Lady Cyril through the rest of the perilous journey to her room?” he asked, and a trio of nods and chuckles followed suit.

Mikael looked down at her and smiled a bit more warmly than she remembered seeing him do before. Gods, the wine here had to be ten times stronger than it was back home.

“Goodnight, Lady Cyril. Enjoy your reading,” he said, hitching ever so slightly at the waist. More respect than she ever thought she’d get from him.

“Thank you, Your Highness. Enjoy, ah…” She couldn’t remember for the life of her what Runa said he’d be running off to do. “Goodnight?” Cyril grimaced.

Amusement tugged at his features, but the prince only nodded and sauntered his way back down the stairs.

Section 4—The Physical Tolls of Ascension

Part c. Impacts to Self-healing

All fae—regardless of their status of Ascension—possess innately superior self-healing abilities when compared to their mortal counterparts and other documented races. This natural process is only further enhanced once a fae has achieved their Ascension and taps into their full wellspring of powers.

During the process of Ascension, however, fae undergo a transitional period during which their self-healing abilities enter a state of stasis. This stasis can last anywhere from mere hours to days and seems to directly correlate to the amount of energy spent by the fae’s body during the moment of Ascension.

For fae who undergo a more subtle transition, it may only manifest as a few hours of feeling unwell. For those whose transition results in a more complete release of energy from their bodies, the results may be grievous.

Stasis will leave them at a heightened risk of permanent injury, as well as the possibility of death. The most common causes of death for fae during their healing stasis are blood loss, from injuries sustained during the outburst of energy, and exposure to the elements, as they also experience a reduced ability to self-regulate their body temperatures.

The phenomenon of Ascension Death is most commonly seen in male fae, who are prone to…

Cyril had run through this passage four times now and still wasn’t sure if she trusted the connections her mind was forging. She'd even flipped through two other tomes that Isa lent her on Ascension, and they all said some subtly differently worded version of the same thing.

And if that were the case…

Gods, she didn’t want to assume, but…Dion's scar.

It had to be.

For as long as Cyril could remember, the brutal and wicked thing cut down the right side of his face was a point of fascination for her. But it was a topic he refused to discuss, as did anyone at the guild. All she ever knew was it had to be something grievous, with how quickly her own feeble and mixed body healed.

But now, reading these texts, it made so much sense.

Or at least she thought it did.

If the tomes were to be believed, it was uncommon, but not unheard of, for a fae’s moment of Ascension to be an explosive sort of thing. Like buildings leveled and mass casualties sort of explosive. Typically in fae that had strong affinities for magic before they even ascended.

She knew Dion fell into that category.

What made little sense was why it was such a sensitive topic for him. A fae’s moment of Ascension was supposed to be a point of pride, a crowning achievement in their life. She knew hers would be, if it ever came.

Dion could be embarrassed, she supposed, that he’d lost control and injured himself so grievously. He was a painfully proud man, after all.

Cyril slumped against the back of the sofa and rubbed her eyes until colors bloomed behind her eyelids.

She’d let herself get tied up in this for hours now, the fire long since dwindled and lamps running low, and hadn’t found a lick of what she actually wanted to find in these tomes.

The theorizing about Dion was fun, sure, but pointless when she would never get an ounce of truth from him. Just like she would never find the sort of reassurance she was seeking about herself.

A fool’s dream, she knew, to hope that one of these texts might conveniently contain an excerpt on Ascension for mixed fae of not entirely fae background. There were endless references to full sun-fae, full moon-fae, and fae that were a mix of both, but no mentions of what a pinch of nymph blood might do to complicate things.

At times like these, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if her mother was around, what sort of bits of knowledge she would have taught Cyril.

She didn’t let herself dwell on those thoughts for long.

Maybe she’d find time to ask Runa about it, discreetly. The woman seemed inclined to humor Cyril, and she had a feeling her knowledge was vast.

And maybe she might dig up a kernel of truth about Dion as well.

The next week blew by far faster than Cyril thought it would, as remarkably uneventful as it was. Not a bad thing, she supposed, even though there was no denying her disappointment with the lack of developments in the investigation.

At first, the prospect of it just being herself and Dion again after her other uncles headed back to Brynnhold had been a bit anxiety-inducing, but he made himself scarce. Thought it was best that he spend most of his time in the city with them, to help with the ongoing investigations.

Cyril didn’t question it, especially not after he was less than discreet in his dismissal of her own contributions to the investigation.

Truthfully, approaching Dion the morning after his little outburst in the dining room was the last thing Cyril wanted to do, but her fear over stoking his anger any further outweighed the overwhelming urge to steer clear of him. She thought giving him a heads up about her plans to join the guard with their training would be nonnegotiable, and that maybe he’d even appreciate the assurances she wanted to give him that she would still make time for her research in the archives.

How wrong she’d been, though, when Dion just smiled at her and said, “Don’t worry about it, Cyr. You missing a few days of reading won’t be what unravels the investigation.”

After that, Cyril didn’t bother trying to talk to Dion again before he left.

The good news was, things were peaceful at the palace with everyone away, and she would take every damned day of it she could get. The space to breathe finally gave her a chance to fall into her own routine.

Every morning at the bleary blink of dawn, Cyril would drag her sleepy self down to the stables to see Attie. The stable hands expected her now, too, and her saddle was always sitting outside Attie’s stall when she got there—usually with a couple of apples.

And every day they rode for hours.

Cyril learned quickly that she wanted nothing to do with the hot and muggy afternoons of late spring in Reykr, and much preferred to ride the trail when it was still laden with swathes of cool morning mist. It was a bit of a novelty for her, a daughter of the south and sun, to steep herself in the lush greenery and fog, but she told herself Attie preferred it too.

And when her thighs ached and her lungs burned ruthlessly, they called it a day. She’d wash up and eat quickly, then head to the archives.

Even though Dion had rendered her findings on elemental cleansing useless, and suggested she redirect her research, Cyril kept going back to it.

In part because she enjoyed going against his wishes, truthfully, and Bron’s encouragement might’ve had something to do with it too. The runes weren’t there for no reason, and she’d be damned if she didn’t find out why.

It helped that she enjoyed seeing the scribes. And if they had any displeasure with her visits, they certainly didn’t show it.

Most days, Isa would flat-out abandon whatever task she’d been doing to clear out a spot for Cyril and retrieve the file of notes they graciously agreed to store in the archives for her. She still hadn’t heard Konnor speak a single word, but he smiled and waved at her every day, and Isa assured her that was an exceptionally warm display for the muted man. Cyril took her word for it.

It was Tobias, though, that she spent the most one-on-one time with.

Despite her protests that he did not waste all of his time teaching her the intricacies of the old language, Tobias was the most fluent of the scribes, and the man did not take no for an answer.

So, every day, he pulled up a chair at her table and imparted bits of his wisdom on everything from pronunciation to regional nuances, and even debated variations on common words, as she poured over tome after tome.

The breadth of his mind was astonishing, frankly.

Tobias also had the most uncanny ability to sense when Cyril's mind had reached its capacity for the day. Just moments before her eyes went cross and the runes on the pages in front of her became a giant smear of ink, he would excuse himself. Cyril wasn’t sure where he would disappear to, but it was never for more than a few minutes, and he always returned with two steaming mugs of tea.

That was when the history lessons would start.

Mostly little facts about the palace and its grounds, which parts of it he saw built, and what the decor has looked like over the years. He even delved into little stories about what Lars was like as a child—painfully quiet, apparently, which Cyril almost didn’t believe—and how his sons compared to him.

All fascinating things to hear, but today?

Cyril came armed with a question for him.

One that she’d been too afraid to ask…well, anyone, truthfully.

She waited until he’d taken the first sip of his tea before she sprung it on him.

“Tobias, can I ask you a potentially stupid question?” Cyril winced.

“Stupid?” He blinked. “I doubt it is anything of the such, but I’m happy to entertain any of your curiosities if I can.”

Gods, he really was a far too kind and patient man.

The best she’d ever get from Dion was a judgemental, “Try me.”

“Why are moon-fae called moon-fae?” she all but blurted out. “I…I understand sun-fae, I think. Our lands are hot and dry and steeped in the sun. But it is sunny in Reykr, too, and plenty hot from what I’ve seen already.”

Definitely a stupid question.

She felt her cheeks burn as she kept fumbling the words out.

Tobias only smiled at her. All warmth, no judgment.

“It was many eons ago, but the people of Reykr were once children of the night,” he explained, “our lives guided by nothing but the moonlight and sea of stars. Obviously, that is not entirely the case anymore, but we still find ways to pay homage to our roots. You’ll get a good taste of it on the solstice in a few weeks, I’m sure.”

“Is the solstice different here?”

Gods, Cyril hoped not.

Summer Solstice was one of her favorite days of the year, and they did it really damn well in Helia. She was so desperate for a night to unwind that didn’t involve being stuffed in a lounge that she never considered the possibility that Reykr might not celebrate their holidays the same.

“Only in the sense that the festivities do not start until well after nightfall,” Tobias said, and Cyril breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ll see that is the same for all our celebrations too. We still have great respect for the night, so they always take place in the evenings, preferably out under the open sky, and they rarely end until we are freed by the mercy of dawn’s first light.”

Tobias chuckled, like maybe he struggled to make it to dawn a few too many times in his life. Cyril could only imagine how many solstice celebrations he’d seen.

“Well, I’m looking forward to the solstice even more now if it means I won’t be stuck out in the sun all day.” Cyril smiled, and Tobias chuckled again, shaking his head. She was sure that was about as boisterous as the man got. “And thank you for answering my question.”

“Of course, dear. You needn’t be afraid to ask things of the like in here. You said yourself that the time our people have spent divided has done us no favors, and I am glad to do my part to rectify some of that.”

To that, Cyril could only nod.

This wasn’t the time or place to unpack the full breadth of just how true that statement was. Tobias didn’t push it any further either. He just sipped his tea as Cyril did hers, and didn’t say another thing until his eyes snagged somewhere behind her and he tipped his head.

He looked back at her as he said, “Have you not been dining with Their Majesties? It just dawned on me you’ve been here well past dinner most days.”

“Oh, no.” Cyril breathed a nervous laugh. “Everyone else is gone now, and that’s…well it’s a bit too intimate for me.”

On the first day that Dion was away, Cyril hadn’t even given it a second thought when Runa checked if she would join them for dinner. Truthfully, she was looking forward to possibly broaching the subject of ascension and nymph blood with the queen after they ate.

Cyril just hadn’t realized that them entailed Runa, Lars, and Mikael.

No one else.

Astor and Reyna were off visiting her family, and the rest of the guardsmen had all gone back to their usual evenings spent in the barracks or at home with their own families.

A private dinner for four with the Kallans was a bit more intimate than she was comfortable with.

Lars and Runa had been absorbed in conversation with each other almost immediately, leaving Mikael and Cyril sitting across from each other in silence. On and off for their entire meal, the prince observed her in a way that had her wondering why in the hells the dining room was so hot. It felt like every time she looked up that cocked head and glacial blue stare were fixed on her.

She almost wished he’d go back to asking her grating questions.

Cyril had eaten the rest of her meals in her room since then.

“I just prefer the quiet, and being alone,” Cyril added, as if she even needed to justify herself to Tobias.

“I understand completely.” He nodded.

“It reminds me though,” she winced, “that I won’t be around much for the rest of the week. There is training with the guard, and I think it runs all day. I might still come in the afternoons if it doesn’t, but—”

Tobias waved his hand.

“Train and rest, and don’t worry about this all for a few days. The books and I will be here when you are done.” He started stacking some tomes they had spread across the worktable. “It wouldn’t do you any good to be tired on your first day, either, so go get a meal in you and turn in.”

“Is that an order?” Cyril chuckled.

A sliver of amusement passed through his face.

“Why yes, Lady Cyril, it is.” Tobias jerked his chin towards the door. “Get a move on.”

Cyril did not need to be told twice.

She waved goodbye to Isa and Konnor—and mouthed an apology to Tobias when the youngest scribe yelled her goodbye back—and headed back up to her room. Dinner was already waiting for her there, along with a generous pour of wine, and she wasted no time diving into them both.

Then came the task of trying to fall asleep at a reasonable hour.

Even after laying out her base layers for the next day, and spending a bit longer than she should have sitting on her balcony, Cyril couldn’t sleep.

Mikael’s warnings about the training not being glamorous be damned. She was excited. He didn’t know the first thing about just how unglamorous the training she had received back home at the guild was.

The arrogant prick probably thought she wasn’t cut out for whatever was in store for the recruits, or that she’d turn tail as soon as she broke a sweat and got dirty.

Cyril looked forward to proving him wrong.

Chapter 16

Walking up the gravel path to the barracks under the full swing of sunrise, Cyril had little control over the excitement that hummed through every fiber of her body. She tried to school her grin into something neutral, tried to stop wringing her hands and fixing her braid, but her attempts were fucking useless.

Cyril was sure it would come back to bite her in the ass, but she hardly slept the night before. Buzzing and wide awake, she’d tossed and turned endlessly, and found herself up, dressed, and ready to go before the first flickers of dawn filtered across the sky.

She’d forced herself to wait out the hours on her balcony, watching the lake as those muted ripples of light reflected across its tenebrous surface. When the soft pinks and blues morphed into the warm hues of sunrise and the palace grounds stirred to life, she headed out to the barracks.

Through the propped open doors just up ahead, she could see Mikael doing the most mundanely normal thing she was sure she ever witnessed him do—tying back his hair. He wore what must have been the guard’s standard-issue base layers, all dark blues and blacks with Reykr’s sigil stitched onto the chest.

If his sullen expression was any indicator, the man was not a morning person at all.

Mikael cast Cyril a cool, appraising glance as she entered the main hall. Her excitement fizzled and died a miserable death as soon as the prince opened his damn mouth.

“You showed up.” His voice was low and flat, and his gaze drifted and lingered far longer than it should have—on the black, fitted layers she opted to wear, no doubt.

Cyril blinked up at him, suddenly reminded of just how cold, tired, and hungry she was. Snide comments and wandering eyes were not what she was in the mood for, even less so as some of the other King's Guard filtered into the room.

“And why wouldn’t I?” she challenged, folding her arms over her chest. Mostly for warmth, truthfully.

Mikael shrugged half-heartedly.

“It’s early, and no one actually enjoys running drills.”

Well, he was half right—it was fucking early. But as for the other…

“I enjoy them.”

The way his brows climbed in some sort of shitty amusement spoke volumes to just how little he believed her.

“We’ll see about that,” was all he said before he turned to the group of guards that watched them with less than discreet curiosity.

“Ari and Gunner, you remember Lady Cyril?”

Tension flickered in her jaw—Lady was not a title she bore with any amount of pride, and Mikael enjoyed wielding it whenever he could.

The two moon-fae men that she met during their string of large dinners offered her nods of acknowledgment. Both men were both friendly enough, but had kept to themselves during the dinners.

Ari, their captain, was a tall, reserved man with light olive skin and a mess of short, black curls. His warm, dark eyes always seemed to be on the lookout for something.

Gunner, if she remembered correctly, was a well tenured guard, and a complete contrast to Ari. Only a few inches taller than Cyril, he had a stockier build and sandy-brown hair that looked like it always hung in his light green eyes.

She willed a smile onto her face.

Mikael looked back at her and took a breath.

“Nolan, Kaia, Byron, Nikolai, Silas, Ellis.”

He motioned through the rest of the group with each name while Cyril returned each smile and nod and wave, but she was completely lost by the time he reached the end.

“Lady Cyril is visiting from Helia.” Mikael glanced between her and the guards, and the most infuriating smile tugged at his lips. “And apparently has a masochistic streak, so she plans to join some of our training of the recruits, entirely of her own free will.”

The group’s laughter covered up her petulant sigh.

She should have known this would be an uphill battle.

Gesturing towards the far end of the barracks, Mikael said, “Shall we? I think we’ve kept them waiting down on the grounds long enough.”

A few people grunted their agreements, and someone suggested they let them freeze their little asses off for a bit longer, before the others filed off through the building. Cyril fell in line close behind them.

The main hall they walked through was spacious, lined with dark, wood-paneled walls and a vaulted roof dotted with skylights. The walls themselves bore no shortage of weaponry and armor, housing everything from racks of shields that looked like they’d seen better days to decorative axes and glaives hung with bronzed plaques beneath them.

Of all the tables and chairs that filled the center of the room, laden with discarded uniforms and papers and leather blade rolls, no more than two seemed to match. Cyril wasn’t sure how a few of them were still even upright, with the conditions the legs were in.

The more she looked, the harder the budding ache in Cyril’s chest became to ignore. But she shoved away thoughts of that other place that also smelled like old leather and late nights.

It was not the time for pining after home.

At the far end of the barracks, a set of large doors gave way to another gravel path, and Cyril cursed quietly as the cool morning air again wrapped its claws around her.

When they reached the main clearing, well-appointed with striking dummies, ranged targets, and training weaponry, there were easily forty smiling faces waiting patiently. A mixture of men and women, much to her surprise, and not all of which were entirely fae.

Cyril hung back behind the King's Guard as Mikael addressed the trainees, giving some well-rehearsed speech about their accomplishments thus far, and the challenges they would still face. Apparently, they’d be lucky if half of them toughed it out to their alpine assessment the following spring.

A few eager faces fell at that revelation.

The arrogant prince spoke with a bit of conviction, at least, and the horde of trainees soaked up every word, hope written plainly on their faces.

It may have lit up a bit of warmth in her chest.

“Commander Kallan,” one of the King's Guard started. A woman whose name Cyril had already forgotten. “Should we introduce our guest before we start our warmup run?”

Cyril stiffened.

The few guards who served as the perfect barrier between her and the trainees each looked back at her and parted to either side.

Mikael looked amused.

“That wouldn’t hurt.” He gestured vaguely from Cyril to the trainees. “I’ll let you introduce yourself.”

The wave of far too many eyes settled on her, and she could hear her blood rushing behind her ears. This was not the sort of thing Cyril enjoyed in the least, but she’d be damned if she wasted the opportunity.

She took a couple of steps forward, a deep breath with each, and made a split-second decision as she placed her hand on her heart and said, “Cyril Rhodea. I’m from the Rogues’ Guild of Helia—”

Murmurs trickled through the bodies all around her, and Cyril schooled the grin that threatened to take over her face to something more demure. Casual. Like she’d done this a million times before.

“—and I am very much looking forward to taking part in your training.”

Mikael nodded as she spoke, and…was that a smile? If she hadn’t known better, it almost looked like the damn prince approved. Not that it mattered in the least what he thought, but that was a point for Cyril, and she’d happily take it.

“If everyone is ready?” Mikael looked about the group and eager nods rippled across. “We’ll start with our warmup run. I set the pace. You keep up with me, and we do not stop until I am tired, understood?”

The raucous salutes of, “Yes commander!” that broke the quiet calm of the morning were almost startling.

Cyril slotted herself in the middle of the group as they headed out behind the prince.

By the time Mikael decided he was tired of running, casualties rang high.

Two trainees were in tears, another had tripped on a root and rolled their ankle, and five others had veered into the bushes to void the contents of their stomachs. Cyril may have very well rounded that out to six if she hadn’t skipped breakfast before leaving her room.

Back in the main clearing, she braced her hands on her knees and struggled to catch her breath as the group gathered back up. There wasn’t an inch of her body that wasn’t soaked in sweat or aching, and it looked like everyone else—both trainees and guards alike—was just as bad off.

Except for Mikael, who looked like he barely broke a sweat. Not only was he insufferable, but had the stamina of a damn horse.

How fucking nice for him.

Running was something they did no small amount of at the guild. Dion and the others always said that a slow rogue was as good as a dead one, and Cyril had no reason to doubt that. But they focused on sprints and agility, to get out or up as fast as possible.

Endurance was important, but it came second to being able to get the fuck out. Especially enough endurance to get through nearly three damned hours of jogging without so much as even a passing thought about a break.

Cyril didn’t want to think about what was next if that was supposed to be their warmup.

A feminine voice had her looking up before she could dwell on it much longer.

“Here, Cyril. You look like you could use this.”

It was the same female guard from earlier, looking just as disheveled and sweat-soaked as Cyril felt, with a cup outstretched towards her. She would’ve hugged the woman if her base layers hadn’t felt like a swamp.

The water may have been the single most refreshing thing she’d consumed in her life so far. She tried not to guzzle it down like an animal.

“Gods, thank you—” Cyril winced. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

The tall, lean woman’s smile lifted the corners of her hazel eyes.

It was hard not to appreciate how striking she was, with stark white hair cut short and still feminine, and skin that was nearly as rich a shade of umber as Tyr’s. She lacked the wicked double canines that Cyril had grown accustomed to seeing, and it brought her no small amount of comfort.

“It’s alright! I’m Kaia Gatlin. There’s a lot of us to keep track of,” she said, taking Cyril’s empty cup from her. “Truthfully, I thought we were in for some babysitting today when Mik—the commander said a guest of the family was joining us. He didn’t say you were a damn rogue!”

Cyril was glad the run already had her cheeks blazing.

“I, well…” She rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s complicated. My uncle—”

Kaia sucked in a quiet gasp and some realization settled into her face. Harshly, she whispered, “Are you helping with the investigation too?”

A tight smile crept onto Cyril’s face, and she nodded.

“Well, this makes much more sense.” Kaia huffed a laugh and shook her head. “I guess Ari and Gunner will roll in their riches after—”

She clamped her mouth shut, eyes wide. But Cyril heard plenty.

“Did you bet on me?” she asked cooly.

A few broken syllables stuttered out of Kaia before she sighed and grimaced. “We might have…but, fuck, we didn’t know! Honestly, we thought you were some high-born lady the commander was pursuing, that Their Majesties were forcing his hand finally. We never—”

Cyril balked. She was certain that clear introductions had been made between herself and Gunner and Ari at one of those dinners. That they would imply to anyone she was just some prize livestock, being herded around for show by the prince…

“No, no, no. There’s no pursuing happening here—”

“I understand now!” Kaia waved her hands a bit exasperatedly, droplets of water flying from the cup she held. “I’m sure everyone does, and I—” She sighed, her shoulders dropped. “Before I fucked this all up royally, I was coming to see if you’d like to do my rotation with me?”

The grimace that hadn’t left Kaia’s face turned into more of a pleading smile.

Rotation. Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant.

The confusion simmering through her must have been obvious, because Kaia leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “He didn’t explain anything to you, did he?”

She shook her head. Other than the frosty welcome she’d gotten from the prince this morning, he hadn’t uttered a single word to her since the awkward as fuck dinner with his parents.

“Well, we take all of them”—Kaia slung her arm across Cyril’s shoulders and turned them around to face the trainees, all in various states of recovery from the run—“and divide them out into a few groups, with a couple of us assigned to each to guide them through their rotation of activities for the rest of the day. Then we shuffle up the groups and guards every day, so no one ruffles anyone’s feathers too badly.”

Kaia winked knowingly.

“And these activities…?”

“Ah! Right. Ranged weaponry, a bit of swordplay, and hand-to-hand combat. The usual. We try to save the grappling for the end of the day to get everyone back together.”

Cyril supposed guards were to be well-rounded in their abilities, depending on where they ended up stationed, but that was…a lot.

“You do that all in one day?” she asked, and Kaia nodded.

“For the first week, we do. It helps us weed through their natural strengths and weaknesses, so when we move into more focused training, we can better assign them out.” Kaia pulled her gaze from the trainees and looked at Cyril. “But that’s all boring semantics. Would you care to join me on my rotation?”

Cyril eyed her for a moment, pursing her lips.

She supposed the only other option was risking getting stuck with someone less hospitable—or worse, Mikael—for the rest of the day. At least Kaia was friendly, if a bit chatty.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” Kaia grinned and clasped her shoulder. Cyril’s aching knees wobbled. “Let's go see if we can get first dibs on picking out our group. We do not want to get stuck with that gaggle of idiots.”

Kaia jerked her chin towards a group of eight huddled near a bench, all in various stages of disarray. Two were fighting for their lives, sprawled on their backs in the dirt. The others sat on the bench, heads clutched in their hands or leaned against each other for support.

Cyril blinked.

“Is there something wrong with…all of them?”

“Not all of them,” Kaia sighed. “Individually they’re tolerable. I even think a couple of them might actually do well. But together? They’re about as coordinated as a couple of field mice three days deep into a faelock bender.”

“Three days into a what?” Cyril laughed, but Kaia only waved her off.

“Let's get moving before you’re stuck getting a live demonstration,” she said, tossing her arm across Cyril’s shoulders.

As Kaia steered her down another offshoot of the gravel pathway, Cyril took one look back at the group. One of the men was talking, and rather passionately at that, and not a single other soul was listening to him speak.

She chuckled, shaking her head.

A gaggle of idiots.

Cyril watched quietly as, over and over, one of the trainee’s arrows veered so far to the side that it nearly ended up on someone else’s target. The fifth or sixth time it happened, followed by a slew of profanities, she spoke up.

“Can I offer a suggestion?”

“I—uh, sure?” The man eyed her over his shoulder and lowered his bow.

“Basic stance doesn’t always work for everyone.” She mirrored his position, with her feet squared off shoulder width apart. “If you find you're prone to drifting, you can usually correct it by adjusting your footing. Since you are veering right, try standing more like this.” Cyril slid her left foot back a couple of inches. “And try it a few times. You can always adjust more if you need to.”

The trainee looked from Cyril to her feet, to his own, and shifted his stance.

He still looked uneasy as he said, “Thank you?”

Cyril smiled.

“Don’t thank me yet. Try it first.” She motioned for him to continue. “Oh, and your shoulders—”

His head whipped back.

“What’s wrong with my shoulders?”

“You’re tense and pulling them up. Just make sure to breathe and keep them square.”

He examined himself, shaking out his limbs. A forced rush of air left his lungs. “Right.”

An arrow whizzed through the air, slightly closer than the last half dozen had been. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at Cyril, and she waved him on, taking a few steps away to give him some space. Another couple of arrows fired, and he adjusted his stance and fired again.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

It wasn’t a bulls-eye by any means, but he hit the target.

Sort of.

A strong wind might have spelled the end of his victory, but Cyril grinned.

“See?” she said, gesturing out to the target, “You just need to listen to what your body is telling you.”

He looked from her, to the arrow hanging onto the target by a thread, and back to her. He grinned. “Thank you, seriously, Miss—”

His grin faltered and tension pulled through Cyril’s body at the voice that came from over her shoulder.

“Lady Cyril giving out personal lessons? You should consider yourself lucky, recruit.”

She turned slowly.

Mikael stood behind her with his hands clasped at his back and his head cocked in that predatory way that made her skin crawl. He wore a look of cool neutrality that she knew well from Dion. The same bullshit move he pulled whenever he thought a bit of intimidation was overdue.

“I—uh, thank you, Lady Cyril. Commander.” The trainee ducked his head and made himself scarce.

“Kaia?” Mikael shouted toward where she was struggling to restring a bow—the fourth one to come apart in just a couple of hours. When Kaia’s eyes found him, he motioned for her to come over.

Cyril knew exactly what was coming next.

The prince and her uncle truly were two peas in a fucking miserable pod.

“Mikael, this isn’t her—”

“I have a title here, Lady Cyril. I would suggest you use it and check your tone, or don’t address me at all,” he interjected, with the sort of commanding edge that had Cyril’s blood boiling.

If this arrogant asshole thought he was in any position to dictate how she spoke, he had another fucking thing coming.

Mikael’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, as if to say, Understood, before he turned to Kaia as she approached.

She ran a hand through her short, snowy hair and sighed, “Yes, Commander?”

Flatly, he said, “I’d love to understand why Lady Cyril here felt the need to take it upon herself to teach one of your recruits how to work around their inadequacies?”

“Inadequacies?” Cyril stared at Mikael.

The poor man was in fucking training.

“I…I didn’t ask her to do that, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Kaia’s attention bounced between Mikael and Cyril before she narrowed her eyes at the prince, waving vaguely behind her. “I’ve been busy cleaning up after whoever did a fucking piss-poor job of stringing the bows last night. I should thank her for—”

“If it happens again, I’ll pull you from training.”

Kaia balked.

“She’s qualified, Commander, I don’t understand what your—”

“Not up for discussion, Gatlin,” he rumbled. “You’ve got an hour. Go eat.” Mikael turned and left without another word, leaving Cyril and Kaia to stare at each other in silence. When he finally disappeared out of eyesight, Cyril winced.

“Shit. I am so sorry,” she said as she gathered the bow and half-empty quiver her trainee had discarded on the ground. “I didn’t mean to—”

The other woman shook her head.

“Not your fault.” Kaia looked in the direction Mikael walked and sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He usually loves training.”

It was Cyril’s turn to let her shoulders sag with a sigh.

“Oh, that’s definitely my fault. I think he hates me.”

Kaia’s features pinched.

“No…I don’t think it’s that.” She laughed and shook her head. “Honestly, chances are his bed’s been cold for a few days and he’s bent out of shape about it.”

Cold? Cyril certainly didn’t have any complaints about the temperature of—

Oh.

Oh.

Her cheeks heated.

Mercifully, Kaia clasped her on the shoulder and started steering her back to the barracks, saying, “Let’s get some food, yeah?”

As everyone filed into the barrack’s mess hall for lunch, Cyril took an opportune cut in from the gaggle of idiots to break away from Kaia and the other King's Guard. At the far end of the room, she found an empty table to eat her stew in a few moments of peaceful solitude.

Kaia shot her a few pointed glances, always subtly tipping her head towards the empty seat at her table, but Cyril just smiled and shook her head.

She needed a few minutes to herself, even if it was nearly impossible to collect her thoughts with the way her ears rang. Laughter and yelling and the clattering of tableware filled the air all around her, ebbing and flowing in cresting waves of volume.

If Cyril hadn’t been worried about it coming off as rude, she would have eaten outside. Having all her meals alone recently left her a little sensitive to distractions, never mind forty-odd living and breathing ones.

Mikael definitely hadn't helped either.

And she still couldn’t place where his overwhelming hate for her stemmed from. Sure, they hadn't gotten off on the right foot, but...

Just a show of dominance, maybe?

But that seemed wholly unnecessary.

Cyril had thought they made a bit of progress when he walked her to her room the other night, with that half-cordial conversation they had.

Apparently, she was wrong.

There was something about these authoritative men she’d never—

“Too good to sit with the rabble, hey?”

Cyril gave a start and grazed her knee on the underside of the table. She cursed quietly as Kaia sat down beside her, leaning back against the table.

“Sorry.” She gave Cyril a wry grin. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright.” Cyril slid her bowl aside and tossed Kaia a sidelong glance. “And no, nothing like that. I usually eat on my own, and besides—”

She glanced over to where Mikael and the rest of the King's Guard were still sitting. Not high on the list of places she wanted to spend her time.

Kaia nodded.

“I understand completely.” She rolled her shoulders and settled back on her elbows. “The rest of the afternoon will be hand-to-hand practice, but don’t feel obligated to stay if you’ve got more important things to do.”

Cyril blinked.

That felt like a thinly fucking veiled dismissal if she’d ever heard one.

“If I’m not welcome anymore, you can just say—”

“No! No, no.” Kaia shook her head and sighed. She shot a glance back at the guards’ table. “It’s just that… Well, the boss doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you to take part in these sorts of drills, you know”—she waved her arms around—“distraction and novelty, and all that. But you’re welcome to stay and watch if you want. Just might not be the most interesting afternoon you’ve ever had.”

So the asshole was trying to get rid of her now.

Cyril insulted his fragile, pathetic masculinity, and now he thought he could just push her out of the way. Fuck that.

“Oh, I’m happy to just stick around and watch.”

Cyril looked at Kaia and grinned.

The wicked approval that crept across Kaia’s face in response was enough to carry her through the next couple of hours of sitting on a rickety and worn bench in the barrack’s arena.

Chapter 17

Her ass tingled with pinpricks and the ache of that morning’s run had settled fully into her legs, but Cyril watched, and watched, and watched as the guards worked their recruits through hand-to-hand drills.

Grappling and disarming. Where to and not to punch. How to pin and hold.

All afternoon, the entire arena echoed with shouts of profanities and laughter, and Cyril would be lying if she said she wasn’t pissed this was where Mikael drew the line for her. From spending all of her time training with men much larger than her in Helia, she had developed a useful set of skills. Ones that she would have enjoyed being able to impart to a few of the female recruits.

From her periphery, she saw the arrogant prick of a prince make his way along the edge of the arena. Coming to tell her to leave, no doubt, and maybe to never come back.

She stood and leaned back against the wall.

Mikael was silent as he came to a stop beside her, hands clasped behind his back like usual, his entire body drawn into a tight line. It was like she wasn’t even there, with how his attention never left the trainees.

“Yes, Your Highness?” Cyril drawled, turning her own eyes back across the arena.

He sighed.

“If I came off as rude earlier, I apologize.” Mikael’s tone was forced, as if apologizing was the least natural thing he’d ever done. “These early days of training are crucial to the long-term success of our recruits, and I have immensely high expectations of my guards during it.”

That much was obvious.

“I can see that,” was all Cyril mustered back.

There wasn’t a fucking chance she would give him the satisfaction of knowing she appreciated the apology, and the way he turned his attention to her sent any budding sarcastic remark she had skittering.

Cyril forced herself to look back out to all the training pairs, working their way through flows and moves. A few were wrapping up, limping, and hobbling back into the barracks.

“I was also informed,” he continued a bit more quietly, despite Cyril being certain their conversation should have been over, “that you are under the impression that I hate you?”

His words hung.

Cyril barely knew Kaia, but she was going to fucking strangle the woman after this.

Mikael sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”

“Is there a reason I should think otherwise?”

“It’s hard to hate someone I know so little about.” From her periphery, he shrugged. “Are you difficult to talk to? Yes. Are you abrasive? Incredibly. But I do not know you well enough to hate you.”

“But you know enough to think I’m, oh, what was it…” Cyril tapped a finger on her lip. “Unremarkable?”

She shouldn't have said anything at all. Just took his entirely forced apology and left. But if he already thought she was abrasive…

“Ah.” He nodded slowly, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Well, in the future, I’ll be explicitly clear about the difference between an intelligence briefing and my personal opinions. It may come as a surprise to you, Lady Cyril, but they are not the same.”

Enough of the guards were in earshot now, making their way over after sending the rest of their trainees in for the day, that Cyril decided to not indulge him with another response.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” he asked, like they’d just been talking about the weather.

“It depends.” Her voice was quiet as she rocked back and forth on her heels, the picture of casual ease. Kaia smiled and waved as she made her approach with a few others. Cyril waved back with a smile as she muttered, “If I’m just going to be forced to sit on the sidelines again, I’m better off trying to spend the day with Dion and the others.”

Cyril looked up at Mikael just in time to see the corner of his lip quirk.

Then, just loud enough for the others to hear, she added, “I’m happy to come back tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, if you’ll let me take part in all the activities.”

A sigh and sidelong glance told her the prince was fully aware of what Cyril was playing at.

“Come on, boss!” Kaia pleaded, hands clasped in front of her. “We never have enough women around, and capable ones at that. You know…” She tapped her cheek. “I think she might even give you a run for your money if it came down to it.”

The frustration that settled into Mikael’s features brought no small amount of amusement to Cyril. Like he, too, knew that Kaia was entirely correct.

“This isn’t a group decision, Gatlin. I will be the one who—”

“Kaia has a point on both fronts,” Ari mused from where he leaned against the wall.

Gunner nodded alongside him. “I’d pay good money to see the two of you spar, I’m sure it’d be a hell of a show.”

Mikael clenched his jaw, just the living and breathing embodiment of exasperation, but Cyril cut in before he had a chance to say anything.

“How much money is good money? More than you already bet on me today, or…?” She raised her brow.

“Well, I…” Ari looked away, coughing quietly, but surprise flared in Gunner’s eyes. The commander didn’t look quite so amused.

“You’re all going to drive me fucking mental. You included.” Mikael cast Cyril a pointed glare. “There will be no betting. No sparring. No group—”

“What if I have a proposition for you?”

Mikael groaned. “Can I not finish speaking?”

“Thought you’d just want to protect your pride.” Cyril shrugged. “But if you don’t want to…”

“My pride?” His expression hardened, and Cyril knew her bait landed perfectly.

She was certain she had an ally in Kaia now, possibly with Ari and Gunner too if their keen interest was any indicator, and the temptation to rile Mikael up with them was far too good to pass up.

“Correct.” She nodded. “You and I grapple. If you win, which I don’t see why the Commander of the King's Guard wouldn’t…then I won’t come back. But if I win, I’ll be back bright and early every day. For all activities.”

Kaia let out a low whistle.

The faintest hint of consideration passed through his face as Mikael studied her. He shook it away. “No, Cyril. I’m twice your size, and—”

“So are my uncles!” Cyril scoffed. “Ren sounds like a fucking tree when he goes down, but I still know how to get him on his ass.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re going to need a better cop-out than that.”

“If I hurt you…”

“Do your worst. It’s not like my bones will break.”

Mikael blinked. “What?”

Cyril waved her hand. She was sure the uncanny flexibility of nymph bones was common knowledge. “Try again. Or are you just worried I might actually knock you on your ass?”

“No, that is not what I am worried about—”

“Well, if you aren’t worried…” Cyril swept an arm out to the arena, a wild grin on her face. “Then what are we waiting for, Commander Kallan?”

Mikael’s shoulders sagged, and he scrubbed his palms over his face—Cyril knew she won, and the giddy excitement seeped in before he even opened his mouth.

Was it the smartest bet she’d ever made? Not at all.

But it would be the most entertainment she’d had in a while.

“Gods, every single fucking one of you is difficult,” he grumbled. “Fine. We go wrap up with the recruits and then…” A sigh of disbelief left him. “And then Cyril and I will spar.”

“So, uh, you think you can take him, hey?”

Cyril blinked up at Kaia, who came to wait out in the arena.

“I do. And about twenty minutes ago, you seemed quite confident in me too.”

Kaia laughed nervously and said, “Well, I mean, I’m sure you’re capable. But Mikael, he’s—”

“Bigger than me? Stronger than me?” She scoffed and leaned over her leg, wincing at the pull in the muscle. Stretching a bit while Mikael and a few of the guardsmen had gone to wrap up with the trainees seemed prudent. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

The look Kaia fixed her with spoke of nothing but conflict.

“Just try to not get hurt, alright? You definitely won’t be coming back to do anything with us if that happens.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cyril grumbled.

Would it kill people to believe in her capabilities once in a while?

It was infuriating how much easier her life would have been if she wasn’t a woman. No one would bat an eyelash, she was sure, if it were Dion or Bron here challenging the prince to a friendly physical wager. But gods forbid her and her feeble female body be capable of anything…

She ignored the hand Kaia offered to help her off the ground as Mikael and the others entered the arena again. If Kaia wanted to waver in her support, Cyril couldn’t be bothered with her.

Mikael shook his head at her when they met in the middle, but Cyril just asked, “Any rules?”

“No weapons.”

“Weapons?”

Mikael’s eyes dipped down to her boots.

Oh.

Cyril laughed. “Those.”

She eased out the thin blades tucked in the leather along the sides of her calves and tossed them over to where the rest of the guards gathered in a group.

“Any other rules?”

He leaned in, his eyes flickering with a mischievous glint, and said, “Try not to be too pissed with me when you lose, alright?”

Oh. She was going to enjoy this.

Cyril backed a few healthy steps away from Mikael. She lowered her center of gravity, shifting her weight from side to side until she felt comfortable and grounded. Basic, reliable defensive stance.

Mikael did the same.

“Ready?” she asked.

The prince only nodded, and they started their dance.

Slow, measured steps at first, as they circled each other.

Assessing. Observing.

Every time Cyril would shift her body with a slight movement, tension would flicker through every long line of muscle in Mikael's body. Ready to react, to strike.

He knew what he was doing, at least.

But just as Cyril assumed, the prince had no patience.

Whether he just wanted this over with, she didn’t know, but they hadn’t even circled each other twice when he moved to grab her.

And Cyril let him.

She let him grab her arm and haul her over.

Let him think he could use his weight to force her down, oblivious to the fact that this was exactly what she wanted. Taking down men this much larger than her wasn’t about overpowering them with raw strength, it was all about taking their predictability and turning it against them.

Cyril’s feet skidded across the dirt until she planted her heel and used the momentum to turn into him. Her elbow hit the center of his chest with such force that pain jolted up to her shoulder and straight down to her fingers. But Mikael released his grip on her arm and staggered back, a half-choked profanity tumbling out of him.

Fucking bullseye.

But Cyril couldn’t revel in her victory or the wild look in his eyes for long. She took a step and swung her knee, feinting for his groin—a dirty move, but one built on necessity.

As all men did by pure instinct, Mikael flinched and swatted for her leg.

Everything that came next happened as a blur, Cyril’s body operating solely on the muscle memory built on countless hours of doing exactly this. She could almost hear Bron shouting at her in her mind.

Cyril gripped Mikael’s arm, pulling him towards her.

Swung for his groin again, and did not feint this time.

When Mikael hunched over with a groan, trying to rip his arm away from her, she twisted it back as she rotated around him.

A well-placed kick dropped the distracted prince to his knees, and she wrenched his arm back at a wholly unnatural angle until he was flat on his chest in the dirt. Colorful and half-choked profanities tumbled out of him the entire way down.

Cyril held Mikael in place the best she could, with one knee pinned to his free arm and the other in the middle of his back.

She fucking did it, and the rush of adrenaline finally caught up with her.

A tightened grip on his arm and a firmer press into his back were all she could do to stop the trembling that started in her hands. Her heart raced and her skin buzzed, and this felt way too good.

“Point fucking made,” Mikael hissed, his cheek pressed into the dirt.

But Cyril wasn’t done with him yet.

She tangled her fingers into his hair, already half-loose from the knot he wore it in, and pulled his head back. The prince groaned as she dug her knee into his back harder than she needed to.

“What was that, Your Highness?” she crooned. “Do you yield?”

“Yes, I fucking yield.”

He thrashed beneath her, and Cyril finally lost her grip.

She took a few scrambling steps back out of the reach of his limbs as Mikael rolled onto his back with a rumble of a groan. Covered nearly head to toe in a fine coating of the arena’s red earth, he rubbed at his chest with a grimace that put a smile on her face.

He’d feel that lovely reminder of his misjudgment for days.

Clapping and whistling erupted from the side of the arena, and Cyril had no control over the pride that swelled in her chest. It had been there, budding and flickering to life, the moment she got the prince on his knees, but it was an unrestrained beast now.

Going into this, she was quite confident holding her own was something she could handle. But taking Mikael down? Cyril hadn't been certain that was in the cards.

It was a risky, stupid gamble on her part that paid off in spades.

“What the fuck.” Mikael sounded a shade or two away from himself again, propped up on his elbows. He looked a little amused, at least. “You fight dirty.”

“It’s the only way I know how.” Cyril shrugged, though her grin surely betrayed anything casual about her. “You’ll have to give clear rules next time.”

“Next time?” Mikael laughed dryly as he sat up fully. He rubbed at his chest and winced. “No. No, thank you. Once was plenty.”

Cyril extended a hand to help him up. The least she could do after embarrassing him so thoroughly.

“You know all my secrets now, anyway. I wouldn’t—”

A startled yelp left her as Mikael gripped her hand and hauled her down to the ground.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She let her guard down for a fucking second, and he knew it.

“Mikael!” she half-shrieked, half-laughed as he grabbed her by the waist and tossed her like she weighed nothing. She tumbled a few feet across the arena floor, kicking up dirt and dust and swearing, before she clamored to her feet.

Mikael was already up and backing well away from her with a wolfish grin on his face, his auburn hair loose and wild. The look he fixed her with, glacial and full of challenge, sent her heart pounding in a wholly unfamiliar way.

That was the steady flow of adrenaline that had a spark of heat smoldering low in her belly, right?

“You are fucking dead,” Cyril growled before she broke out into a run towards Mikael.

What she planned on doing when she caught him? She hadn’t thought that far. But anything seemed better than spending another second acknowledging whatever the fuck flickered to life in that moment.

Despite Cyril’s traitorous hands and mind reminding her that the prince was nothing but a tower of well-built muscle, he moved far faster than he had any right to. He took off sprinting towards the group of guards that had doubled in size since she last looked.

The sea of bodies parted, a haze of laughter and cheers, as they wove through, and Cyril finally caught up. Mikael might’ve had strength and size in his favor, but she had speed.

Cyril reached for his shirt, her fingers skimming the fabric stretched across his shoulders, and—

She slammed into his back with a soft groan. It was like hitting a fucking tree.

Breathlessly, Mikael said, “Mother.” A pause. “Dion.”

Cyril stiffened.

Oh, fucking hells.

Of course, this was how her day would end.

Cyril had kicked the prince’s ass, had all of two fucking minutes to ride that high, and now was going to be in such immeasurably deep shit. She’d spent the better part of the last week with her nose in tomes, doing everything in her power to avoid inciting another verbal lashing from Dion, and it was going to be for nothing.

As she stepped around Mikael, Cyril braced herself for the murderous look that Dion was bound to have on his face. A lecture had to be incoming about her childish behavior and—

Dion was smiling.

A wry and genuine thing that she’d seen less and less of recently.

Less surprisingly, Runa had a look of pure amusement on her face that answered any questions Cyril had about how much they witnessed.

Dion extended an arm out to her in invitation.

“When did you get back?” Cyril asked.

She was filthy as all hells, but he didn’t seem to mind as she stepped into his embrace. The subtle, clean scent of his cologne that wrapped around her was a welcome change to the dirt and sweat she’d been smelling all afternoon.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and squeezed her shoulders as he said, “Just in time to catch the show. Would’ve been sorely disappointed if I missed out on that.”

Cyril’s cheeks ran hot, and the urge to fold in on herself was strong. Her heart still raced from her victory, but toss in a hint of approval from her uncle? Too much for one day.

“That makes two of us,” Runa added. “Dion’s always bragged in his letters about how much time you’ve spent training at the guild. I’m glad to have seen it in action.”

“I—ah, well…” She cleared her throat.

A glance at Mikael showed he too looked just about as uncomfortable as Cyril felt. He stood there, his jaw tense, looking at no one in particular as he rubbed at his chest. It had to be aching just as bad as the dull throb in her elbow she could no longer ignore.

“I, for one, quite look forward to hearing all about the day over dinner.” Runa tossed a pointed glance at her son. “Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mikael replied with a tight smile.

He glanced at Cyril, opening his mouth, but he clamped it shut a moment later. The prince dipped his head instead, backing away a few steps before he turned and walked away.

Cyril blinked after him, but a gentle tug from Dion had Cyril walking with him towards the exit of the arena. Runa fell into step beside them.

“You handled yourself well out there,” Dion said quietly, and Cyril was officially fucking flustered. “Bron is going to be thrilled when he hears—”

“GOODBYE CYRIL! WE’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW!” Kaia hollered from across the arena.

Dion laughed as Cyril turned back to wave.

“Did my incorrigible niece make friends?” he mused.

“Ah, sort of?”

“Good.” He gave her another squeeze that had her smiling. “Once we’re back upstairs, I’ll give you some salve for your elbow.”

Cyril blinked at him. “How did you…?”

“You hit him harder than you needed to,” Dion smirked. “And I know your tells better than anyone else, kiddo.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

Mikael fought a losing battle as he watched his mother, Dion, and Cyril leave the arena. He wasn’t entirely sure what the fuck just happened, but his body was making one thing painfully clear—he was into the Rhodea woman. Even with the persistent ache in his chest he was certain would be a problem for days, he couldn’t keep his damn eyes off of her.

Specifically: her legs. Her backside. Her waist and how fucking perfect the subtle curve of it had felt in his hands.

Mikael flexed his fingers, trying to shake that soft yet toned feeling.

A fruitless act.

Even though a desperately clinging sliver of rationality told him he wanted nothing to do with her, he couldn’t fucking help it. He was a hot-blooded fae male, his bed had been unusually cold as of late, and Cyril’s snug base layers left very little to his rampant imagination. He certainly wouldn’t mind her on top of him with her fingers in his hair in a decidedly different context, that was for sure.

But there was something more to it than just some simple, primal itch he desperately needed to scratch. He saw the wild flicker of heat in her eyes too. He saw the current of interest that ran through her, the way her cheeks flushed when he just looked at her.

This wasn’t simple at all. No, this was…

Mikael sighed.

Not a notion he would entertain in the slightest right now. The embarrassment of that abysmal loss had to be buried in him somewhere too, and he needed to focus on processing that blow to his ego.

Maybe resenting her a little for it while he was at it.

As Mikael walked back to the lingering guards, Byron wasted no time in looking right at him and saying, “There goes your next conquest, hey boss?”

The other few guards all chuckled. Save for Kaia, who grumbled about how disgusting they all were with clear disdain. But the gleam of metal in his periphery caught Mikael’s attention, and he glazed over the comment.

Cyril had left her boot knives in the dirt on the side of the arena. He picked them up to bring to dinner.

“I’ll bet two coppers he’s got her bent over his desk before the end of the week,” Silas said, making an overtly lewd gesture with his body.

That caught Mikael’s full attention.

He turned back to them and snarled, “Enough.”

A few of the men stilled, exchanging glances with each other. Kaia smiled.

“In case it has already slipped the empty shells of your fucking skulls,” Mikael said slowly, “that was Lady Cyril, and she is a guest of my family. Martial prowess aside, you will treat her with some respect.”

He leveled a glance with the group that left little room for argument. Amusement fizzled from faces in an instant.

“Am I understood?”

Silas and Byron both grumbled their reluctant understanding and began sauntering off into the barracks to clean up for the day. The rest of the group filed away slowly after them.

Mikael raked his hands through his hair, unsure of when it had even come undone, and started his walk back to the palace. He took the long way, and hoped it would give him plenty of time to cool off before he readied for dinner and before he would surely be stuck sitting beside Cyril for the duration of it.

His mother was a cruel and smart woman, to her credit.

And his guardsmen could piss right off.

They knew damn well he could have her bent over in whichever direction he pleased in a day or two if he worked at it. But for once in his life, he wasn’t after some petty, quick fuck from a pretty girl. Not this one, at least. Those were needs he could see tended to elsewhere.

There was something else at play with the Rhodea woman that he was far more interested in watching pan out. And his curiosity always got the best of him, for better or worse.

Chapter 18

Queen Runa was a hard woman to deny. When dinner wrapped up and she cast a pointed glance at Cyril and Mikael, they both understood her ask of, “Join me for a drink?” was more of a polite command than it was an actual question.

Lars and Dion seemed keen to slip away to smoke and drink and discuss the investigation anyway. From what little Cyril overheard from their end of the table, it sounded like interviews in the city were not surfacing many fruitful leads and Dion was not pleased about it.

Not a conversation she had any interest in participating in.

So Cyril followed the prince and the queen across the dining room, where they settled into a spread of plush chairs by the hearth. Between the extremely generous pours of red wine from Mikael, an indulgent meal, and the dead weight her limbs had become, Cyril was at serious risk of never making it back out of the damn chair.

“So, Cyril,” Runa started, and Cyril tensed.

Not already.

Dinner had gone so well too.

Dion and Runa had given Lars a colorful commentary on the spectacle he missed that afternoon, much to the chagrin of Mikael, who looked like he wanted no part of the conversation.

The prince laughed with them, at least, when Dion regaled the table with stories of the earlier days of Cyril’s training. She hadn’t realized just how many times one of the rogues at the estate almost lost an eye or a finger teaching her how to handle blades. Her cheeks burned and ached by the time their main course came around.

But nights and days like this one never could end on a fucking high note.

In most cases, Dion was the one responsible, but what would it be from Runa? A misguided comment about her parents? Or did she dig up something else of Malia’s, and think now was the time to surface it?

“I was in the archives this morning.” Runa smiled, and Cyril let out a slow breath. “Tobias mentioned how much they’ve enjoyed having you there for the last couple of weeks. He sang remarkably high praises for how quickly you’ve been picking up on our old language.”

Oh.

“Ah, well…” Cyril coughed quietly, and hoped the room’s dim glow masked some of the warmth blooming in her cheeks. Not what she’d worked herself up to at all. “He’s been a very patient teacher with me. And I… Well, I think speaking it is out of the question, but it’s getting easier to read.”

Runa’s eyes lit up.

“Humor me. Can I ask you a question?”

Cyril nodded, and the words that came out of Runa’s mouth next were a flurry of lilting sounds she caught no part of.

“Can you…say that again?” Cyril winced. She was certain it was the old language, but that was it.

Runa repeated herself, and Cyril clung onto a single word—vedr.

Weather.

Cyril didn't grasp the context, but she'd be damned if she didn't try.

“I don’t know how to answer properly, but…” She stared into the flickering hearth as if the flames might will themselves into exactly what she needed.

Sentence structures weren’t things Tobias spent much time on, given they weren’t useful to the investigation, but Cyril knew at least a handful of words, two of which seemed perfect.

“Varmr, and…sol?” she fumbled out, positive she butchered the pronunciations.

Runa’s entire face lit up, and she leaned forward to squeeze Cyril’s knee.

“I’m not sure what I’m missing.” Mikael blinked between the two of them, his lips parted. “But I’m feeling left out.”

“I asked Cyril how the weather was out on the grounds today,” Runa said, a smile still plastered on her face.

“Right.” Mikael looked at Cyril. “And you said…?”

“Warm. Sun.”

He nodded slowly, and the temptation to forcibly remove the surprised look from Mikael’s face was difficult to ignore.

If the prince thought she was all brawn and no brains because of that afternoon, he was sorely mistaken. Cyril didn’t have the brute force of Ren or the others, or the masterful mind of someone like Tobias, but Dion had done well to ensure her upbringing had a measure of balance. She spent just as much time with books as she did with weapons.

“Honestly, Cyril, I’m impressed,” Runa said. “Not many people can read the old language well, and even fewer can speak it with any sort of fluency. Just that you are even attempting to learn it is a feat you should be proud of.”

Cyril smiled sheepishly.

It had been out of necessity that she learned at least a base amount of it for their investigations. It likely wouldn’t have been something she ever attempted on her own. But Runa dished out compliments and praise unlike anyone she’d ever met before.

Were mothers just…like this?

“Doesn’t Astor speak it fluently?” Mikael asked, and Cyril was certain that was the only time she’d ever heard him speak his brother’s name.

She’d almost forgotten about the crown prince with the time he’d been away with his wallflower of a wife.

“Ah, sort of.” Runa grimaced—not well, then. Mikael huffed a laugh into his glass of wine. “He can manage. He learned enough to make Reyna comfortable since it’s her mother tongue and what she prefers to speak when given the chance.”

And just like that, the queen addressed Cyril’s curiosities about why the crown princess had such an unusual accent. She just hadn’t considered that Reyna could still be from Reykr.

“I had no idea that’s what she spoke,” Cyril said. “It would have been great to have her around when Tobias and I were translating this decrepit scroll on elemental cleansing. It took us hours to get through it, and—”

“You translated an old text?” Mikael sounded tucked somewhere right between shocked and impressed, but his mother swatted at him.

“Never mind him, did you say elemental cleansing?”

“I, uh… Yes, and yes.” Cyril blinked at them both. “I thought it might have something to do with the patterns of the runes left behind at each of the murders”—and she still thought it did, despite everything—“but, well, it looks like I was wrong about it.”

She could’ve sworn the prince snorted, but Cyril was more focused on making sure Dion wasn’t listening from where he smoked and drank with Lars at the far end of the room.

“What was your theory?” Runa asked.

Gods, Cyril didn't feel like humoring another person with the story of her failure. She’d keep it brief for the queen.

“A few years ago, we had a vigilante in Epheos, our port in Helia, who went around and killed half a dozen criminals. With the whole notion of the elements and using them to cleanse like the scroll said the old culture here used to practice, I thought something similar could be happening. But I went through all the victim files with Dion and, well…”

“Was it Dion that said you were wrong?”

“In more words than that, but yes.” She sighed. “There isn’t a single reason anyone would want to…cleanse any of those poor people. So I was mistaken.”

“I see. Well, perhaps tomorrow afternoon, if the commander will grant you an early leave”—Runa tossed a pointed glance at her son—“you can finally join me for that walk in the gardens. I’d love to hear more about what you’ve been learning.”

Mikael sipped his wine and shrugged.

“Cyril is free to come or go whenever she wants.” There was just a hint of bitterness in the sidelong glance he cast on her. Cyril reveled in it. “She earned that.”

“She certainly did.” Runa grinned and looked back at her. “You’ll join me?”

“I’d like that.” Cyril nodded.

It sounded lovely, and she had carried a kernel of guilt about Runa’s first failed attempt to take her to the gardens. She admired them from her room every day and had plenty of opportunities to visit them, but it never felt right to go on her own.

The queen gave her a nod of acknowledgment and rose from her chair.

“I think it’s time for me to turn in. I’ll leave the two of them to enjoy themselves,” she said, tipping her head toward Lars and Dion.

Cyril rose with her.

“I’ll walk back with you.”

It was getting late, and she didn’t want to risk being forced into an awkward conversation alone with the prince, or into interrupting her uncle. She was determined for the day to end on a high note.

“I should go too.” Mikael sighed and shot back the rest of his wine.

His mother reached for his arm and for Cyril's too, clearly set on being escorted arm-in-arm. Cyril couldn’t stifle her wince when the queen's fingers grazed her elbow, and Mikael’s eyes shot to her.

“So you did hurt yourself,” he said dryly.

Whether he was annoyed or amused, she couldn't tell, but Cyril chose not to respond to him. She only gave Runa a reassuring smile when the queen’s worried eyes found her own.

They left the dining room without another word and walked a quiet, somewhat uncomfortable walk back to the residences. Exhaustion lulled Cyril to sleep the moment she crawled into bed, a healthy slathering of Dion’s salve on her elbow.

Cyril knew the royal gardens would be a thing of beauty up close—the glances she stole from her balcony told her as much. But being here, traversing the pathways through flora that was blooming and vibrant and fragrant…

Words eluded her.

And they had since the moment Runa led her through the gates, but the queen didn’t seem to mind. While Cyril gawked and gaped at fronds as big as her body, and more colors of flowers than she could name, Runa taught her about the gardens.

Lars’ grandfather built some parts of it based on designs his own mother thought up while the palace was in its infancy—a timeframe ago that Cyril couldn’t fathom. Each generation since had added its own touch, with new plots, paths, and plants.

They made an effort over the years to introduce botanicals from faraway lands into the collection as well. Pieces collected from Southern Carinae, and from as far as the mortal continent and nymph lands, sat woven tastefully through pieces native to Reykr.

It all reduced Cyril to nothing more than breathy incantations of wow for almost an hour until Runa finally motioned for her to sit at a wrought-iron table set outfitted with pale blue cushions.

Cyril ran her fingers through her hair, still damp from the hurried bath she’d taken after leaving training, as Runa flagged down a maid and asked them to bring some refreshments out. Something cold, she hoped, after walking around under the humid heat of the late afternoon sun.

“So, I take it you approve of our quaint little gardens?” Runa mused, her smile coy, as she settled into the chair beside Cyril’s.

“Immensely,” Cyril chuckled.

Even from the unassuming little alcove they sat tucked in, they had pleasant views of a fountain hewn from moonstone. Not a single area crafted without thoughtful consideration.

“You’re welcome here anytime you like. The men don’t seem overly interested in ever coming out, so it’s perfect for when you need…” Runa pursed her lips. “Peace and quiet.”

She raised a knowing brow at Cyril.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And on the subject of men, has Mikael been treating you well?”

Cyril blinked.

“I think so?”

Runa laughed, a clipped bark of a noise. “That doesn’t give me much confidence.”

“I, ah—” Cyril grimaced.

Was she even in a position to speak candidly about him with his mother?

She hoped so.

“I don’t think we get along well. And after what I did yesterday…” A nervous laugh left her. “That probably didn’t help. He seemed pretty…” Miserable. Arrogant. Standoff-ish. The list went on and on. “Unenthused about me being there today. I’m not sure if I should even go back, really, I…”

Cyril was rambling, and the queen wore a grin of total amusement.

“Mikael can be abrasive sometimes. Often, actually.” She smiled tightly. “Despite my best efforts with him, he always feels the need to prove himself.”

Runa waved over a maid, who hovered a few steps away with chilled teas. The queen thanked her and set one in front of Cyril.

“But my son has a good heart beneath those thorns. Truthfully,” she chuckled, “I think he’s gotten so used to women fawning over him everywhere he turns, and you’ve done quite the opposite of that.”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink.

She had a feeling that might be the case. As much of an arse as he was, there was no denying the prince was an attractive man, and women could be painfully predictable sometimes. She knew how much the ones of the south loved looks and titles.

“I think it’s a good thing, for what it’s worth,” Runa added, “But, my son’s overdue discomfort aside, I’m interested in hearing about what you’ve been learning in the archives.”

Cyril took another long sip of her drink, then she told Runa everything.

From the organization of runes at each of the murder scenes—which the queen already had base awareness of—to learning the root meaning of each and the seemingly endless days of fruitless hunting that led to the discovery of the lone, decrepit scroll on elemental cleansing. She ran nearly breathless rambling on about all the other things she sifted through before Tobias helped her with the daunting task of translating that scroll.

The ascension texts she borrowed were the only details she left out.

“And, well, like I said yesterday, Dion was quick to show me how all the reports disproved my theory.”

“Not the most surprising thing I’ve heard, unfortunately.” Runa sighed with an empathetic smile. “Humor me for a moment. How much do you know of our history here, in Reykr?”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink. It wasn’t like Reykr was a regular topic of conversation in the syllabus of her governess during her youth. And when they did discuss the moon-fae…well, those few lessons painted a picture of the northern fae as something Cyril was struggling to accept now.

“Surely you know of when the old kingdom fell?” the queen supplied, filling the awkward void of silence Cyril’s unease created.

“I know a bit,” Cyril admitted, and Runa gestured for her to continue. “My governess said when the last King of Carinae died centuries ago, and the Great Kingdom dissolved into the southern states, that most of the moon-fae left. And she said…”

The queen eyed her expectantly.

“Well, she said the reason they left was because all the lords appointed to the south were sun-fae, and they had conflicting…ideals. Apparently, the king was a tolerant man who let the moon-fae live as they would have in Reykr. So when the new lords tried to force them to assimilate, they left.”

That was all Cyril thought Runa should know of what she’d learned. The queen didn’t need to hear any of the parts of the moon-fae being referred to as savages who refused to adopt the civilized culture of the sun-fae.

“You’ve got most of the important background then.” Runa nodded slowly. “When the exodus started, very few of our people stayed behind. Mainly men, of course, who fell for the false promises of land, obedient wives, and riches.” The queen scoffed. “But those who came back, they traveled the same path as you and your uncles. Across Helia to the Stygias and then through the rift. We have many tales of how the rift itself was widened through the sheer volume of moon-fae passing back through it.”

Having seen the rift herself now, Cyril believed it. She could even imagine what it must have sounded like, to have thousands of hooves and feet passing through there, echoing against the veins of obsidian.

“I see,” she said quietly.

“This history lesson has a purpose, I promise,” Runa said with a wry smile as she picked up the pitcher made of frosted glass etched with roses, and refilled both of their teas. “With the generations our people spent in the south, many of them ended up with large families, and not just with other moon-fae. We settled with mortals and sun-fae and nymphs alike, and our mixed families and bloodlines all came back to Reykr together, which proved to be…problematic.”

Cyril tipped her head. “How so?”

“Well, for as many of our people who lived in the south, there were as many who never left Reykr. Since the very dawn of our people, they lived here in their villages, and many of them adopted a sort of…purist point of view. Thought themselves better than their brethren who ventured south and, in their eyes, muddied the bloodlines and brought unwelcome foreigners back to their lands.” Runa sighed heartily. “Old scholars like to say that red stained our rivers for a hundred years, with all the bloodshed and slaughter that ensued.”

“That’s…terrible. I—” Cyril pursed her lips. “A hundred years?”

“At least.” The queen laughed dryly and said, “And only brought to an end through more slaughter and bloodshed, of course.”

She sat back in her chair and tapped her fingers on her glass.

“Lars’ grandfather fought tooth and claw to reestablish the monarchy here back to its former power and glory, and once he did he was merciless. If a village was suspected to have even a fleeting tie to the purists, it was nothing but a scorch mark by the time his forces were through, and that went on for decades.”

Quietly, Cyril said, “That’s awful.”

A soft hum left Runa.

“It’s why Lars’ father spent so much of his rule trying to mend the atrocities committed by his father, and why Lars has done the same. Freeing people from their servitude, reuniting families, rebuilding villages, even a few strategic marriages to strengthen the ties…” The queen looked at Cyril with a raised brow.

“Strategic marriages?” Cyril tried to organize the questions that started flying around in her mind, and she grimaced.

A wistful sort of smile settled onto Runa’s face.

“You’re wondering if my marriage was one of them?”

Cyril nodded.

“Not in the traditional sense. I met Lars when he came to my village up on the Forn Peninsula on a tour with his father. He flirted shamelessly with me in the temple I worked in, and apparently decided he would make me his wife,” Runa chuckled, a fond glimmer in her eyes. “Now Lars meant it to be more of a romantic thing, that he would woo me so thoroughly in his short visit I would become enamored with him, but his father saw it as another opportunity for reconciliation. So he negotiated the details with the elders of my village, and Lars and I wed a few weeks later.”

“A few weeks? That’s—” Cyril gaped.

She despised the idea of marriage and fae bonding. Especially the foolish things people did when they were so enrapt with one another. In the south, women had it bad enough being betrothed to men they never met, but at least they had engagements that lasted for months...

To think of it being only weeks had Cyril shuddering.

Runa nodded as she said, “Quick? It was. The court officials fed Lars and me a myriad of reasons, and we had no grounds to question them. It wasn’t until after Lars took the throne that we found out that my village, well…” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “They sold me. Or Lars’ father bought me, depending on which lens you look through. It was a business transaction that they all wanted to settle quickly.”

The thought made Cyril’s stomach turn. How disgusting, that they treated Runa like goods being sold at the market.

“I’m so sorry that happened.”

Runa’s shrug was remarkably nonchalant for what she shared.

“It brought me a kind-hearted, loving husband and two beautiful, healthy children. I really could not ask for more. And”—Runa chuckled a little to herself—“when Astor came home from a tour, infatuated with a blonde priestess he’d met in the same village in the Forns, we made him court her thoroughly.”

“Reyna?” Cyril asked.

She felt brazen now, with all that the queen had shared with her so freely.

Runa nodded.

“About a year after they met, she moved here so they could live together for more than a few weeks at a time, but they didn’t marry for another year after that.”

It felt like every time Runa answered one of her questions, she stirred up another half dozen.

Courting, of course, was not something Cyril had any personal experience in, or that Dion had ever really bothered to explain to her, but she understood the basics.

And she knew that courting and living together were not two things that went hand in hand, not for high-born women in the south, at least. She meant to ask Runa if that was common here, for unwed couples to live freely with one another, but the queen continued.

“Now, I promised you that this entire history lesson had a purpose, yes?”

Cyril nodded.

“When I saw the runes that were recorded from the first death, I told Lars right away that this was the act of a purist, whether working alone or at the behest of their village. I tried to teach him and General Ezra about the significance of the elements and their cleansing properties in the culture that I grew up in.” Runa took a breath. “But they told me not to worry, and said there was nothing else to tie it to any of the villages they were monitoring.”

The queen’s sudden interest in Cyril’s studies made perfect sense. She just wasn't sure if it made her feel better or worse that they dismissed Runa's theories so quickly in her own damn court.

“So when I mentioned the scroll last night…” Cyril started.

“You thoroughly piqued my interest.” Runa nodded. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence you’ve now made that connection to the purists as well, even unknowingly, and Dion, well… Truthfully, he’s likely just following what Lars and Ezra have rolled down to him.”

Dion, taking direction from someone else? Cyril had never heard of a more unlikely thing. Instead, she asked, “You think there’s something to it then?”

“I do, and I don’t want you to think your findings are a waste. Just because the men dismiss us, it doesn’t mean we are wrong in our theories.” Runa extended her upturned palms to Cyril, tattooed with the same pattern of dots and lines as the rest of her hands and forearms.

She settled her hands on the soft, warm skin of the queen’s.

“All I ask is that you do not let that theory die. Even if they dismiss you, surface it whenever you can. Do not stop looking, learning, and listening, even when it feels fruitless. And lastly”—a warm smile crossed Runa’s face, her eyes softening as she squeezed Cyril’s hands—“do not be afraid to ask for my help, Cyril, for anything. I know trust is not something easily earned, but I am your ally, and I will take every opportunity to prove that to you.”

I am your ally.

Even three glasses of wine, a sip of Dion's putrid spirits, and an overfull belly hadn't left Cyril any more sure how she felt about those words.

Could she truly trust a woman she’d only known for a couple of weeks?

Her entire upbringing and the tenets of the guild told her no, she shouldn’t give out her trust so easily. A woman in Runa’s position would only ever have her own best interests in mind.

And she was in Reykr, for fuck’s sake.

But the man responsible for that same upbringing, and every experience she’d had so far with Runa, said yes, not only could she trust this woman, but the queen was indeed her ally.

Cyril wasn’t sure that was something she’d ever had.

Sebille and Bron were probably the closest, but Dion still paid their wages.

Cyril huffed a sigh and sat up from the sofa she’d spent the last hour draped across, watching the sconces and firelight flicker and dance on the ceiling as she tried to make sense of things.

Too fucking much for her to process in one night.

The history lesson alone would have been a lot, without Runa sharing so many personal details and trying to forge that connection with her.

Then there was dinner.

Cyril hadn’t even made it halfway through the meal when Lars casually mentioned an upcoming state dinner he hoped she and Dion could attend. Runa had already sent for a dress to be made for Cyril just for the occasion. If the piercing stare Dion pinned her with hadn’t clearly enough said that they were very much going to be attending, that would have settled things.

She didn’t quite have the gall to ask, but Cyril hoped it wouldn’t be frilly or pink, or require a team to put on.

A state dinner was something she could navigate. She knew that from the events that Dion dragged her back home. But she wasn’t confident her dignity would survive being the queen’s dress-up doll.

It hadn’t helped at all that everyone else seemed intent on having a chatty evening, when all Cyril wanted was to curl up in front of a fire and unwind in silence.

Dion and Lars were all grins and laughter, with a few inappropriate jokes Cyril pretended she did not hear. She was sure Runa sat closer to her than any dinner so far, making innocuous small talk the entire time.

No one even seemed fussed when the arrogant prince showed up far later than even she thought was appropriate, smelling like ale and smoke and with a tipsy glint in his eyes. He eased right in with her uncle and Lars, and their laughter and crude jokes.

Just as Cyril thought she might tolerate the abrasive prince, the entire day told her otherwise.

From the moment she stepped into the barracks that morning, dragged right into the group of drowsy King's Guard by Kaia, the prince had been frosty as all fucking hells towards her. The few interactions they had were short and remarkably snippy. If it hadn’t been for Kaia’s desperate attempts to joke around, Cyril would have dipped out far earlier than she needed to for her garden visit with Runa.

But she had just three more days of basic training to get through, and then she could go back to riding and researching and steering clear of Mikael. Three days she had to get through, she told herself, because there was not a chance she would give him the satisfaction of seeing her quit.

And maybe, just maybe, Cyril hoped he’d challenge her to a rematch before the week was through. Putting him in his place one more time sounded like something she’d thoroughly enjoy.

Chapter 19

Well, the dress wasn’t pink. But Cyril didn’t have a hope in any of the hells of getting into it on her own. Even the dressmaker needed help to lift it from its box and spread it out on her bed.

She wasn’t sure how he expected her to move around in it.

“It’s beautiful.” Cyril looked at Runa, who had gathered in her room with Dion for the unveiling, and offered her a smile. “Thank you.”

The dress was a work of art.

It was just better suited for the likes of a princess, or a proper, demure lady and not, well…Cyril.

She loved the color of the deep, burned orange fabric Runa picked for the base dress, and the black and gold embroidery covering the bodice must have taken a small army days to do. Even the sleeves, long and sheer with matching embroidered cuffs, were something she would wear happily.

But the skirt…

Gaudy and awful.

Layers upon layers of tulle and gauze, and other fabrics that looked like they were going to itch terribly, all gathered up under the bodice to form a full, cumbersome skirt.

Runa responded to her with a tight, brief smile before she turned to the dressmaker and bit out, “This is not what we agreed upon.”

The short moon-fae man balked at her.

“Your Majesty, I assure you—”

“No, no.”

Runa stalked around the bed and separated the two halves of the dress.

“This”—she pointed to the bodice—“we agreed upon. But this”—she waved her hand at the skirt—“couldn’t be further from what we talked about.”

Cyril and Dion both watched in silence as a few stuttered syllables left the dressmaker, and the queen sighed, pinching her brow.

“Wait for me outside,” she said, and the man backed out of the room in silence. “Your other dresses, are any of the skirts separate?”

Cyril shook her head.

“They’re all attached. But it’s alright!” She looked from Runa to the dress and back. “I don’t mind, really. I’ll just need some help with it.”

A crease formed between Runa’s brows.

“I’ll make sure one of the girls comes up, but I’m sorry, Cyril.”

“It’s fine, really!” It wasn’t fine at all, but the last thing Cyril wanted to do was come across as unappreciative of Runa’s gesture, even if it had run utterly sideways.

Runa sighed and said, “I’ll see you two at dinner.”

Amusement glimmered on Dion’s face, but he waited until the door had closed behind Runa to say, “Will you chat with me for a minute before they come to stuff you into that monstrosity?”

Sitting beside Dion in front of the fire in her room, Cyril’s palms were sweating. He wasn’t the sort of man to want to talk without reason. Not usually, at least.

“Did something happen in the city?” she asked quietly.

He had once again been absent for the past few days, returning only that morning, and it was the only connection she could make. He seemed happy enough, but Cyril hadn’t seen her other uncles in a while now and she had no idea what was happening there.

Dion smiled and shook his head. “No, but I’ve been thinking.”

“…About?”

“You, and your future.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “I wasn’t planning on bringing you here at first, you know, when Lars sent me the contract. But the more I thought about it, I realized it would be good to get you out of Helia and let you explore your prospects elsewhere.”

Cyril’s mouth went dry as she said, “Prospects? What do you mean?”

“Work.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But I already work for the guild.”

Dion sighed. “Cyr, proper guild work is dangerous. More than you understand.”

“You mean more than you’ll let me understand,” she scoffed.

“I’m not kidding, Cyr. It is not the sort of life I want you to have, period.” Dion scrubbed his hands over his face before he looked at her again. “I’m asking you to have an open mind while we’re here, please. Talk to Runa about it, if you can. She has an unfathomable number of connections, and she might have some ideas on things you could do.”

“Why would I…” Cyril shook her head. “If you don’t want me at the guild, I’ll find work somewhere else back home. I am not staying here.”

“Cyril, you are a highborn woman who doesn’t want to get married. Trying to make any sort of life for yourself in the south will be nearly impossible.”

Oh. They were not having this conversation again.

Not a fucking chance.

They’d done this spin dozens of times, and Cyril’s answer never changed.

“If this is some ploy to convince me to get married, you can stop,” she said, willing an ounce of calm into her voice. “You know that I—”

“It isn’t, Cyr,” he groaned. “I know you don’t want to. I know you think it’s stupid. Trust me, I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. But it doesn’t change the fact that every damn lord in the south wants nothing more than a pretty wife with the promise of land and riches one day. And none of those men are good people, Cyr.”

She scoffed. “Worse than you?”

“Yes, Cyril, worse than me,” he bit back, “because I would never have it in me to steal a woman’s virtue from her and use it as blackmail. Or hope she fell pregnant and force her into a marriage that way.”

Cyril blinked.

Was he insinuating that these men, that they would…

Her stomach turned.

“You can’t be serious,” she mumbled, watching Dion’s scar tug and pull as he rubbed at his face.

He looked at her for a long second before he said, “I’m dead serious, Cyr. So forgive me for wanting to find an alternative for you.”

Cyril certainly didn’t enjoy the sounds of what Dion insinuated, but what option did she have? Helia was her home, and with it came navigating the politics of their neighboring states.

Quietly, she asked, “So you want me to stay here?”

Here, as in an isolated, foreign land.

Here, as in a place full of people she knew nearly nothing about, and wasn’t sure if she could trust.

Here, as in a place that was not her home.

“I want you to consider it, yes.” He glanced at her briefly before he rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Part of the reason I am so fond of Reykr is its freedoms, and I would like for you to have that.”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled in between Cyril and Dion, broken only by a knock at her door that she couldn’t have been more grateful for.

Dion rose and said, “Please, think about it. And if you have the chance, talk to Runa about it, see what thoughts she has.”

Cyril nodded as Dion walked away, and let in the two maids who came to help her get ready. And even as the kind, soft-spoken women pinned gold baubles in her hair and cinched her into the extravagant gown, she could only think of one thing;

Dion didn’t want her around anymore.

Nineteen years as her sole guardian, and he was done. Fed up with teaching her, taking care of her, and protecting her. He wanted her to stay in Reykr not because it would be any good for her, but because she wouldn’t be his burden anymore.

For as badly as Cyril always craved a sliver of freedom, this was never how she wanted it.

The weight of that reality had her stomach in knots, but she feigned a tight smile when the maids cooed over how elegant she looked, and ushered her out the door.

Dion was waiting for her just outside the door to the residential wing, chatting with the guards. She took his arm in silence and spent their entire walk trying to convince herself that she had gotten it all wrong, that Dion only had her best interests in mind and not his.

In all of her twenty-one years, Cyril wasn’t sure something had ever stolen her breath like the state ballroom did.

And what a welcome distraction it was.

Even though she wasn’t pleased about Dion’s presence, she appreciated having his arm guiding her through to their table, giving her a chance to gape at her surroundings. She appreciated the unease he looked at her with too. He knew he fucked up.

As Cyril and Dion wove their way through the courtiers mingling about before their meal, she counted no fewer than two dozen tables spread across the long, rectangular room.

Against the otherwise neutral table linens, centerpieces of vibrant spring flowers—all in tones of blue, purple, and green—and their twisted glass accents brought a splash of life to the room. Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea what any of the flowers were called, but she was certain she had seen each of them in the gardens on her tour with Runa.

Above them, swaths of gauzy, cream-colored fabric hung in soft billows across the ceiling, gathered in neat bunches at each of the crystal chandeliers dotting the room. The sweeping lengths of the gauze rolled down the three interior walls, pinned in place with similar flower arrangements, framing alcoves and tapestries.

But of all the shining odds and ends of the room, the most stunning of all were the fae lights, and they were everywhere.

Small, large, and every size in between, they hung with impossible perfection in the air. More than she could ever hope to count bobbed along the draped fabric of the ceiling, and a cluster hung above each table. They lined the walls too, following the delicate plaster arches all along, and even illuminated the garden that the ballroom’s glass wall looked out onto.

They made the grand room feel intimate and warm, and Cyril couldn’t help but gape. She attended some prim parties back home, but nothing like this. The whimsy of it all had done wonders to quell the unease the earlier conversation with Dion had left her with.

She could see Astor and Reyna at the head table, leaning into each other and chatting quietly. Beside them sat an absent-looking Mikael, dressed in his military finery with two empty wine glasses already in front of him. Cyril and Dion’s own table for the evening was just a few over from the royal families.

“Cyr, you're going to catch flies if you just stand there like that. Come on.” Dion’s tug on her arm sent her crashing back down to reality. “You can continue gawking from your chair. Sit.”

“Gawking?” Cyril snorted. “Gods forbid, I appreciate something.”

Her uncle pointed to the chair he had just pulled out.

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Sit.”

Cyril did, though it took coordination between herself and Dion to sweep the tulle of her skirt under the table. A generous gesture from the queen, yes, but one that had gone sideways in the worst possible way.

They were the first to arrive at their table, with four empty seats spread about the round. Cyril couldn’t help but feel a little anxious about who their tablemates might be, after the unexpected turn of her conversation with Dion.

Surely there had not been enough time for him to talk to Runa and involve her in his schemes, but Cyril felt it safer to be wary. She had a clean shot at three exits if they filled their table with nothing but prospective employers—one to the garden, and two back out to the atrium.

“You look lovely, Cyr.”

Cyril almost didn’t hear Dion over the rolling rumble of chatter in the room.

“I— Thank you?” Cyril blinked and then glared at Dion. “I’m not sure if you want something or if you’re just trying to make up for earlier.”

He sighed, “It’s just a compliment, Cyr, no hidden agenda.”

Unlikely.

Dion rarely did things without some kind of motivating factor driving his words or actions. But Cyril just wanted to have a pleasant night and resisted the urge to challenge him on that.

Cyril’s lips quirked as she said, “You look…lordly.”

Her uncle struggled to clamp down a stoic mask over the grin that crept into his face.

“I do, don’t I?” he mused, smoothing a hand over the red and gold sash draped across his chest. The bastard cleaned up so well, with his tailored jackets and finery.

Cyril crinkled her nose at him and chuckled.

This sort of banter used to come easy to them. Now there wasn’t a moment where it didn’t feel like she was walking on thin, cracked ice with him. Like one wrong move could spell disaster at any moment. And Cyril…she didn’t want to think about any of that right now.

“I believe those”—Dion subtly tipped his chin towards a foursome walking pointedly in their direction—“are our tablemates for the evening.”

Three men—two tall and one rotund—and a woman who wore an almost offensive amount of jewelry. All fae, and exuding an aura of arrogance that Cyril had yet to see in Reykr. Commonplace in the south, yes, but after a few weeks away it felt foreign.

The reek of a sickly rich cologne hit her nose when they were still a few tables away. She winced at Dion, and he nodded his agreement as he rose from his chair.

Cyril went to do the same—a polite greeting was the least she could offer—but Dion set his hand on her shoulder. Apparently, he didn’t want to fight with her skirts again, either.

“Oh, my! Some unfamiliar faces. What a treat!” The woman’s voice was grating. “Who might the two of you be?”

Cyril reigned in her groan. She was in for a long evening.

“Dionysus Rhodea, Lord of Helia.” He pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head, the full image of regality. “And my niece, Lady Cyril Rhodea.”

“Helia? How exotic!” The woman swept a section of coarse, yellow-blonde hair over her shoulder. “We are the Salversons.” She gestured vaguely to their group, then to the rather plain brown-haired man beside her. “My husband, Lord Otto Salverson. His brother, Councilor Mathias. And my son, Lief.”

She beamed at the wiry man beside her with a prominent nose and crooked grin. His dark, deep-set eyes bore into Cyril, and he didn’t bother to look at Dion. It made her skin crawl, the sort of unrestrained interest he looked at her with.

Her uncle squeezed her shoulder as she shifted in her seat. At least he noticed, too.

“Lovely to meet all of you,” Dion said and then gestured to the table. “Please, sit.”

Gods help her.

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, Lord Rhodea, but does Helia not have a predominately sun-fae population?”

Cyril stifled her groan.

Half a meal spent in blissful quiet and now the bird of a woman sitting across the table had to open her mouth. It was bad enough that three of the four Salversons couldn’t keep their fucking eyes to themselves, but at least Cyril had the rotations of plates set in front of her to focus on.

The food was exceptional, as it always was at the palace.

“Predominantly, but not entirely,” Dion said. He set down his utensils and sat back in his chair. Cyril just kept eating. “As is the same for most of Southern Carinae. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Lady Salverson chuckled and waved her fork in Cyril’s direction, “Your lovely niece here isn’t entirely sun-fae, is she? Or even entirely fae, for that matter?”

Cyril’s utensils clattered as she set them on her plate, blinking across the table.

It had been a long time since her heritage was the focus of any dinner discussion. Especially in that sort of tone. People of mixed race weren’t uncommon in the south, especially in Helia, and most didn’t care if you were. But there were always a few highborn assholes lingering around who thought otherwise.

Perhaps it was for the best that Lady Salverson didn’t address her directly.

Dion’s hand found hers under the table, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Forgive my ignorance, Lady Salverson, but I’m not sure why that would be of any importance?”

“Oh! It isn’t of importance, so to speak.” The woman made that awful, cackling noise of a laugh again. “I just haven’t been able to place it. Her ears aren’t as pointed as any of ours, so I assumed some sort of mortal mix. But that can’t be right, because she’s far too striking to have any sort of human mixed in there with her.”

Dion squeezed her hand tighter.

He had to know she was fucking simmering.

Her dress was far too tight, the room felt stifling and now this woman was gawking at her like she was a fucking prize horse, trying to figure out if her bloodline was pure or not.

Otto cleared his throat and sat up a bit, the first noise he’d made since the start of their meal. “Elise darling, I think perhaps—”

Lady Salverson gasped loud enough that a couple of neighboring tables—including the royal family's own—looked over at them.

“Your father”—she jabbed her dinner knife in Cyril’s direction—“sullied with a nymph housekeep, didn’t he?” The woman looked so fucking proud of herself. Like she’d just uncovered the secret of the century. “Fell whim to that sweet little siren song of theirs? A feisty dryad, or was she one of those delicate water bearers?”

Just about every muscle in Cyril’s body locked.

She couldn’t even form words to spit back at the woman.

Sullied?

What a disgusting thing to insinuate. That her mother was beneath her father’s rank and order, that he reduced himself to something lesser just to be with her.

“You must have a miserable life, Lady Salverson, to find enjoyment in throwing accusations like that,” Dion spoke with enough seething anger for the both of them, and Cyril was thankful for that.

“Accusations—” A few indignant noises left the woman.

Dion leaned forward, dishes clattering as he planted his hands on the table. His lips peeled back into a snarl as, with a lethal sort of calmness, he said, “I will only tell you once to think very, very carefully before you speak of my late brother or his wife again. Am I clear, Lady Salverson?”

Silence and wide eyes swept through their table.

Dion settled back in his seat. He shot the rest of his drink back in one go before his hand found Cyril’s again and he gave it a firm squeeze. His skin nearly felt like it was burning—had he come that close to losing it?

The sharp smell of whatever spirits had been in his glass washed over her as he leaned in and kissed her temple.

So softly she almost didn’t hear it, he murmured, “I love you, Cyr. That bitch is nothing.”

Cyril looked up at him and smiled.

He did love her, didn’t he? She had to be a fool to think—

“Savages.”

Something frightening flashed in Dion’s eyes as his attention snapped across the table and he bit out, “Excuse me?”

“Savages.” Lady Salverson was so red in the face it looked like she was ready to blow. Glistening canines bared, she leaned across the table. “You filthy, disgusting—”

Her eyes flared and every bit of color drained from her cheeks. She dipped her head as she scrambled out of her chair.

Cyril half expected to see Ren standing behind her.

“Your Majesty.”

Before Cyril processed what Lady Salverson even said, warm and tattooed fingers settled on her shoulder. The other Salversons stood, as did Dion, but when Cyril tried to, Runa’s hand kept her seated.

The fucking dress.

“It’s my fault you’re stuck in that beastly thing tonight, so please do not worry about ridiculous protocols,” Runa said with a warm smile before she turned to Dion. She hugged him and kissed his cheeks, whispering something Cyril didn’t catch, and then leaned down to do the same to her.

Whatever Runa said to Dion left a genuine smile on his face.

The queen did not extend the same warm, intimate greeting to the rest of the table. She stood between Cyril and Dion, her hands resting on the backs of their chairs, and insisted everyone sit.

“You have my apologies. I intended to do some introductions earlier, but all of Lars’ primping had us running late. You’ve all had a chance to get acquainted, I take it?”

There was a sort of soft yet commanding regality to Runa’s voice that Cyril hadn’t heard yet.

Dion snorted. “Quite.”

Lady Salverson opened her mouth, but Runa cut her off.

“I’m not sure if they told the two of you already, but the Salversons hail from a village quite near the one I grew up in, near the northern sea.” Runa dropped a very subtle glance down to Cyril and everything clicked—the Salversons were purists. “And Councilor Mathias here has been a valued member of our court for longer than I can remember.”

The councilor, at least, dipped his head in appreciation.

“Fascinating,” Dion said flatly.

Runa looked at him with a coy smile and said, “Quite.”

“And as for these Rhodeas…” she continued, “Dion’s been a close family friend of ours for, what, a century now?”

Dion blew out a breath as he nodded.

“Believe it or not.”

“Time really has gotten away from us,” The queen chuckled. She glanced briefly at Cyril before she added, “This remarkable young woman’s mother was a dear, dear friend of mine, and I, well…” There was a flicker of that genuine sadness that tugged on the thread of guilt tethered eternally inside Cyril. “Let's just say I’m immensely grateful for this time that I get to spend with Cyril.”

“Touching,” Lady Salverson bit out.

Her husband intoned her name softly, and she cut him a narrowed glance.

“Well, I’m sure the dancing will start soon and I should get back to Lars before he sends out a search party.” Runa slipped that cool diplomatic mask back on with such ease. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

The moment Runa was halfway back to her table, the Salversons scattered.

Chapter 20

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Runa knew the timings of a state dinner inside and out. She'd likely hosted hundreds by now. But it still impressed Cyril that the entire ballroom dimmed only moments after she finished her chocolate and raspberry dessert tart.

The fae lights that filled the room dimmed into more of an intimate glow, and the clatter of cutlery and plates gave way to a slow buildup of soft music from the quartet. As the volume built, tables emptied. Some guests flitted around the room to socialize, while others paired off and worked their way to the dance floor.

Despite Dion’s half-plea to mingle, dancing or chatting with anyone was the last thing Cyril felt like doing. He tried to point out some moon-fae nobility to her, specifically a few daughters of ministers of this or that. But her uncle knew full well there was no recovering this night for her after the abysmal turn their meal took, on the heels of their earlier conversation.

Thankfully, a table of wine and sparkling potations set up near the expansive windows at the back of the ballroom served as the perfect escape as Dion started his lordly mingling.

She could listen to the quartet and laughter of the dance floor, watch the fae lights as they bobbed out in the gardens, and sip her wine in peaceful solitude.

“Lady Cyril?”

Her shoulders sagged.

Not even five fucking minutes.

Cyril plastered a polite smile on her face and turned around.

“Councilor Mathias.” She dipped her chin, sidestepping away from the table. “The white wine is lovely.”

She fucking despised prim and cordial conversation, and gods help them both if he was coming back for a second round of debate about the question of her race. Enduring Dion’s wrath wasn’t something she usually ever wanted to do, but she wasn’t above causing a scene now.

There was an entire table of drinks within arm’s reach, after all.

Mathias offered her a smile that didn’t even reach his eyes and made her stomach tighten in unease.

From across the table, she hadn’t noticed how brutally crooked his nose was—like he had broken it many, many times—or just how little warmth lived in the darks of his eyes. He was an old fae, too, based on the deep-set creases lining his face.

“I had hoped to take a moment of your time if you are not otherwise occupied?”

“Just admiring the view.” Cyril gestured to the windows and the dim glow of the gardens beyond. Her cheeks already hurt from her forced, sickly-sweet smile.

Mathias looked out to the garden for a long minute before he turned back to her and said, “I had the pleasure of meeting your mother when she last visited Reykr.”

That…wasn’t what Cyril expected at all.

“You did?”

He nodded.

“She was such a striking woman and spoke with such kindness.” Mathias chuckled, and the noise made Cyril’s skin crawl. “I was completely taken aback to see how much of her beauty you have inherited.”

And just like that, Cyril knew where this conversation was heading. She’d been through it enough at parties back home.

“That is kind of you to say,” she said softly. Just like her damn governess always told her to do. “You met my father too, then?”

“Mm, yes.”

The councilor was clearly uninterested in that.

Exactly where she thought this was going, and she needed Dion now.

Cyril scanned the room as innocuously as she could, desperate to pick out his red and gold sash. She found him a half dozen tables away, watching her with a look of curiosity. He simply shook his head when she held his gaze, pleading wordlessly for an intervention.

Fucker.

“I’m often told I have my father’s eyes.” Cyril feigned some demure, ladylike smile, despite the way her palms began sweating. Mathias’ attention dipped to her chest, then back to her face for the second or third time.

His eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps, but I think your mother’s beauty truly shines above all else in you. You certainly inherited all of her most pleasing assets.”

Not even a half hour ago her uncle was ready to throttle this man's sister-in-law, and now this was alright? If Dion felt like standing there and letting this reprehensible old man ogle her, Cyril would take matters into her own hands.

“You’re too kind, Councilor Mathias.” Cyril grabbed a second glass of wine from the table. Hopefully, the flush staining her cheeks and chest passed for nothing more than shyness and not simmering rage. “If you’ll excuse me, my uncle—”

He stepped in front of her.

“I assume you have no shortage of suitors to entertain back in Helia? It must devastate them for you to be away.” Mathias grasped her elbow, and Cyril went stiff. His hand felt like fucking ice.

“Ah, well.” Cyril forced a laugh. She’d never entertained a suitor once in her entire damned life and planned on keeping it that way. “It can be busy from time to time. Really, though, I should be—”

“Have you any interest in entertaining suitors during your stay here?” The councilor still had a grip on her forearm, his broken and yellowed nails pressing into her flesh.

Cyril was about five seconds away from doing something really fucking stupid.

“That is not my decision to make, Councilor, you see—”

An indignant noise left Cyril’s mouth as a hand slipped around her waist and splayed far too comfortably—and low—across her stomach. Wine sloshed against the rims of the glasses in both her hands as she staggered and Councilor Mathias dropped her arm.

This was it.

She was going to cause a fucking scene.

Moon-fae were pigs, every damn—

A swath of auburn hair fell into her periphery.

“Terribly sorry,” Mikael murmured against her ear, quiet enough that only she would hear. He tugged her back against his body, all warmth and hard muscle.

Councilor Mathias paled and put plenty of distance between them.

“Commander,” he said flatly.

Cyril must have looked like a bewildered animal, blinking wordlessly up at the prince as he straightened up. It was a blessing she was already flush from her near outburst when he arrived, because the heat spreading from the press of Mikael’s hand felt like a fucking brand. Cyril was certain she was on the verge of combusting.

“Councilor Mathias,” Mikael started, his voice low and authoritative like she’d only heard during basic training. Cyril wasn’t sure why, but her knees felt a little weak. “One would think you intended on hogging Lady Cyril all to yourself this evening.”

“Ah, well…” Councilor Mathias cleared his throat.

“I hope you don’t mind me stealing her away.” Mikael took the full glass of wine from her hand and shot it back in one go. He jerked his chin at the half-full one in her other hand, and Cyril followed suit. “I promised the lady three dances tonight, you see, and she’ll have me by the balls if she doesn’t get them. Not in a way I’d enjoy, either.”

Cyril shot him an incredulous look, and the insufferable prince grinned at her, a wild flash of those gleaming canines.

The councilor eyed Cyril and Mikael for a moment before mumbling something that sounded awfully like fucking prince, and slipping into the crowd.

Mikael was out of her space in an instant, and a rush of air left Cyril’s lungs.

She was going to feign illness if another one of these dinners came up, lest another slimy, lecherous—

“Is that what my mother had made for you?” The prince’s voice lost its honed edge, dripping with some sort of boyish amusement now.

Cyril stared down at her skirts, trying to smooth down some of the tulle poufs. “I… Yes,” she sighed. “For what it’s worth, she’s not happy with it either.”

“It’s certainly something,” he mused before he turned and glanced out at the crowd. Looking for people he could tolerate, she was sure.

Truthfully, Cyril was okay if Mikael slipped away and left her to go cool off somewhere quiet and by herself. The gardens seemed fucking perfect, and she could probably sneak back to her room through the pathways and side doors.

But after the prince’s glacial eyes scanned the room for a long moment, he turned back to her and said, “Now, about those three dances I promised, Lady Cyril.”

A lopsided smile crept over his face as he extended his open hand.

“You—you can’t be…” She blinked at his hand, holding her own tight to her chest. “Are you serious?”

He leaned back into her space and whispered, “Our dear friend the councilor hasn’t stopped watching. It’s probably best if we keep up appearances.”

Cyril groaned.

Against her better judgment, she set her hand in Mikael’s and followed his lead.

Mikael wasn’t sure what had compelled him to come to Cyril’s aid when he spotted her in that gods awful dress, cornered at the wine table by that damned councilman. After she reveled in embarrassing him in front of his guards, the least he could have done was let her stew in her discomfort a bit longer.

And sure, Mathias was notorious for being a lecherous old creep, but he knew firsthand Cyril could handle that on her own. Hells, it might have made for one interesting evening if the old man tried to push his luck with her any further.

There was something about the look in her eyes, though, when Matthias grabbed her that had Mikael moving across the floor before he could even think twice about it.

Protectprotectprotectprotectprotect…

He’d process the alarming nature of that consuming train of thought another time. Alone, and with just enough alcohol to drown it out of existence.

The least he could do now was enjoy the fruits of his labor.

As Mikael led her through the crowd and slipped them into a spot amongst the dancing pairs, Cyril didn’t say a word.

It was almost disappointing.

No snide jab or backhanded remark, not even as he settled his hand on the small of her back and eased them into the first few steps. She just set her hand on his shoulder, turned her attention to the side, and followed his lead.

Fucking hells.

She played the part of a demure, well-trained lady flawlessly.

What a deceptive creature.

Her hand felt so small in his, her frame so delicate and feminine held up against his. But now he knew that was a body built of lean, practical muscle, and she could wield every fiber to her advantage.

Not at all surprising, in hindsight, that the woman raised by an entire guild of rogues would not be what she appeared.

His mother may have had a point.

Cyril murmured something as he drew her back from a twirl, and Mikael blinked. The sweep and flow of the layers of her skirt had him far too distracted as he guided her around.

“Say that again?”

Cyril sighed.

“I said thank you.”

“Oh, you are very welcome.” Mikael almost forgot how they’d ended up there. “Councilor Mathias has a taste for beautiful women, and the younger, the better. His hands also seem to have a habit of wandering to places they shouldn’t be, if you didn’t notice the state of his nose.”

Cyril looked up at him for the first time since they started dancing and amusement sparkled in the wild, sun-spun gold of her eyes.

She loosed a breathy little laugh. “I wondered.”

He offered her a grin as he twirled her away again, this time drawing her in with her back to his chest.

“What did he want from you?”

“To know if I was entertaining suitors,” Cyril said with no small amount of disgust. She stumbled a step, feet bumping against his, and cursed quietly.

“That bad?” Mikael chuckled.

Either that or she wasn’t as skilled a dancer as he assumed she would be.

Her eyes darted up for a breath before she looked back ahead, just a flicker of the faintest hint of the fire he saw when she royally kicked his ass.

“I almost threw my drink.”

“Don’t make me regret coming to your rescue now. The guards would’ve paid a boatload of coppers to see that.”

Cyril huffed a breath. He felt her tension ease, a little more fluidity in her step as she turned back to face him.

“He met my mother, apparently,” she said, with a softness and hesitancy that caught him off guard. “Sounds like he had a thing for her, too.”

From the corner of his eye, Mikael watched her nose wrinkle as the disgusting notion of it all settled into her face.

He didn’t blame her.

But selfishly, and maybe a bit of the wine speaking, he wanted to see her smile again. Not polite and reserved, either. No, he wanted to see the shit-eating grin Cyril wore when she kicked his ass, or like she did every time the other rogues were around.

Some desperately waving part of his subconscious knew this meant he was completely and utterly fucked, that he was in so far over his head. But he shoved it down with all the other bullshit he’d deal with another day.

Or never.

“Maybe she gave him one of those kinks in his nose?”

A quiet snort left her. Almost better than a smile.

“My father, more like. Dion says he was the one with a temper.”

Gods damn.

Mikael didn’t even want to imagine how hot-headed of a man her father was if Dion said that. Her uncle had one of the shortest fuses he’d ever encountered. Maybe it was for the best that her father…

Focus.

Make the damn woman smile.

Mikael leaned further into her space and, in as quiet of a scandalized tone as he could manage, said, “A Rhodea with a temper? I’d never believe that.”

Her eyes shot up to him, a flicker of molten gold, and her lips quirked. He almost had her.

“Shocking, I know”—Cyril looked back over his shoulder. Or tried to, at least. She didn’t quite have the height for it—“with how level-headed my uncle and I are.”

“Mm, of course. Just like how neither of you are combative, right?”

Her cheeks dimpled, and the corners of her eyes lifted—there it was.

“Exactly.”

Mikael chuckled and spun her away again.

But as he drew her back, the quartet eased into something slower than Mikael wanted to navigate, and getting his hands off Cyril, even for a minute, felt prudent.

“Let's get a drink,” he said, and her eager nod was a relief.

After he guided her off the dancefloor, Mikael walked ahead of Cyril, parting the crowd of congregating nobility. He almost tripped when he felt Cyril's hand brush his back and grab his jacket.

Completely and utterly fucked.

Chapter 21

Men made zero sense to Cyril.

Zero. Fucking. Sense.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was unreasonably hot and flustered. Or that she didn’t think twice about holding onto Mikael’s jacket like it was the fucking shore in a storm.

After Mikael spent the entire damn week of training pretending she didn’t exist, Cyril made peace with the fact that he hated her after she’d handed his ass to him in front of the guards. She earned that hate thoroughly.

But now? She was con-fucking-fused.

Why would he sweep in like a white knight to rescue someone he hated from the company of a creepy old man? It would’ve been far easier to let her suffer.

Cyril would have, if the tables were turned.

Or maybe this was just some backhanded way of reminding her she would never command the same sort of authority he did, or invoke that same look of fear in someone’s eyes.

Would he have danced with her, though, if that was the case? The two songs Mikael swept her through with shocking ease felt decidedly friendly. Hells, his entire demeanor even felt a little…flirty? Not like she had enough experience to say for certain.

“Drink.”

Cyril blinked at Mikael as he shoved a glass of wine into her hand.

Chilled wine.

She could’ve groaned at the first refreshing sip that hit her lips if she hadn’t watched the prince throw back his entire glass in one go.

Mikael watched her expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re in such a hurry for,” she grumbled, taking another slow sip.

This dinner had to be hours from ending. Cyril wasn’t convinced that shooting back an entire glass of wine every time she was thirsty would do her any favors come morning.

“One more dance and I’ll get us both out of here.”

Well, if that was the case.

Cyril drained her glass and left Mikael to follow her as she trudged back through mingling courtiers, right past a group of women who gestured far too broadly as they spoke.

She side-stepped as a hand laden with glittering rings came flying in her direction, but her gods damned dress. The prince’s sudden grip on her waist was the only thing that stopped her from careening right into another guest.

Mikael didn’t let her go for the rest of the trip to the dance floor.

They’d just missed the start of another song but slipped back into the pairs with only a couple of annoyed looks. One hand settled on his shoulder, the other in his hand, and they fell back in step with ease.

A slower tempo this time, but Cyril didn’t mind. It gave her a chance to take a glance around the room, looking and looking and looking—

“Your uncle’s gone, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

Cyril didn’t mean to glare at the prince. But she did, briefly, before scanning the crowd again.

Mikael chuckled as he said, “I’m serious. Saw him leave with, ah…”

She cut him another narrowed glance.

“Who did he leave with?”

It wasn’t Lars or Runa, who she could see chatting with a couple at their table. The crown prince and his wife weren’t at their table anymore, but she doubted Dion would have left with the reserved pair.

If that meant the rest of her uncles had come back and Dion thought they could all slip away unnoticed, she’d have a bone to pick with all of them.

“Ah, well…” A wry, uncomfortable smile pulled at his lips. “A couple of ladies.”

A shudder rippled through her.

Of course, that would be the one reason he’d up and leave Cyril to fend for herself. Ren was right when he said Dion would fuck anything that—

“Ask me something.”

Cyril blinked up at Mikael. “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t rogues supposed to be good at gathering intel?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“They—we are.”

“Then why haven’t you asked me anything?”

“Why haven’t I?” she scoffed.

“Look, Cyril. You’re uncomfortable, and it’s making me uncomfortable,” he said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “So change the topic, ask me something.”

Cyril rolled her eyes.

This felt awfully reminiscent of that awful dinner on her first night in Reykr. At least he wasn’t trying to ask her questions this time.

Mikael spun her away as she thought, that distracting blue gaze on her the entire time. He drew her back faster than she expected, though, and she landed with a quiet oof against his chest.

“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” Cyril blurted out with little thought, if only to smother the awkwardness bubbling up from having her hand splayed center-mass on his chest. She slid her fingers across his well-tailored dress uniform to settle back on his shoulder.

He raised a brow at her, face laden with amusement.

“That’s your question? About my hair?”

“I, well…”

In hindsight, that was a stupid thing to ask.

Like his appearance was something she just sat around thinking about…

Well, maybe she had a few times. Especially over the last week. But he didn’t need to know that, and she was going to run with this.

Cyril straightened herself up a bit and, matter-of-factly, said, “I just don’t understand men who keep their hair long and never wear it down.”

“Honestly? It’s mostly to spite my father.” That was logical. Sort of. “I think he’d prefer me clean-cut like Astor is. I know Ezra would, too.”

“Ah.”

Cyril was well acquainted with those sorts of familial conflicts, though with the opposite outcome. She’d always wanted to keep her hair short, but Dion insisted it suited her better long, and she gave up arguing with him about it years ago.

“I hope you’re not planning on asking about my hobbies again,” she said.

Mikael laughed loudly enough that a couple to their right shot over an unimpressed glance. His canines were a hopelessly distracting thing as he grinned down at her and started leading her off of the dance floor.

That third dance came and went, and she hardly even processed it.

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I’m confident now all you do for fun is beat the shit out of fully grown men.”

Cyril smiled.

“I ride, too.”

Mikael half-rolled his eyes. “Of course. And you learn ancient languages in your free time. A woman of culture, I get it,” he teased as he tugged her through the crowd. “Just one slight detour, and then we’ll both be free. Play along.”

Play along? Cyril noticed he wasn’t taking them straight to the main doors, but she hadn’t the faintest idea where—

Cyril swore quietly as she plowed right into Mikael’s back again.

The insufferable arse walked right into someone, and…

Oh.

Oh.

That someone, who she soon discovered was Councilor Mathias, had red wine spilled down the front of his green and gold doublet. Wide-eyed and a little red in the face, he stammered up at the prince. The woman who took his now empty wine glass from him failed at hiding the wild amusement on her face.

“Gods. Sorry, Councilor Mathias, didn’t even see you there.”

Either Mikael was a terrible liar, or he didn’t give two shits about getting in trouble. She didn’t know him well enough to decide.

The councilor leveled an unimpressed glare at him.

“Watch where you are going, Commander. This isn’t the barracks.”

Mikael chuckled. It almost came across as a little embarrassed. Almost.

“That it isn’t. My apologies, it won’t happen again,” he said as he tugged Cyril in front of him. His hands smoothed over her shoulders and down her arms in a far friendlier way than she had been ready for. A rush of heat bloomed straight up her chest. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Cyril wants to…turn in early. Have a good evening, Councilor.”

“Play along,” Mikael had said, not knowing Cyril didn’t have the first fucking clue on how to handle even subtle displays of affection in public.

But to insinuate that they were leaving to do what? Go to bed together?

Gods help her.

At least the flush in her cheeks was genuine as she plastered a smile on her face and looked from Mikael to the councilor, who must have been as red as she felt.

“Goodnight, Councilor Mathias,” she said softly, like a lady should, with a dip of her head.

He stammered something in response—pleasantries, she hoped—but Mikael already had his hand on her back and was steering her straight towards the doors. The prince seemed like he was getting a little overly comfortable in the way he handled her, and Cyril…well, she didn’t hate the implication of that.

Maybe it meant that the second round of grappling wasn’t off the table.

The blast of cool air that hit her when they emerged into the atrium felt like a gift from the gods. Quiet, deserted, and refreshing—it was everything that the state ballroom wasn’t.

“Thank you, again,” she said, before Mikael could tease or goad her about anything else. Because she was sure he was about to, with that wry smile and flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to help me, and I…” Gods, she was bad at this. “I appreciate that you did.”

Mikael only nodded, and Cyril let slip a quiet breath of relief. A breath that she sucked back in when his eyes dropped to her skirt and he tipped his head thoughtfully.

“I don’t mean any offense, but…” He stifled a chuckle. “Can you manage the stairs on your own in that thing?”

Cyril’s eyes flared—she hadn’t thought about that. Dion was there to keep her steady on the way down, and going up was always more of a pain in the ass.

“Ah…” Cyril grabbed a handful of her skirts, giving them a test lift. Fucking heavy, but she’d manage if she went slow. “I think so?”

Mikael couldn’t have looked any further from convinced.

He gestured to the stairs and said, “After you.”

A team effort, then.

At the base of the stairs, she gathered as much of her skirts up into her arms as she could manage—the least ladylike thing she’d done all evening—and was immediately thankful for the prince’s help. He grabbed a handful of the back, and most of the weight of the oversized bustle, and followed behind Cyril as she took one cautious step at a time.

“Are you going to the barracks?” she asked when they neared the top and every ounce of her attention wasn’t tied up in not eating a stair.

“I am. The company is a bit more…laid back than the ballroom.”

Cyril fully understood that.

Of all the areas and outbuildings she visited so far on the grounds, the barracks reminded her most of home.

Noisy, busy, and built almost entirely of dark, worn wood. There was a sort of liveliness there that came from people who knew each other for years, and trusted each other with their lives. Even only being in Reykr for a few weeks now, the time she’d spent in the barracks made her realize how much she missed the guild.

At the top of the stairs, Mikael set her skirt down and let her straighten herself out before he said, “You’ll manage from here?”

“I will, thank you.” Cyrill nodded and she should’ve stopped there. Instead, foolishly, she asked, “Is it just guards who go to the barracks at night, or…?”

He gave her a tight smile.

“Just guards, I’m afraid.”

And now Cyril felt like an idiot. Of course it was only guards who went to the barracks at night to unwind. Why would they want anyone else there? She knew the rogues back home wouldn’t.

It just stung a little how quickly Mikael shut that train of thought down, like he had thought she might ask him that and decided well in advance he wanted nothing to do with that.

“Of course.” She plastered another smile on. “Have a good night, Mikael.”

Mika wasn't even halfway back down the stairs when his idiocy slammed into him as hard as Cyril had.

He cursed and bounded back up the stairs two at a time.

As half-assed and indirect as it was, that had been Cyril’s attempt at seeing if she could come to the barracks. If she could spend time with him, if he read into it a little too far. And he’d crushed her hope without even a second thought.

She tossed a door fucking wide open for him, and he slammed it right in her face. No wonder she thought he hated her when this was how he treated her on instinct.

Stupid stupid stupid…

The guards standing watch at the doors to the residences gave Mikael an amused look as he slipped past them and down the hall.

Just in time to see Cyril’s door shut.

He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

This woman had thrown him so far out of his fucking element, and it gnawed at him. Hells, he’d had to resort to flat-out ignoring her at basic training for fear his blood would vacate his brain and he’d say or do something stupid.

Like, challenge her to spar again.

Which he desperately wanted to do, if only to sate that clawing urge to feel what it would be like to get her beneath him. Hells, maybe just on top of him again.

Cyril was attractive in all the right ways, and he was a little, well…pent up.

None of the women who’d visited the barracks in recent weeks caught his interest—not something he usually had any issues with—and a batch of fresh recruits meant taking off into the city for a day or two wasn’t in the cards.

Maybe tonight he’d have a bit of luck and find someone to take his mind off of those gold eyes and that dangerous smile.

And tomorrow…

He’d invite Cyril to come to the barracks tomorrow night.

Chapter 22

The Kallans knew how to throw a party.

When Cyril left her room the following morning, the palace was deserted. She even got started later than planned—sleep hadn’t come easily—but an eerie quiet hung in the halls on her journey to the dining room a few hours after sunrise.

It almost made her regret not staying longer if the post-dinner revelry had gone late enough that even the early-bird courtiers weren’t ambling about. Then again, with Dion’s premature departure and Mikael’s interest in making himself scarce, she would have been stuck fending for herself in a room full of strangers.

If the rogues’ tenets she so often disregarded were anything to believe, strangers were to always be regarded as untrustworthy, and being alone in that ballroom was equivalent to a death wish.

At least that’s what Ren would have said.

Besides, she was sure someone like Councilor Mathias didn’t get any easier to manage as the night went on.

Cyril ate her breakfast in solitude—something that didn’t bother her in the least—and learned from a patrolling guard that this was typical for the day after a state dinner or holiday. According to a chatty kitchen hand, someone would have come knocking on her door in a couple of hours to see if she wanted a meal and a hangover tonic.

Cyril took a mental note of that for the next time—Summer Solstice was just over a week away and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to do a bit of celebrating on her favorite holiday.

The stables, at least, had their usual buzz of activity when she arrived there, a steaming mug of tea in hand. At home, Dion always complained about the smell of hay, but Cyril counted it as one of her favorite things about the stables in the morning. It was no different in Reykr.

She was already at Attie’s stall, undoing the latch, when one of the stable hands poked her head down the aisle.

“Good morning, Lady Cyril,” the woman said in the soft, sweet cadence she always spoke with. “Did you not go to the state dinner?”

Cyril had forgotten her name immediately—and her pride wouldn’t let her ask for it again—but she would always remember the calming energy that followed this woman. She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, with braids that brushed her waist and warm, dark brown eyes. There didn’t seem to be a creature in the entire building that didn’t relax a little in her presence.

“I went, but I think everyone else stayed much later than I did.” Cyril smiled and set her mug down on a ledge. Attie was already nudging at her arm, the needy thing she was. “I don’t really know anyone here, so…”

The woman nodded.

“It’s a beautiful morning to ride, at least.” She smiled, taking a step back. “I’ll go get you some apples.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Cyril supposed there were worse reputations to hold than being the Lady who shared a penchant for apples with her horse. Like being the slimy old councilor whose hands had a habit of wandering to places they didn’t belong.

She allowed herself a single second to shudder at the thought of how the night could have gone before she set about hauling out Attie’s tack. Anything to force that lingering feeling of Councilor Mathias’s grasp out of her mind.

Dion always had some philosophical saying about busy hands. She just could never fucking remember it.

The third or fourth time Attie wedged her muzzle under Cyril’s arm while she was checking the fastenings on the bridle, she stepped back and sighed.

“You’re impossible, you know.” Cyril shook her head at the horse and scoffed at the snort she got in response. “I’m serious. Keep up the attitude and I’m not sharing any apples with you in the glen.”

Attie snorted again, and Cyril planted her hands on her hips.

“Fine. It’s your loss, you know, and—”

From behind her, a rasped rendition of a familiar voice asked, “Are you arguing with a horse?”

Cyril spun around.

Out of all the people she thought she might run into that morning, Prince Mikael was not one of them. Just the faintest glimmer of amusement sparkled through the dark shadows around his eyes. Someone got very little sleep last night.

He looked as rough as his voice sounded.

“What— Why are you here?” She blurted out. Graceful, like usual. “And I wasn’t arguing, I was…scolding.”

A wry smile tugged at his lips, and he cleared his throat.

It did nothing to help his voice.

“Scolding a horse. Right.” Mikael chuckled and pushed off of the stall he’d been leaning against. In his hand? Two apples. “I was told to make myself useful and bring these to the kind Lady Cyril.”

“Thank you.” Cyril tucked them carefully beside a book in the soft canvas bag she’d slung across her shoulders before leaving her room. With a healthy dose of skepticism, she said, “Did you come to ride?”

A wheezed laugh left him, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall.

“Gods, no. Don’t think I’d even make it up on one today.”

He raked a hand through his hair, and Cyril was clearly staring. She hadn’t even realized it wasn’t tied up—the loose, auburn waves hung just about his shoulders, half tucked behind the point of one ear.

Why did she know so many men with such fucking nice hair?

Entirely coincidental on the heels of their conversation the night before, right?

Cyril schooled her appreciative stare into something more appraising and said, “You sound like shit.”

“The lady is generous with her compliments,” the prince chuckled, and his eyes tracked her hands as she pulled her sad, limp braid over her shoulder and toyed with the end. “Truthfully, I feel like it too.”

“So if you’re hungover, and you’re not here to ride...” Cyril said slowly, Mikael nodding along until she stopped.

He blinked, and a sheepish look settled into his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. I’m here because I wanted to ask you something.”

Gods, this was painful. She didn’t have the slightest idea what the prince might want to ask her that would involve coming all the way to the stables.

“…Go on.”

“Would you like to join us at the barracks tonight?”

It was Cyril’s turn to blink at him.

“I…don’t see why not?”

“Good.” Mikael grinned and then winced, pressing his fingers to a split on his lip. Cyril didn’t want to know where he got that last night. “Apparently, the others consider you one of us now, and I came under siege for not bringing you yesterday. So…tonight?”

Cyril fought to contain her smile, but her mouth completely betrayed her.

She nodded and agreed, “Tonight.”

A social invitation, under the pretense of people wanting her there?

Cyril had never received one in her life.

For any get-together that happened at the estate, Cyril was just…there. It was her home, after all. And maybe it wasn’t done with malice, but anyone going out of their way to invite or include her was pretty rare. The ones that did, like Bron, seemed to do it solely out of some unspoken obligation.

But this? It felt…nice. Genuine.

“I’ll see you at dinner, then.” Mikael dipped his head as he pushed off the wall and headed back down the aisle. “Enjoy your ride, Lady Cyril.”

Cyril waited until he’d rounded the corner to sigh and unhook Attie’s lead. She had been suspiciously easygoing the entire time the prince was there.

At least Cyril had held her tongue long enough to avoid asking Mikael if the spread of bruises up the side of his neck happened before or after he left the barracks last night.

Why the stables attracted nothing but pain in the ass men, Cyril hadn’t the faintest idea. But Dion was low on the list of people she thought would be standing in the stables when she returned from her ride.

She almost stayed out longer, too, sprawled in the glen’s grass and reading the book Tobias happily loaned to her on the history of Reykr, but her rumbling stomach brought her back.

Dion was chatting with stable master Boone and looked like he’d had a bit of a rough night too. A feat with how fast his ascended body bounced back from ailments—self-inflicted or not.

“I almost sent someone to look for you,” he said with a bit of a weak smile as she cleared the double doors from the trail. His voice sounded as bad as Mikael’s.

“Sorry, I—oh, thank you.” She offered an appreciative nod to Boone as he took Attie’s lead from her hands. “I was reading, lost track of time.”

Dion extended his arm to her and curled it around her shoulders when she stepped over. He kissed the crown of her head and asked, “How fast can you pack a bag? Just for a few nights.”

“A bag? A couple minutes, I suppose.” She looked up at him, processing as they started walking out of the stables. “We’re going somewhere?”

“Brynnhold.”

Cyril’s eyes went wide.

She’d wanted to go to the port city ever since they arrived, but Dion shut her down every time she asked him. It hadn’t helped that Bron mentioned it was just like Epheos, Helia’s port city, but bigger and more bustling. Even for all his hate and skepticism of the moon-fae and their lands, he had nothing but praise of the city so far.

And this meant she’d get to see her uncles again, and maybe—

“Don’t look so eager.” Dion’s jaw ticked with tension.

She scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be eager? It’s a city, and back home, I never—”

“They found another body, Cyr.” Dion was quiet as they passed a couple of stable hands and made it onto the pathway back to the palace.

“Oh.” Cyril slowed, but Dion kept pulling her along.

That put a damper on, well…everything.

“Tyr and Rendal are already out sweeping the city, and Bron joined the guards for some questioning.”

Of course he did.

Bronson was notorious for two things: his ability to smooth talk information out of just about anyone, and his comfort with breaking their bodies in terrifying ways the moment they stopped.

“Everything still needs to be documented though, and you are now the guild's foremost expert in the old language, so…” Dion trailed off, raising a brow at Cyril.

She sighed.

“So I’m going to the city to work?”

“I’m afraid so. I promise we’ll be back for the Summer Solstice, so don’t give me that look.” Cyril schooled that look off her face, even though the quirk in Dion’s lips was hard to miss. “And if we end up with a couple of free hours in the city, I’ll show you around. Alright?”

Cyril grumbled her agreement as they passed through the side doors into the palace. She knew those couple of hours would never happen.

When the foyer came into view, Dion stepped away from her and said, “The scribes were getting a kit ready for you to bring. Go pack up and meet me upstairs.”

The palace was in an unusual amount of disarray when Mikael pulled his slightly less hungover ass out of bed for the second time that day.

Not that he was usually one for naps, but when he realized the feisty nymph that he spent the night with made a departure during his mid-morning absence…well, he didn’t think twice about crawling right back into bed.

Just like he hadn’t thought twice about running after Cyril like a fucking lost puppy while another woman was asleep and naked in his bed. The overabundance of lockmead he put back at the barracks was easy to blame for any of his questionable decisions.

Mikael was halfway down the main stairs when the noise and commotion of the foyer hit him—guards and councilors everywhere. Mumbling and arguing, exchanging worried glances.

Something happened while he was asleep.

His mother’s tired eyes caught him from the base of the stairs, where she was standing and talking with Dion, and she waved him down.

Mikael only caught the last few words of their conversation.

“…days and we’ll be back,” Dion said as he leaned down and kissed Runa’s cheek, giving Mikael a curt nod as he skirted around him and headed up the stairs. Mikael empathized immensely with the dark circles framing the Rogue Master’s eyes.

Runa looked up at Mikael with a weak smile.

It looked like a strong breeze might knock her clean off her feet.

“Did you have a late night, Mother?” he asked, slightly scandalized, with a raised brow.

“Not as late as you did, my boy.” Her voice was full of that sarcastic, scolding tone she was so damn good at. “I went to the barracks looking for you this morning, but Ari seemed convinced you wouldn’t be coming up for air for a few days.”

Mikael rubbed his brow.

Hopefully, that was all they saw fit to tell her about last night’s activities.

“Were you drowning your sorrows?”

“Something like that.” He opened his mouth and glanced around the foyer’s chaos before he turned back to his mother. “What in the hells did I miss?”

Runa’s sigh was palpable.

“Another body in Brynnhold. Just like the others. And it was…public.”

Well, fuck.

“Someone important, I take it, with all of this?” He jerked his chin towards the councilmen, all grouped up together near the hall that led back to the royal offices.

“A merchant, apparently, that maintained some rather prosperous trade routes. Someone your father and the others knew.” Runa shook her head and sighed again. “His family didn’t even realize he’d gone missing last night, and his daughter found him when she went to open the shop this morning. The poor girl, I…I can’t imagine.”

Mikael couldn’t either.

“The markets must have been a shitshow.”

His mother scoffed. “Mayhem. And word traveled quickly, too. A few councilors knew before General Ezra even did.”

Oh, that didn’t bode well for anyone.

“How pissed was he?”

“Furious. I thought he was going to kill the poor city commander when she got here, truthfully. It’s all under control now, though. They were just thin on manpower in the city, so Ari sent a few of your King's Guard out to help.” She paused for just a second, giving him a look that he knew said, You would have known if you had been awake. “The rogues from Helia were already there, so they’ve started working. Dion and Cyril will head there as well to join them. Ah, speaking of which…”

He followed his mother’s eyes across the foyer to where Cyril wove through groups of people. Judging by the leather satchel in her arms, she was coming from the archives. The scribes almost always had one on their person.

They just looked a bit less…frazzled.

Her braid was in pieces, with half of her blouse untucked and wrinkled, but she wore windswept and disheveled remarkably well. Almost better than she’d worn the mask of a well-dressed, highborn lady the night before.

“Tobias gave you everything you need?” his mother asked Cyril as she came to a stop in front of them. Cyril’s shoulders heaved with a heavy breath.

“That and then some. And I—” Her molten gold eyes darted up to Mikael, and widened before she winced, clutching that leather pack tight to her chest. “Tonight. I-I won’t be able to come…”

“Another night. The barracks aren’t going anywhere.” Mikael’s disappointment was immeasurable, but he gave her an empathetic smile. It wasn’t like it was her fault. He would bet good money she didn’t have a single say in if she was going or not. “More pressing things to deal with right now.”

“Right.” Cyril nodded, looking between him and his mother. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked disappointed too. “I have to go pack. I’m sure Dion is wondering where I am.”

Runa reached for her arm and quietly said, “Don’t forget what we talked about, alright?”

Well, that was fucking suspicious.

But Cyril smiled at his mother and nodded before she took off up the stairs.

It did not surprise him in the least that the two of them were conspiring together. His mother was always a proponent of having an expansive network of allies, as she liked to put it.

“Mikael,” his mother hissed. “Your eyes are lingering.”

He blinked down at her, opening his mouth and quickly shutting it. There was no getting out of that—he watched Cyril appreciatively the entire way up. Maybe last night's tumble with the nymph hadn’t sated that itch as much as he hoped.

“And?” he challenged, and his mother sighed.

“Be careful, Mika.” The look she cut him was sharp. “If you break her heart, it’s not just Dion you’ll have to worry about.”

“Break her heart?” It was his turn to sigh. “I’m not sure what you think is going on, but that is a wild conclusion to jump—”

“Everyone saw the two of you dancing last night, Mika. Councilor Mathias even commented to your father this morning.” Of course the fucking creepy old man did. But his mother didn’t stop there. “Are you going to tell me you just suddenly decided to be, what, friendly? A good host? I saw how you looked at her, and I saw the two of you leave together.”

“We left at the same time, Mother, not together. We left and went our separate ways.” Much to his disappointment, but no one else needed to know that.

“And now you’ve invited her to go to the barracks with you at night?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Mikael shut his eyes and sighed. “Do I need a reason?”

This entire conversation was pointless, seeing as she wasn’t even going to be there anymore.

His mother scoffed, and he didn’t even need to see her face to know how annoyed she’d look. He was too familiar with this.

“To bring someone like Cyril to the place you get lost in your cups and pick up women? Absolutely you do.”

Of course, his mother never seemed to have an issue with what happened in the barracks before now…

“I feel bad for her. She’s alone all the time.” He could give his mother that bit of truth, at least, as long as they didn’t delve into what other sort of feelings he had stirred up for her. “Aren’t you the one who told me she needed a friend?”

An indignant noise left Runa, and Mikael smirked.

“I said friend, not bedmate. Gods, I can’t believe I birthed you sometimes.” She rubbed her brow and Mikael chuckled as he turned to leave. “But I’m dead serious, Mika. If you hurt her and Dion or one of the others doesn’t kill you first, I will. And then I’ll—”

“You’ll find someone to reanimate my corpse and then kill me all over again? Yes, I’m well aware of that drill, Mother, but thank you for the warning.”

Chapter 23

“Was there this much blood found with any other bodies?” Cyril asked, her blouse tugged up over her nose.

They arrived in Brynnhold, finally, after riding hard for over an hour in the late afternoon heat. The same humid, stifling heat that the merchant’s shop had baked in all afternoon.

With blood and viscera splattered across every visible surface.

And a disemboweled body.

And not a single open window or door.

Cyril had a pretty iron-clad stomach, but this… She’d smelled nothing like it.

Metallic and sour, and nauseating in a unique way, Cyril was thankful she never made it to lunch.

Dion helped her open a couple of windows to pull in a breeze from the docks, but the air was brutally stagnant. How convenient that he was needed elsewhere and left before she’d even looked around.

“No, miss. Nothing like this,” said the city guardsman, Soren, who’d stayed behind with her. He, too, had his uniform pulled up over his nose. “Just like the one in the palace, we assumed the first three were killed elsewhere and then dumped. This is…new.”

There was no question that the man lying on the floor, split and pulled apart from neck to groin, met his end in that very room.

Spray and spatter coated the walls and ceiling of the shop’s main room, and puddles of blood sat in coagulated spots across the floorboards. A veritable lake of it had pooled around the merchant’s body too.

It must have been such a lively, fragrant place before death saturated it through and through. Cyril was disappointed she hadn’t had the chance to see it before.

Almost every display rack or table was knocked over or splintered into pieces, and tapestries hung half-torn from the walls. Broken jars of spices and dried flowers were strewn about, stuck in the splatters of blood. Bolts of vibrant and exotic-looking fabrics were shredded and burned too.

Such shameful destruction, but it wasn’t the time to dwell.

The runes written in the merchant’s blood on the wall above his body were the entire reason Cyril was there, and she didn’t have to look long to know they were the same as the others. A different arrangement of the elements, but all the usual suspects were there from her cursory glance.

Cyril set her bag down on the front counter—the least blood-splattered surface—and regretted every minute she had to uncover her nose to pilfer out a couple of supplies and take careful steps back across the room. Her stomach was creeping up her throat, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it at bay.

“They said you can speak the old language. Is that true?” Soren asked, quiet marvel in his voice, and Cyril balked.

“No, no. Gods, no. I—” She took a slow breath. That was putrefying flesh that just squelched beneath her boot. “I can read it…sort of. Enough to understand this.” She gestured at the runes on the wall.

“Oh.” His disappointment was palpable.

“Sorry.” Cyril smiled empathetically. “One of the rogues told you that, or…?”

Leave it up to one of her uncles to speak with too much enthusiasm.

“No, actually, it—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, someone may have overheard Commander Kallan say you do.”

Cyril blinked.

“Well, Commander Kallan was mistaken,” she said, a bit more curtly than intended.

An amused smile crept onto the guard’s lips, and he nodded.

“Noted. I’ll leave you to this”—Soren waved a hand at the wall and tugged his uniform back up over his nose—“and I’ll keep the door open for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll be quick.” Cyril swallowed down the sickly feeling creeping back up her throat. “You’ll have to scrape me off the floor too if I’m here much longer.”

“You could always crack open some of the lockmead and sniff that,” he chuckled, but Cyril blinked at him in confusion.

“The what?”

The guard pointed to a small rack of glass bottles beneath a window—one of the few things in the room not left in ruins

“Lockmead?” He paused, and Cyril shook her head. “It’s spirits distilled with a bit of faelock, and it packs a fucking punch. They make that one right here in Brynnhold.”

Cyril took a slow look at the destruction around the shop. Despite the stagnant heat, goosebumps rippled up her arms and legs. She turned back to the guard and said, “Was everything here made in Brynnhold? Or Reykr at least?”

Soren’s brow furrowed for a moment. “I doubt it. He maintained some pretty robust trade deals with the south and the mortal lands. I’m sure very little is actually from here.”

A wave of sickly unease swept through Cyril, and it wasn’t just the smell of festering death that was getting to her.

“Do you want to go outside? You don’t look well,” he continued.

She waved him off.

“It’s fine. Just give me a minute and I’ll be out.”

“Remember what we talked about,” Runa had said to her hours ago, but Cyril wasn’t sure she wanted to acknowledge the connections her mind was forging.

Chapter 24

Three days in Brynnhold and Cyril still hadn't fully seen the city. The inn she was staying at with her uncles, the merchant district, and the guard’s station all happened to be just a couple minutes’ walk from each other. Convenient from a working perspective, to not be trekking long distances between each, but terrible for her curiosity.

It felt like an especially cruel form of torture to bring Cyril all the way here and confine her indoors, but Dion was as focused on the task at hand as ever. Bron had apparently found their most credible lead to date, in the form of a recent business deal gone particularly sour.

The details of which, of course, she wasn’t privy to.

It only took ten minutes after returning to the guard’s station that first day for Cyril to go from budding linguist to fucking bookkeeper. The only saving grace was that Soren and herself were assigned to pour through the thousands of business records together.

Misery loved company.

In the grueling days they spent together, he went out of his way to teach Cyril little bits about Brynnhold—like the devastating fire that leveled the original city centuries ago, and what the different colors of ribbons tied to front doors represented—and provided some much needed comedic relief whenever the pages and names and numbers all blurred together.

A regular occurrence, unfortunately.

Cyril sagged against the spindle back of her chair and groaned, rubbing at her burning eyes. “I hate this,” she grumbled, and Soren exhaled sharply.

“Do you even know what a suspicious business record looks like?” he asked in a terrible reenactment of the city commander’s voice as he set his stack of papers down. “Because I fucking don’t.”

Every shape and size of parchment imaginable littered the top of the table in the cramped office they commandeered at the station. Shipment manifests and customer accounts made up the majority of the records and, other than giving Cyril a wicked number of paper cuts, nothing about them raised any red flags. Not that either of them knew what those red flags would be.

Soren told Cyril he spent the bulk of his two years so far with the Royal Guard on and off border patrols, having only returned a few weeks ago from his most recent rotation. And Cyril, well…

“They don’t teach that at the guild, no,” she chuckled. “Sorry that you got sucked into being my babysitter.”

“Your babysitter?” Soren gave her a look like he’d just smelled something sour. “What? So you don’t blackmail—” He picked up a record and squinted at it. “Miss Afferly about how many bottles of almond oil she bought?”

An undignified snort left Cyril.

“Was that the one with eight on it? That’s a questionable amount! Why would one person need that much almond oil?”

“You have a point,” Soren chuckled and tossed the paper back on the table. “So why exactly am I babysitting you?”

“My uncle seems very opposed to me being alone anywhere there is the possibility of fun.” She rolled her eyes. “Gods forbid.”

“Is he the angry-looking one?”

Cyril blinked.

“That doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

Soren sat back in his chair. “So there’s the really tall, really fucking terrifying one. The one who looks like he’s allergic to feelings. The one that is simultaneously friendly and gods damned frightening. And there’s the angry one.”

Rendal. Tyriel. Bronson. Dion.

Cyril cackled, to the point she had tears in her eyes as she said, “Yeah, he’s the angry one.”

“I hit that right on the head, didn’t I?”

He beamed with pride as he smoothed down the front of his uniform.

“Gods, did you ever.” She wiped at her face, a wheeze of a laugh leaving her. “I’ve never—”

A single knock rapped at the door before the hinges creaked open.

Friendly and frightening stuck his head in, and Soren shrank back.

“Hi, dove.” Bron grinned at her in that wry way of his. He tossed an appraising glance around the cramped office before he said, “Have you eaten?”

A quiet growl rumbled in her stomach, and she shook her head.

“Come on then.” Bron pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Let's go for a walk and grab some dinner.”

A walk, in Brynnhold?

Cyril was out of her chair before Bron finished speaking.

The walk down to the docks wasn’t as long as Cyril hoped, but as they wove through the cobbled streets and towards the briny smell of the sea, she glimpsed three yellow ribbons and a single white one tied to the front doors of various row houses. Three new babies and a passing, if she remembered Soren correctly.

And just like he said, Brynnhold was a sweeping sea of stone.

She hadn’t given a second thought to the rows upon rows of stone structures when they first arrived, but now she understood the practicality of it.

It must have been one hells of a fire if after all this time the city-dwellers still insisted on building from stone. Except for easy-to-replace structures like doors and window sills, and little vendor stalls, the people of Brynnhold constructed everything from gray and cream-colored stone.

Well, everything except for the docks in the harbor, of course. There might have been more planks of wood there than in the rest of the city combined.

By this time in the evening, the hustle and bustle Cyril witnessed in the markets quieted into more of a gentle buzz, and the docks sat full of bobbing fishing boats moored for the night. Outside of a few straggling deckhands and workers still milling about, Cyril and Bron had the place to themselves.

Which was for the best, considering the ferocity with which she inhaled the mincemeat pastry that Bron bought for her on the walk down.

“What did you say this was?” Cyril asked after she swallowed down the last bit of it. She peeked back into the parchment, and her hope of finding another piece was crushed.

Cyril pouted.

Bron laughed as he crumpled his own parchment and tossed it out into the water. “No idea what it’s called. But I think I’ve eaten my body weight in them and they’re fucking delicious.”

“They really are.”

Cyril took one last look in the wrap before she tossed hers over the edge of the dock as well. She wondered if the palace kitchen would take any offense to her making a special request when they went back…

“So,” Bron started, knocking Cyril right off the cloud of food-induced bliss she drifted on. “I heard from a little Dion-shaped birdie that you”—he bumped her shoulder—“may or may not have beaten the ever-loving shit out of Prince Asshole a couple of weeks ago?”

“I did.” She beamed. “In front of a bunch of the guards too.”

“Good.” There was a sort of unrestrained pride on Bron’s face even as she swatted and swore at him when he reached to ruffle her hair. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, you know.”

She knew that well.

But at least Bron dished out praise and expectations in equal measures.

“Did Dion tell you about anything else I’ve been doing?”

Like maybe all the damn time she’s spent in the archives, trying to learn an entire other language. An almost dead one, at that.

“Well…” His brow creased. “He may have also less enthusiastically mentioned that the same prince is getting a bit too…comfortable with you?”

She blinked.

“He what?”

“I believe the exact words he said to me were, ‘That arrogant whelp can’t keep his fucking hands to himself,’ and ‘If he thinks he can get that comfortable with Cyr, he’s got another fucking thing coming.’”

Cyril stared at Bron in disbelief. But he nodded slowly, like he understood exactly what pieces just clicked into her mind with startling clarity.

Cyril was glad she had already finished the dinner Bron bought her because she suddenly found herself with no appetite. The pastry felt like a ball of lead in her stomach.

“Is that why he brought me here? To keep me away from Mikael?”

“I think that may have been a contributing factor, yes.” Bron sighed and shook his head, tendrils of blonde hair slipping back over his shoulders. “Something has him all sorts of fucked up, Cyr, and I haven’t figured it out. But Ren and Tyr see it too. He’s hot one minute, cold the next.”

Bron leaned back on his palms, his emerald eyes turned out over the rippling water of the harbor. “And I know this is easier said than done, dove, but try to not take it personally. You’re just bearing the brunt of whatever bullshit’s keeping him up at night now. I wish there was something I could do, but—”

“I’ll be alright.”

What were her other options?

She knew Bron would pluck the moon itself from the night sky if he thought it would make her happy, and it meant more than she could say. But things just weren’t that simple dealing with Dion, and Cyril refused to burden Bron or the others with any more details on just how volatile her uncle was becoming. They had enough on their plates as it was, and it wasn’t like she was being given much opportunity to help with their investigation.

“Did he tell you he took off with some women without saying a word and left me to fend for myself at that same dinner that he’s pissed about?” she added. “Or did he leave that part out?”

Bron huffed a dry, bitter laugh.

“Not surprising in the least. Though, I can’t say I’d want to tell my niece I was leaving to get my—”

“Please don’t finish that,” she groaned, and he tossed her a wry smile. “It was bad enough that Mikael had to tell me…”

“Oh? Was that before or after the whelp couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”

“Not you too!” Cyril hissed. Bron feigned a grievous injury when she smacked him, clutching his arm tight to his chest. “Whatever Dion thinks he saw, he’s wrong. We just danced a few times.”

“Just danced?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes!” Cyril cut him a sharp glare, but the amusement in his face didn’t falter whatsoever. Her cheeks burned. “I don’t know what you thought I got myself into.”

The insufferable arse chuckled.

“You are Dion’s blood relative. Anything is possible, dove.”

Cyril didn’t give him the benefit of a response to that.

Bron grinned at her, but he let silence settle in. It was never an awkward or uncomfortable thing when she was with him. Wherever they sat, whatever they watched, it always came so easily.

“They’re treating you well, up at that big fancy house?” he asked a few minutes later.

“And by big fancy house, you mean the palace?” Cyril chuckled. “They are. The food is good, the wine is good—” She eyed Bron. Two things of the utmost importance to him. “—and I get to do a lot of riding. And I…”

Cyril sighed.

For her entire life, Bron was the only person she could speak to without restraint. Her deepest, darkest secrets? He knew them all. Her hopes and dreams, no matter how delusional? He knew every one of those too. And Bron never judged her for any of it, not truly. He wouldn’t tell a soul either, unless she asked him to.

But to the man who gave her so much unrequited advice and guidance, especially as they embarked on this shitshow of a contract, it brought Cyril no insignificant amount of discomfort to say, “I don’t hate it here.”

Bron nodded, but said nothing, and his eyes never left the harbor.

He didn’t look surprised, at least.

“And it feels so wrong. I thought Reykr was bad, that I was supposed to hate it because…well, because that’s what I was told. But the people here…they’ve been so kind. Even the lands, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. And I just…”

Cyril sighed again and clasped her hands in her lap—she didn’t know what else she wanted to say. There were too many things floating around in her head to grab onto just one. But she didn’t get opportunities like this often anymore, to have quiet chats with Bron.

He glanced at her and a half of a smile tugged at his lips as he said, “I understand, dove.”

“You do?” Cyril’s brows climbed and Bron nodded.

“It’s not what I thought it would be like here either.” He pursed his lips, looking back out over the water. “I’m wary, still, of it all. But I understand how you feel.”

“I’ve been letting my guard down,” she admitted, and her chest felt a little lighter. “All the damn time. I keep catching myself, realizing that someone could have tampered with my food, or I'll get back from a ride and realize I didn't have a weapon. Or, gods—” She groaned. “I’m alone with people all the time. And I just think about how disappointed you’d all be with me if you knew. I know Dion already is.”

“Never, Cyr,” Bron said firmly. “You’re twenty-one. You shouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time. We shouldn’t be putting you in situations where those are the things you worry about. You should be worried about having fun, dove. Living a little.”

Cyril eyed him warily.

“I’m dead serious. Go get hammered on solstice and dance in the grass until the sun comes up. Hells, get handsy with the prince if that’s what you really want.” He raised his brow at her, and Cyril felt her cheeks warm. This would be where their conversation ended up. “But only if that’s what you want. If it’s not, and he touches you again, I’ll break his fucking hands.”

“You don't need to break anyone’s hands,” she groaned.

“The offer will always stand, dove.” There was a glint in his green eyes that Cyril knew meant he would enjoy every moment if it came to that. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. “And, above all that, never let some fear of disappointing us cloud your decisions or take away from your happiness. We will always be proud of you and love you, and there are no clauses to that. No ifs or buts. Really, I think we’d just be more proud of you if you did something questionable that one of us hasn’t already done.”

He looked at Cyril and swore quietly.

She hadn’t been able to stop the tears that rimmed her eyes at an alarming speed, or the couple that escaped down her cheeks.

“Shit, Cyr, I didn’t mean to—”

Cyril waved him off. She scrubbed at her face as she said, “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just…thank you.”

“Of course, dove.” Bron studied her for a long minute with that sad, empathetic smile on his face before he stood and extended his hand to her. “As much as I’d be happy to sit out here all night with you, we should get back to the inn before Dion gets his fucking panties in a twist. He was pissy enough as it was this morning.”

“He was?”

Cyril took Bron’s hand and tried to subtly brush all the pastry crumbs off her legs as she stood. She hadn’t seen Dion much this morning, truthfully, before they all left, but he seemed his usual amount of…grumpy?

“He was in a right foul mood,” Bron scoffed as he slung his arm across her shoulders and steered her back towards the street. “I didn’t stick around long enough to figure out what about.”

“He got back pretty late last night. This morning, technically, I guess.”

It was the only thing she could think of.

She’d been sound asleep herself when the squeal of hinges woke her up and boots thudding against the floor in Dion’s room kept her up for the next half an hour. Not something she was overly impressed with in the wee hours of the morning.

Bron cast her a sidelong glance. “He went out last night?”

“After he walked me to my room. Said he had things to deal with.” Her poor impression of her uncle’s smooth tone at least drew a huff of a laugh from Bron. “I thought he was with you guys.”

“No. No, he wasn’t. It was just Ren and I doing the…questioning last night.” Bron pursed his lips and shook his head. Questioning—she knew what that meant. Confirmation that the dark spots on his boots were just what she thought they were. “It’s no matter now, though.”

Cyril didn't push it with him, even though it did matter to her—another one of Dion's damn hypocrite tendencies.

He expected to know everyone’s whereabouts at every fucking point in time, and there was hells to pay if he didn’t. But if someone questioned his whereabouts? Gods.

It wasn’t a pretty thing when that happened.

“Are you having any luck with…questioning?” she asked.

The sigh that left Bron was telling.

“Not as much as I would have hoped given the, well…” He gave Cyril a tight smile. “Effort we’ve been putting in.”

“Oh,” Cyril said.

She knew exactly what effort meant too, and she wasn’t about to push him any further on that.

Bron’s hand, draped over the top of her shoulder, drifted into her periphery, and Cyril focused on that instead of the frustration bubbling up in her about fucking everything.

She traced the outline of the rising sun tattoo occupying the space between his thumb and forefinger—the mark of merit that rogues of Helia wore. Dion, Ren, Tyr, and most of the others each had their own somewhere on their bodies.

The number and pattern of dots and lines apparently allowed them to identify one another, but it was another one of those many little secrets kept from her.

“Do you think Dion would ever let me get one?” she asked.

Bron flexed his fingers and cast her a wary glance.

“Do I think Dion would ever let his perfect, beautiful little niece do anything to mar herself permanently?” He raised his brow at her. “No, I don’t. But I do think if you asked Ren nicely enough, he’d do it for you, anyway. Dion be damned.”

Cyril’s lips parted and her eyes went wide. “You think he would?”

“I do. But don’t be running up to him asking him to do it tonight, dove.” Her shoulders sagged. It felt like Bron was right inside her head sometimes. “Wait until we’ve made it through this contract in one piece. I’m sure he’d be happy to do it then.”

Cyril pouted a little, but that was something she could do.

Chapter 25

Of no surprise to anyone, Dion was in a miserable mood when Cyril and Bron got back to the inn. The sun had barely set, but he argued it was irresponsible of Bron to keep Cyril out in the streets after dark. Like they’d been waving around gold coins and wandering shady alleyways in the middle of the night or something.

Neither she nor Bron bothered fighting with him about it.

Instead, they sat around one of the taproom tables and drank pints of lukewarm ale in fucking awkward silence before everyone broke away to turn in for the night.

Cyril’s door barely latched shut when Dion knocked once and opened it.

Standing in the middle of her cramped lodgings, she sighed. The last person she wanted to deal with right now.

“What?”

“What?” Dion scoffed. Clearly Cyril never had the right to be annoyed with him about anything. “Pack your shit up in the morning. We’re heading back after breakfast.”

She narrowed her eyes at Dion. “All of us?”

“Just you and I, we aren’t needed here anymore.”

Cyril barely suppressed her laugh. Like they even needed her here to begin with. Like they ever needed her anywhere.

“Do not sleep in,” Dion added, half his body already out the door.

Oh, her uncle was in a hurry. And he wasn’t wearing that jacket when they were downstairs minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he said and pulled her door shut. His footfalls echoed down the hall.

“Fucking arse,” Cyril grumbled.

She didn’t care if Dion heard her. He clearly didn't, though, because her door stayed firmly mounted on its hinges.

Wherever Dion went, it was hours before he came back.

Hours that Cyril spent lying in bed at first, then tossing and turning, stewing in her disdain. Stewing in her disbelief that even a world away from home, Dion was still finding ways to smother her. To keep her caged. The same man who, only days ago, was ready to cut her loose on her own in Reykr.

The dichotomy was sickening.

But it was during that fitful attempt at sleep that the most abrupt realization crossed Cyril’s mind.

She could leave.

She could get out of bed, throw her shit in a bag, and walk out of the inn.

No one would stop her in the middle of the night.

Not that she knew where she would even go, but she could leave.

She’d intended to use the gold coins stashed in her bag for a bit of city shopping, should the opportunity present itself, but they could also take her somewhere.

Anywhere.

One of the cargo ships docked at the far end of the bay would surely be willing to accept a stowaway with a flash of gold.

Her dream died, though, before it had a full breath of life.

When Cyril finally worked up the nerve to get out of bed and stuff half her clothes into her travel bag, footfalls echoed down the hall.

She froze, waiting.

The hinges of a door squealed and that heavy thud of boots continued into the room next to hers—Dion’s room.

Her bravery fizzled, and Cyril sank onto her bed.

Even though Dion would never admit it, their sleeping assignments were purposeful. Tyr, Bron, and Ren all had rooms nearest to the stairwell, to make their comings and goings as convenient as possible.

Cyril though?

The dead end of the hall, tucked right next to Dion’s room. Meaning she’d have to traverse the rickety, creaky floorboards right past her uncle’s room with her damn travel bag if she wanted to get out. There wasn’t a hope in the hells of her not rousing Dion’s attention, and that was not the sort of confrontation she was confident she could endure.

She opted to lay wide awake in bed and stew for another few hours instead.

When the first rays of morning light struggled to break through the cloudy, grime-coated window, she slipped out to the women’s bathing chamber across the hall. By the time Cyril washed and dressed and packed up the rest of her belongings, the inn was just beginning to stir to life.

One of the young, soft-spoken barmaids in the taproom brought Cyril a mug of tea and a couple of oven-fresh buns with berry jam—which she refused any damn payment for—and left her to wait in silence.

For two fucking hours.

Surprise graced Dion’s evidently wrung-out features when he finally carried his intolerable arse down the stairs.

“Should we just get on the road now, or…?” Dion didn’t bother setting down the travel bag slung over his shoulder when he came to a stop beside Cyril’s table. He cast a single, cursory glance around the lifeless taproom before he turned his attention back to her.

“I’d love that.” Cyril failed at tempering her tone into anything other than fucking annoyed as she gathered up her bag and stepped past Dion.

Fresh air would do her some good, right?

The cool morning breeze that—

“How long have you been down here?”

She glanced back at him. “Hours.”

“Cyr,” Dion sighed, “You could have come and—”

“It’s fine.”

Waking up Dion was not something she made a habit out of doing, ever. More often than not, he was up before her anyway, but on the rare chance that he wasn’t…Cyril knew better than to go knocking.

She had zero interest in seeing who might come stumbling out with him.

Cyril made it all of three steps outside the door—into the muggy and not-at-all-refreshing air—before Dion planted a hand on her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. His tired, tarnished gold eyes scoured her face.

“What is your problem?”

“Nothing.” She ducked out of his grasp and kept walking down the street to where the stables sat tucked behind the inn. “I just want to go.”

Dion said nothing.

Cyril didn't bother to look back and check if he was pissed off or not. He probably was, and she didn’t care. He came into the stables a few steps behind her, paid the half-awake stable hand, and did not utter a single word to Cyril as they saddled and packed up.

They spent the entire ride back in tense silence.

Dion brooded so far ahead of her on the road that she wasn’t sure he’d notice if she just led Attie into the woods and left.

Not that she wanted to risk that today.

Dion didn't bother speaking to her until after they dropped off the horses at the royal stables, and she wished he hadn’t.

In the bright and airy atrium, abuzz with morning activity, he turned to her and said with no amount of gentleness, “I’d highly recommend you get your attitude in check before Summer Solstice.”

Cyril stared at him, stalled dead in her tracks.

Was that a threat?

Not like it would be the first time he held the prospect of barring her from celebrating as a behavioral condition. Cyril was fifteen the last time he tried, and it didn’t end well. She climbed out of her bedroom window and down to a second-floor balcony before she lost her footing on a drainpipe. She woke up hours later in Dion’s office with a hell of a sore back and confirmation that her bones would not break.

Cyril’s lips parted to fucking dare Dion to try locking her down, but she held her tongue, and it killed her.

The smirk that peeled across his face had Cyril balling her fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms.

“Smart choice,” he added, before turning and sauntering away in that infuriating, cocky way of his. Like the floors should be grateful he deigned to walk on them.

And Cyril?

She just stood there.

In the middle of the atrium.

Positively fuming.

She didn’t trust her own feet not to charge after Dion if she untethered them.

So she let everyone bustling about the atrium weave their way around her, their scoffs and sighs and dirty looks be damned. She fixed her eyes on a floral tapestry hung above an unoccupied seating alcove and she breathed, willing her heart to slow its pace.

“Uh…Cyril?”

She blinked—Kaia.

The guards woman ambled over from the open main doors, a glimmer of amusement lighting up her hazel eyes. She stopped beside Cyril, hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword, and said, “Just hanging out there with your bag, or…?”

Cyril gave Kaia a meek smile.

How fucking embarrassing.

“No, I just got back, and I…needed a minute.”

“I see that.” Kaia’s appraising gaze swept from Cyril to her bag and back. She tipped her head. “Why aren’t you on the hunt?”

“What hunt?”

“The solstice hunt? Did you not—” Kaia pursed her lips. “Mikael said his mother invited you all to go with them.”

“I had no idea.” The disappointing likelihood of why she had no idea about this hunt had her anger stirring to life again. Still, Cyril asked, “When did it start?”

“Oh, they all left yesterday afternoon. The family and their fancy guests”—Kaia waved her hand flippantly, oblivious to the turmoil that coursed through Cyril—“hunt all the game that we’ll eat on solstice night. They won’t be back until the morning of. It’s a shame that you didn’t get to go. It’s quite a production with the camp they set up for the guests.”

Fucking Dion.

“Sounds like it.” Cyril didn’t bother to mask the disappointment in her voice, and Kaia’s smile was empathetic.

“Well, I’m late for my meeting now.” She inclined her head across the atrium to where Captain Ari leaned against the wall. He waved, but did not look pleased. “Don’t be a stranger! I know His Highness isn’t around for you to kick his ass again, but you’re welcome to come down to the barracks if you have some free time.”

As much as Cyril appreciated the sentiment, if she was going to spend time at the barracks, it would be solely to get under Dion’s skin. But she needed the arrogant prince to be there for that, and for…

Well, there were other reasons, but she didn’t want to acknowledge that little kernel of interest right at this moment.

“I appreciate that. Thanks Kaia.”

Kaia offered her a grin and a half-assed curtsy before she went to join Ari and the two of them slipped down a hall to the royal offices.

Three days until Summer Solstice.

Three days that Cyril had to focus on keeping herself busy, and then she could indulge in a bit of fun. It was a good thing the archives were well stocked, and she had no shortage of research to do on purist uprisings in Reykr.

Dion be damned. Cyril would make herself useful.

Chapter 26

Cyril finished pulling the laces closed on the front of her bodice and twirled half a step in front of the tall mirror in her bathroom.

Things went so much better when she dressed herself.

The evening of Summer Solstice had finally arrived, and she picked a tried-and-true ensemble brought right from Helia—a minty-green dress with a fitted bodice, flowing skirt, and sheer sleeves that ended at her wrists in gold-embroidered cuffs. Simple, easy to maneuver in, and most of all? Comfortable.

She kept her hair and makeup simple too.

A hint of kohl around her eyes, a dab of rouge on her cheekbones, and she left her hair down. It desperately needed a break from the tight braid it’d spent the last three days living in while she wasted away in the archives.

Just once more—for good measure, not because she was preening—she ran a brush through her hair, from the crown of her head straight down to her waist, before she ran out to meet Dion and Runa where they waited in the hall.

Cyril hadn’t even shut her door all the way when Runa swept over, crooning, “Oh, you look lovely, sweetheart.”

The queen looked nothing like the conservative, matronly woman Cyril had grown accustomed to seeing.

A short-sleeved robe of sheer, midnight blue fabric clung to every single one of Runa’s ample curves, dipping to a dangerously low point on her chest. Cyril wasn’t sure if the geometric tattoos climbing up her sternum or her overflowing cleavage were more distracting.

“Thank you,” she said, looking Runa directly in her silver-blue eyes. “You look lovely as well.”

More like a gods damned vixen, but Cyril wasn’t going there.

“I told you Cyril cleans up nicely on her own,” Dion joked from where he leaned against the wall, looking…the same as usual. Fitted black on fitted black. Clean shaven, at least, and looking like he slept a few hours in recent days.

Runa laughed, and Cyril offered him a tight smile.

He was still bottom of the list of people she wanted to spend time with. They'd kept a safe distance from each other these last three days, and for that, Cyril was fucking grateful, especially because she knew she'd be stuck with him all night.

“Easy with the compliments. I’m still sober,” she grumbled.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll remedy that soon,” Runa chuckled as she linked arms with Cyril, motioning for Dion to take her other side, and led them out of the residential wing.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, Cyril had caught glimmers of the preparations being made for the celebrations out on the back lawns. Tables and chairs being hauled out from gods only know where, platters and linens and even damn pillows being carted out in wooden crates. But nothing quite compared to seeing it all as the sun went down, in the full swing of festivities.

Truthfully? It teetered on overwhelming.

Cyril’s eyes couldn’t settle on a single damn thing for more than a second or two as Runa tugged her and Dion down a sweeping pathway dotted with bobbing fae lights. Staff and revelers darted past them in every direction, with most of the commotion congregating around long tables adorned with flowers and food.

Cyril’s stomach started growling the moment the scent of warmed spices and grilled meat hit her nose.

In the balmy, summer air laced with those wholly delicious smells, came joyous noise too. From raucous laughter and shouting, to whistling and cheering for who knew what. The upbeat notes of a fiddle even carried through it all, though Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea where it came from.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Dion asked, his fond smile a startling thing to see.

“The people…” she breathed.

Decor and pageantry aside, it wasn’t just a party for the palace residents.

The revelers were dressed in garbs of all varieties, from fine silk dresses with jewels to uniforms to threadbare tunics that spoke to humble means, and they all mingled with each other. Passing around platters of food between one another, hugging and laughing, pouring potations and clinking glasses.

It made her heart ache a bit to see the revelry like that.

Solstice was something they did well in Helia, and it reminded her of it so damn much. It was hard to believe she hadn’t been home in over a month.

“Now, before I let the two of you loose…”

With a jarring tug, Runa brought Cyril and Dion over to one of the myriad of tables holding nothing but bottles upon bottles of spirits.

“This is a bit of a solstice tradition”—she picked up a narrow bottle with opalescent glass, uncorked it, and poured three short glasses of the clear liquid within—“that I know Dion is well acquainted with. Lockmead.”

Cyril took her glass for a cursory sniff, and it fucking burned.

Dion had the nerve to laugh at the wary look she gave him and the queen.

“Trust me, it tastes better than it smells. And I know it seems curious to have a drink made of something toxic to us, but there is just enough of a hint of faelock to make you feel good.” Runa’s smile was all pure amusement. “Just don’t overdo it. You’ll have a hell of a night tonight, but you’ll be certain you’ve landed in one of the actual hells tomorrow. Dion can attest to that, I’m sure.”

“I can,” Dion sighed. He shook his head like he just remembered something he seriously wanted to forget, and Cyril couldn’t help but laugh.

Runa laughed before she raised her glass and said, “Happy solstice, you two.”

A clink of three glasses, and Cyril followed the queen’s lead on shooting back her lockmead in one go. Somehow, it was bitter and sweet, and went down like roughed-up silk.

“That’s…” Cyril looked down at her empty glass.

“Dangerous?” Runa chuckled.

Dangerous put it lightly.

She was still looking down at her glass, processing what in the hells she just drank, when Runa added, “I should find my husband before he ends up in the lake or with a weapon. Make sure you both eat and drink your fill, and enjoy yourselves.”

Cyril didn’t even have a chance to ask if those were circumstances Lars often ended up in on the solstice before Runa was hugging and kissing both her and Dion. She vanished into the crowd after saying something to Dion that left him shaking his head.

“Food?” he asked Cyril, and he’d never suggested a better thing.

They grazed a few of the nearly dozen tables laid out, loading their plates with things both familiar from their meals at the palace, and things totally foreign to Cyril before they found a low table with cushions to settle in at.

Between what looked like a distant relative of a smile on Dion’s face and the relative peace they ate in, her uncle almost passed as happy. Like he was pleased with the attitude checking he so politely suggested she do when they got back from Brynnhold.

She would take what she could.

Even when they cleared their plates and got up to wander about the festivities, Dion just shoved a mug of spiced wine in her hand, linked arms with her, and made positively pleasant conversation. The food, the drink and decor, the damn weather.

It made her uneasy as all hell.

“You’ve been here for Summer Solstice a few times, I take it?” Cyril asked Dion as they drifted near a table piled with things that looked far too sweet. His mood seemed decent enough that he might entertain a few of her questions.

“Oh, gods,” he chuckled, “more than a few times, certainly. It’s hard to remember, truthfully, Lars and Runa host parties like this often. And, well, after a hundred-and-some-odd years…”

“It all blends together?”

She knew Dion’s tried and true answer whenever he was asked to recall anything from more than a decade or two ago.

“Something like that.” He smiled, genuinely. “You know, Cyr, I—”

“Dion. Fucking. Rhodea.”

Dion tensed and glanced around, stepping half in front of Cyril as he turned—damn protective asshole.

Cyril didn’t recognize the voice or its moon-fae bearer. But the lithe man approaching them was a shade away from being downright ethereal. He had hair nearly as dark as Cyril’s own, grazing the shoulders of a burgundy tunic so well fitted it looked like it was painted on. His eyes, silver like moonlight, sat locked on Dion.

Double canines gleamed as he grinned at her uncle.

“Well, fuck me…” Dion muttered.

Cyril watched, fascinated, as Dion and the other man embraced each other.

Not a nod of acknowledgment or a firm handshake.

No.

They fucking hugged.

Not an activity Dion usually partook of willingly.

“I heard you might be back on business,” the man said to Dion with his smooth, honey-like voice, “but I wasn’t sure if I’d—”

His eyes snagged on Cyril and he went deathly still.

“Nevermind you, fuck me. Is that…”

Dion glanced back at her and smiled. He took a step to the side and motioned to her as he said, “My niece. Hector and Malia’s daughter.”

Cyril’s chest ached in a way she had not been prepared for. Dion never said their names, ever. The man just stared at her though, blinking, with a look of disbelief on his face.

Cyril shoved aside that budding discomfort and extended her hand to him. “I’m Cyril, and you are…?”

That shook him out of his stupor.

He took her hand between both of his and, gods, they were soft. No calluses from wielding weapons, or from working hard labor. Nobility it was, then.

With a warm smile, he said, “Luca. It is so, so lovely to meet you, Cyril.”

Well, at least Dion’s friend was polite.

Luca gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he turned his attention back to Dion. He clasped Dion’s shoulder and tipped his head away, saying, “Can I steal you away from your lovely niece for a moment to chat?”

Dion eyed Cyril. “You’ll be alright on your own for a bit?”

“Go ahead.” Cyril schooled her grin into something polite. Dismissing Dion was not something she got to do, well…ever. “I’ll just stay here and eat. It was nice to meet you, Luca.”

Luca pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head before he led a begrudged looking Dion away.

True to her word, Cyril did a few laps of grazing around the amply stocked dessert tables. By the time she’d gorged herself on at least half a dozen miniature cakes layered with berries and cream, and started her second generous mug of wine, she realized Dion was not coming back.

This always happened at parties.

Dion would make some big show of being Cyril’s chaperone, wheel her around for an hour or two, then poof. Gone. Something shiny—and intoxicating, more often than not—would catch his eye, and he wouldn’t surface until morning.

At least it meant she could walk around and people-watch on her own.

She tried, honestly, to sort out a familiar face amongst the crowds—like Kaia, or even Ari and Gunner—but there were too many damn people moving about. The faces all blended into one another, the rumble of noise drowning out any one voice in particular, and Cyril realized her mission was a hopeless one.

Just another damn solstice spent wandering around on her own.

A table of young and bright-eyed mortal men invited her to sit with them, but Cyril politely declined the less than discreet gesturing one of them did at his lap, and she slipped back into the crowds.

She looped all the way back to the tables where Runa had given Cyril her introductory taste of lockmead when she finally found the first group of familiar faces all damn night—the stable staff.

“Lady Cyril!” exclaimed that sweet, beautiful woman whose name still eluded Cyril. “Come and have a drink with us?”

She waved a bottle of lockmead in her hand.

Cyril didn’t hesitate to join them.

The first heavy-handed pour from Boone went down rougher than she would have liked, but the second slid down like nothing.

And the third? Cyril had just raised the glass to her lips when she saw Dion.

Walking back to the palace.

With Luca, and…a woman. A nymph, with long, cherry-red hair.

And they all looked…comfortable.

Handsy.

Cyril shot back the lockmead to suppress the shudder that ran through her.

She was going to need an entire damn bottle to get that image out of her mind.

Chapter 27

Somewhere in the dancing and music, in the drifting blur of faelights, Mikael lost track of Cyril and Dion.

The lockmead might’ve had something to do with it too.

He was just looking for a window of opportunity. Just a sliver of time to convince her to come to the barracks tomorrow night, after the merchant’s death sent his last attempt up in smoke.

Watching Cyril drift around the party hadn’t been a chore either.

She’d left her hair down, like a sheet of black silk, and the dress she wore was flattering in all the right ways. Gods, maybe the wrong ways too.

Mikael was certain he’d never felt so invested in a damn article of clothing before. The blue, or green, or whatever damn color the dress was, did something to her eyes that he didn’t quite understand, but was happy to look at regardless. The gold was so bright it was fucking mesmerizing.

Were there more poetic ways to describe a woman’s eyes?

Probably.

But the guard started its celebrations early, and words were not Mikael’s strength even on the best of days. He might’ve honestly been halfway back to sober for the second time when his mother brought Cyril and Dion down to the back lawn at sundown.

That was the first time her uncle caught him staring.

Hells, he wouldn’t have even realized if Ari didn’t discreetly suggest Mikael perhaps find something else to occupy his eyes. He hadn’t meant to look at Dion, but that’s where his eyes landed next, and he was looking right back at him.

Dark and unimpressed.

The second time happened when he heard Cyril laugh.

He didn’t even know at what or why, but she was standing with his mother a few tables away, and the noise garnered every bit of his befuddled attention. He watched them shoot back what could only be lockmead—a rare thing to see his mother do—and then Dion’s disapproving glower stepped into his field of vision.

Ari kept an eye out for him after that and only goaded him mildly about taking such a keen and dangerous interest in the Rhodea woman. He let him know the moment it looked like Dion cleared out for good, and Cyril was still walking about the party.

But some force of fucking nature did not want him seeing Cyril tonight.

Mikael was halfway across the lawn when his father decided that was the exact moment they were going to have some father-son bonding. He wanted to talk about their hunt, and the lands, and how he felt about the more administrative turn his responsibilities had taken as commander.

Lars, too, was deep in his solstice cups.

His mother showed up sometime later, just as their topic of discussion slid dangerously towards futures, and she sidelined their conversation entirely.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, humoring his liquored parents, but it felt like hours. Thankfully, they didn’t seem fussed when he finally made his polite escape under the guise of wanting to get back to celebrating with the guards.

Mikael wove through the dozens of tables and mostly devoured spreads of food and drink, scouring for that damn green dress. But he couldn’t find her anywhere.

Maybe not surprising, considering it was late.

The sky was that shade of deep, consuming black that only came in the middle of the night, and the sea of stars was out on full display.

Cyril probably made the wise decision to just go to bed, as she often seemed inclined to do. Mikael was going to have to drag his inevitably hungover ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to go down to the stables and invite her to the barracks, again.

He needed to go to sleep.

Mikael was most of the way back up the winding pathway alongside the royal gardens when he was certain he had gone a little heavy on the lockmead.

He blinked and rubbed at his eyes.

The swath of pale blue-green laid out on one of the terraced steps of grass up ahead stayed firmly in place.

“Cyril, are you…?” He stopped a few feet away from the woman flat on her back on the ground, looking up at the stars with half a smile on her face. “You’re alright?”

Cyril laughed—no—she fucking giggled as she swept her arms through the grass and said, “I’m great, Your Highness.”

Oh. She was great alright. She was right fucking hammered too.

“Lady Cyril, did you get into the lockmead?” Mikael asked with a chuckle. He took a spot on the grass beside her, leaning back on his palms and rolling his shoulders. They still ached from the solstice hunt.

Her golden, glossy gaze drifted over to him, lips parted like she had some sort of retort ready to fire back at him. Instead, a grin crept into her face, and she nodded. “Maybe a little.”

He cast a bit of skeptical side eye her way. “Maybe a lot?”

Cyril’s nose wrinkled, and she nodded. “Maybe a lot.”

Mikael shook his head.

He wasn’t about to burst her euphoric little bubble, but lockmead-induced hangovers always swung towards the more miserable end of things, especially if you weren’t used to it. She could figure that out on her own in the morning.

“Did your chaperone abandon you again?”

An indignant snort left her.

“Of course he did. Pretty sure he took a nymph and some friend of his back to his room and I—” A shudder ran through Cyril as she cringed. “Don’t want to be anywhere near that.” She waved a hand vaguely towards the palace.

“Oh.”

Mikael didn’t blame her for that, even if part of him had a sliver of respect for her uncle’s prowess, his less admirable qualities aside. The forest nymphs that frequented these casual celebrations at the palace were…energetic, as Mikael had learned firsthand more than once. Dion and his friend were in for a hell of a night.

He opened his mouth, ready to dole out some sort of sarcastic words of comfort, but something he’d been so blissfully fucking ignorant of hit him.

Cyril’s snow-white skin.

Her sharp, striking features.

The bones she said wouldn’t break.

“Fuck me. You’re part nymph, aren’t you?” Mikael’s revelation just sort of tumbled out without an ounce of tact.

“I… Yes?” She pushed up on her elbows and gave him a look that spoke volumes about just how stupid he was for only realizing that then. Or how poor his delivery was. Both, maybe. “The otherwise unremarkable fae of mixed race, remember? What did you think I was?”

Cyril flopped back onto the grass after she finished her entirely inaccurate mockery of him. Inaccurate, but endearing in an alarming way.

Message received, though, loud and clear.

The comments he made that night… Not exactly his proudest moment.

“Shit, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

Mikael rubbed at the back of his neck.

For a moment, he worried that he might have veered into offensive conversation territory, but Cyril just looked bored. Like she’d had the discussion a million times. She held her hands out in front of her, flexing and wiggling her fingers up at the night sky, paying him not an ounce of heed.

He was going to regret it come morning, but Mikael let the alcohol content of his blood make a remarkably stupid decision.

He drew in a slow and deep breath, letting it fill every inch of his lungs. As he exhaled, Mikael narrowed every bit of his attention deep within himself. Down to that shallow and dark, glimmering creek of fae power that ran through his very core.

It stirred to life.

“Your mother, then. She was a full nymph, or…?” he asked, eyes fixed on her hand.

Mikael drew up from his power as he inhaled again, careful to not be greedy as his mother had told him so many damn times, and let it flow as the air left his lungs.

Cyril hummed a thoughtful noise. “She was half. And half—”

Lips parted and eyes wide, Cyril stilled as darkness coalesced in the air.

A loose, smokey tendril of it took shape on her forearm, just above where the embroidered cuff of her sheer sleeve slipped down. The wispy and inky blue-black of it was such a stark contrast to her skin.

It wrapped a slow path up and around the narrow column of her arm, slipping across her hand and weaving in between her fingers.

Mikael fed the manifestation as long as he could, to keep the utterly bewildered look on Cyril’s face for even a moment longer. But when the pang of an ache that he knew was a precursor to trouble throbbed in his chest, he let the darkness dissipate.

Every bit of his manifested magic drained in a matter of moments.

“What the—” She examined her hand, turning it back and forth as she wiggled her fingers, and her eyes shot up to him. With her voice full of what sounded like spite, she said, “What the fuck was that?”

“Party trick.” Mikael shrugged like the exertion didn’t leave his hands shaky.

Even for all the years he’d spent training and refining his physical form, tapping into that sliver of his darkness wrung him out like nothing else. It would get easier with time, or so his mother had spent the last ten years telling him…

Cyril gaped, looking from him to her hand and back again.

“It…it was warm,” she breathed, full of disbelief. Then her eyes went wide and words tumbled out of her like cracks of lightning.

“Are you—? Have you—? When—?”

“Ascended?” he laughed. “No. Gods, no.”

Hells, he feared ascension more than he looked forward to it happening. In the decade he’d worked with the guard, they lost three of their numbers to injuries from inopportune moments of ascension and, in his opinion, that was three too many.

“Just a mostly unremarkable fae over here.”

Cyril plucked a handful of grass from the ground and aimlessly flung it towards Mikael, scoffing. “Alright, Prince of Darkness. Go show off somewhere else.”

“I would, but you never finished answering my question, Lady Cyril.”

He threw a handful of grass back at her. The outraged sputtering that came out of her was more than he could have dreamed of.

“You arse,” Cyril hissed, sitting up to brush all the blades off herself. And oh, if looks could kill. It probably wasn’t a great time to point out all the debris in her hair. “And what—what question?”

“Your mother…”

“Oh, uh—” Her eyes screwed shut, like thinking took an unreasonable amount of effort. Lockmead did that. “She was a half nymph. Water. And half moon-fae.”

“The spitfire is part water bearer, interesting…” Mikael mused, more playful than anything, but Cyril’s features narrowed in challenge. He couldn’t even imagine how much more temperamental she’d be if it wasn’t for that streak of tranquility that water nymphs bore.

“What do you mean interesting?” she said slowly.

Oh. He was toeing a dangerous line now.

“Just an observation,” Mikael chuckled, and Cyril rolled her eyes. He’d push her temper another day. Now? He was more interested in enjoying the alcohol-fueled ease that settled in between them. “One more question, if you’ll humor me?”

The side-eye she cut him was lethal, and he fucking loved it.

“What?” she grumbled, and Mikael stared for just a touch longer than he should have.

She raked her fingers through her hair, shaking all the grass and debris free, and gods… It was probably best for the sanity of anything with a heartbeat and a sex drive that she rarely wore it down.

He cleared his throat.

“Does it bother you, when people talk about your parents, since you never…”

Cyril raised a perfect, angular brow at him.

Shit.

He hadn’t thought about just how personal of a question it was until the words started leaving his damn mouth. He should have just asked her about her damn hobbies again.

“Since I never knew them?” She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. “Here comes the Prince of Darkness, trying to unpack all my fucking baggage. First, you flaunt your magic, now this.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

That was not a nickname that could stick around in any capacity. If either of his parents found out he let that bit of information slip…

“You can tell me to fuck off.”

“Does it bother me?” she mused, like she hadn’t heard what he just said. Her eyes were turned absently ahead. “Sometimes, I guess. Depends on who, or why. People get some weird fucking enjoyment out of telling me I have my father’s temperament, like it isn’t a backhanded comment. Or, fuck—”

A dry, bitter laugh left her.

“They love to tell me how much I look like my mother. And it’s usually just creepy old men like what’s-his-fucking-name”—she threw a hand back towards the palace—“telling me I inherited my mother’s best assets like that means fucking anything. I don’t know what she looked like.”

Cyril’s entire body sagged as she sighed.

In hindsight, that was more of a loaded question than he had any right asking her, especially this deep into solstice night. Mikael wasn’t sure he had enough wits about him still to manage this conversation with tact, and he knew woefully little about Cyril in the grand scheme of things.

A smarter man would have worked on that first.

Would she prefer he ply her with some dark humor? Get her laughing, take her mind off the uncomfortable topic he broached. Or was she the type to look for words of reassurance and comfort? Hells, did she want a fucking hug?

Physical contact seemed like the last thing he should even think about with Cyril, even if that urge was an undeniable thing.

“You’ve never seen a painting of her?” he asked because it felt safe. The Rhodea family seemed to be one of no shortage of means. They must have had a portrait or two at least…

“There was a fire. My father, he, uh—” Cyril shook her head. “We have nothing of hers.”

This was getting worse by the minute.

That starry shine to her eyes turned into something dull and sad, and some inarguable beast in his blood demanded he fix it. So, naturally, Mikael asked her another question with catastrophic potential.

“Would you even want to see what she looked like, if you could?”

A wistful look settled on her face, and she nodded.

“Gods, more than anything. My father too, I…I don’t remember much about him honestly, other than I think he looked kind of like Dion. But to find a weaver that met both of them?” Cyril’s laugh was dry, pained. She tipped her face up to the stars, hair slipping over her shoulders like threads of silk. “Talk about abysmal odds. I’d be a fool to get my hopes up about something like that.”

Well, shit. She didn’t know.

Or the liquor in her system was preventing her from connecting the dots that Mikael thought someone had to have told her about by now. Either way, it wasn’t his place to inform her those odds weren’t anywhere as abysmal as she thought.

“Ah, good point.” He nodded slowly, and Cyril said nothing.

She just stared up at the stars with something uncomfortably neutral on her face. He’d gone and made her sad on fucking solstice night, like the absolute moron that he was.

And Mikael?

He couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be in her situation, to not even have memories of the people who brought her into this world. For better or worse, he’d never spent more than a couple of months away from his parents. They were just these stationary figures in his life, always there, even in moments when he wished they weren't.

But that was a luxury Cyril never had.

No nurturing, warm hug of a mother to turn to with any and all worldly woes. No rough-around-the-edges father to, well…Mikael didn’t proactively go to his father about anything, truthfully. But the option was always there if things became dire.

All Cyril had was Dion and, based on what Mikael had experienced so far, that said little. The sort of molten-hot volatility he exuded had no place in a parental figure. It was no wonder his mother seemed so keen to take Cyril under her wing and forge a relationship with her.

“I’m going to bed,” Cyril declared, already half pushed off the ground by the time Mikael blinked up at her.

That was probably for the best. Things were beyond salvaging, and he was bound to ask more stupid questions if they kept at this.

“I’ll walk you back?” he asked, like he wouldn’t be walking in the same direction to the same place anyway.

Gods. Damned. Lockmead.

But Cyril just stood there.

She blinked at the pathway with her hands fisted at her sides.

Silent.

Mikael stood and cocked his head at her. “…Everything alright in there?”

Chapter 28

Cyril never should have left the ground.

She should have kept her ass rooted in the grass, shuffled a few feet over to the willow tree, and slept underneath the damn thing. But no, the thought of those damned soft sheets and the bliss of her heavy duvet whisking her off to a deep, liquored sleep just had to beckon.

The moment she got upright, the entire fucking world slipped from its axis.

Her head swam.

The pathway rippled like frothy waves at low tide.

And the faelights? Fuck.

The drifting and bobbing balls of light only stirred up a sickly feeling in her stomach. Even the fucking grass wasn’t safe to look at with the way the blades eddied under the moonlight.

Cyril squeezed her eyes shut and swore.

“Yeah, I’m taking that as a no,” Mikael chuckled, and Cyril had forgotten he was even there. A graze of a touch met her back, steering her in some unknown direction. “If you don’t open your eyes though, I’m just going to carry you back.”

“Not a fucking chance.” Cyril glared at him, and the world spun a bit less.

The faelights were still untrustworthy as fuck.

Mikael stood there on the path, just a foot or two ahead, with his arm extended to her. She took a half-stumbling step and latched on to him without a second thought.

Nothing but warm, firm muscle met her when she hugged his arm to her body—entirely to steady herself, of course, even though Bron’s words lingered in her mind.

Get hammered on the solstice and get handsy with the prince.

She'd already accomplished half of that fucking well.

The getting handsy part was still something she was on the fence about. Even though technically her hands were already on him, clinging to his arm for dear life.

Now, Cyril hadn’t meant to press her cheek up to his arm and nuzzle her damn face into it. He just moved too soon, and she staggered into him on their first step. The rich, midnight blue fabric of his tunic also just happened to have a softness to it that sucked her in like a vortex.

And gods, why did he have to smell good too? It was like spring rain flooded her senses the moment she stepped into his space.

Mikael didn’t seem bothered by her clinging at least, if the half-self-satisfied grin she caught him looking down at her said much.

She had to force herself to peel her eyes away from the gleam of his canines as they caught on his lip and the entirely indecent train of thought that tumbled through her mind.

This was bad, bad news.

Cyril hadn’t felt this fucking giddy around someone since…

No.

No, no, no.

Cyril glued her eyes in front of her.

She focused on the slate and stone path as it gave way to steps and thresholds and polished moonstone, shoving that disparaging train of thought away. Right back down into the depths where it belonged.

“I’m going to pay for this tomorrow, aren’t I?” Cyril mumbled when the stretch of silence and closeness tipped into something she wasn’t sure how to handle.

“All that lockmead? Oh, yes, you are,” Mikael chuckled and patted the hand she gripped his bicep with. Her fingers flexed a bit more into his arm, entirely of their own volition. “I was going to see if you wanted to come to the barracks tomorrow night, but, well…that was before I knew you were roll around in the grass and get lost in the stars levels of inebriated.”

Cyril gaped.

“I was not rolling around in the grass, and I wasn’t lost in anything! I was just…appreciating the night and having some…quiet time. Lying down. In the grass.” Her argument wasn’t a strong one, she realized, and Mikael’s look of skepticism confirmed that. “But that’s beside the point. I can come tomorrow…if you want me to.”

Cyril hoped he did, because she was still disgruntled about not being able to go the first time he invited her. Spending all those days cooped up in the damned city of all places had done nothing to help that sentiment.

And now that she knew Dion brought her there just to keep her away from Mikael…

The nagging little urge to spend some time with the abrasive, arrogant prince evolved into a demanding beast that would not be told no under any circumstances.

The lockmead might’ve had something to do with that too…

“If by the grace of the gods you make it upright by sundown tomorrow, come and find me, please. It would astonish everyone to meet the only person to not be laid out flat on their ass for a day after getting hammered on lockmead.”

Mikael cast her a pointed look like he’d spent a few too many days flat on his ass for the same reason.

But he didn’t know Cyril well at all.

If there was one thing she’d learned how to do well back home, it was putting back liquor. Hangovers be damned, the rogues liked their potations, and the stronger the better.

“I feel like hammered is a bit of an exaggeration.” She felt pleasantly—and thoroughly—buzzed at best. At least half her wits were still hanging about somewhere inside her. Maybe.

Mikael dared to laugh at her.

“Well, if that’s the case…”

He freed his arm from the death grip she had it in and splayed a hand towards the stairs. She had no clue when they’d made it here, or how long they’d just stood here for, and paid no attention to the way her body swayed when Mikael stepped away from her.

“After you, my lady.”

Cyril was sure she scowled as she brushed past him with a couple of uneasy steps. She planted one hand on the railing, gathered a fistful of her skirt in the other, and started up the stairs one cautious step at a time.

“Are you wearing boots with your dress?” he asked, as if that was really what shocked him about her.

“I… Yes? Why wouldn’t—”

Cyril made the critical error of looking down at her riding boots, the worn brown leather on full display from her lifted skirt, and then back at Mikael. Quickly. The entire damn staircase felt like it swayed with Cyril, and her stomach lurched halfway up her throat.

“Mm, definitely not hammered,” Mikael chuckled as he splayed his hand across her upper back, mercifully steadying her. The feeling of his warm, calloused palm against her bare skin was distracting in a lovely way. “Eyes ahead, soldier, and do not look back down the damn stairs.”

Cyril wanted to argue that, purely on the principle of him thinking he could so easily tell her what to do, but she also wanted to make it to bed in one piece. With the contents of her stomach in place too.

“I like my boots,” she said after she’d pieced together enough strands of focus to climb the next few stairs. They were almost at the top, and the guarded doors to the residences were in sight. Mikael’s guiding hand hadn’t left her back, and she wasn’t mad about that in the slightest. “They’re comfortable and practical.”

Were the embroidered silk slippers they forced her to wear with fancy gowns no short few times in her life pretty to look at? Sure, she supposed, if you had nothing better to do than look at pretty things. But they never fit properly, and they always left Cyril’s feet aching by the end of the night.

Problems she never had with any of her boots.

“I wasn’t saying it’s a bad thing,” Mikael said as they crested the top stair. He offered her his arm again, and she took it gladly, threading hers through his and wrapping her hands around his bicep. “My mother wears boots all the time too, you know. I find it…endearing that you do too.”

Cyril scoffed.

Endearing? What a lousy compliment.

She hadn’t realized those words breached the confines of her mind until Mikael cast her a sidelong glance and said, “Yes, endearing. And that isn’t a bad thing either.”

He gave the guard standing watch at the residence's doors a casual nod and an easy smile, and Cyril clamped her mouth shut. The doors had only just clicked shut behind them when Mikael continued without missing a beat.

“Or would you prefer I find you off-putting? Because I’m certain you aren’t looking for compliments.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And why wouldn’t I be?”

A smile tugged at Mikael’s lips, and she desperately wished he would stop doing that. Cyril was sure she had yet to find a smile so distracting.

“Because, Lady Cyril, you get flustered whenever anyone gives them to you. I’m also confident you are aware of how good you look tonight, and don’t need me telling you that.” His gaze and that stupid, knowing smirk lingered long enough to see Cyril’s eyes go wide. “Did I miss anything?”

Did Cyril get flustered by compliments? Absolutely.

She spent her entire life being taught to be wary of unsolicited praise and flattery, and what their bearer’s true intentions might be. Even when one of her uncles dished out something in good faith, she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Just like she wasn’t equipped to deal with Mikael’s less-than-subtle compliment in any sort of dignified way.

She knew she looked nice, of course. Her dress was flattering, and a bit of makeup never hurt anyone. Even Dion’s nonchalant words of approval had told her she looked as much when they came down to the party.

But there was a certain amount of…ardor and interest in the way Mikael said she looked good, and her entire body reacted to it. Her breath came in an unsteady wave and she warmed from head to toe. Cyril felt the overwhelming urge to be closer to him, if that was even possible with his arm hugged flush to her body.

Was this when she was supposed to tell him he looked good too?

That he always seemed to look handsome in that wild and wicked way she found herself inexplicably drawn to? It didn’t matter if he dressed in his finery and badges, or if he was mostly disheveled tracking her down in the stables. With the surety and confidence—and just a touch of arrogance—in the way he carried himself, there wasn’t a chance the prince was ignorant of any bit of it.

There was also the very real possibility that all the damn lockmead had loosened Cyril up just a hair more than she’d expected, and her mind was running freer than it had any right to.

“This is you?” Mikael asked, an abrupt alert to the fact that they were stopped in front of her door. Cyril nodded. “Do you…need anything?”

Her attention bounced between Mikael, her door, and the grip she still had on his arm. She let go of him and took a step back.

“I—uh…no, I don’t.” She swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

Cyril’s attention hooked on Mikael’s glacial eyes and her mouth went dry. Something impulsive was clawing its way up her spine.

“Of course.” Mikael dipped his head in acknowledgment, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His sudden neutrality sent a wave of unease through Cyril.

“I mean it. Thank you…for walking with me. And for keeping me company.”

For being one of only four people who seemed interested in giving her the time of day. One of only four people who attempted to acknowledge her existence outside of necessity.

“And I…”

Oh, fuck it.

Cyril’s heart felt like it was going to burst straight out of her chest as she stepped into Mikael’s space and gripped his arm, using it as leverage to lift onto the toes of her boots.

She brushed her lips against his cheek and quietly said, “Thank you.”

Even though he schooled his face into nothing but casual curiosity as fast as lightning, Cyril caught the flicker of surprise that lit up his eyes like fine blue crystal as she eased back down.

And when his arm slipped around her waist, tugging her closer? Confidence surged through Cyril in wildly unhealthy measures.

“You are very welcome, Cyril,” Mikael said softly. His gaze roamed her face, from her eyes to her mouth and back, for what felt like forever, before he added, “Is that all you want from me?”

Cyril knew if she said yes, that would be it.

The prince didn't seem like the kind of person to take what wasn't willingly offered. Mikael would probably bid her goodnight and they’d have an awkward encounter in a day or two at dinner. Cyril could handle that, of course, but it wasn’t what she wanted.

So she met his gaze and shook her head, riding that wave of confidence.

She pressed a finger firmly against his chest, where his shirt dipped low and tempting, and said, “No, it’s not. But if you want more—”

Wolfish was the only way to describe Mikael’s smile as he gripped her waist with the warm and broad span of his hand and silenced her with well-practiced ease.

It was the best bad decision Cyril ever made.

Mikael notched his fingers under Cyril’s chin and tipped that blissfully intrigued face of hers up, pressing his lips to hers far gentler than he wanted to.

He’d give her the decency of a chance to change her mind, to back away if she didn’t want this.

But Cyril didn’t back away from him.

No, the woman was fucking eager.

She pressed the lithe warmth of her body flush to him, and her fingers found purchase in his shirt. The quiet, contented noise that slipped out of her almost brought Mikael to his knees.

Not that he would mind being there… But one thing at a time.

Her lips were so soft it was almost criminal, and the deceptively sweet taste of lockmead still lingered on them. The damn Rhodea woman was intoxicating, consuming even, and Mikael didn’t even try to stop himself from getting swept away.

He kissed her like she was the last breath of air for a drowning man.

Cyril’s wandering hands did nothing to temper his fleeting rationale, and Mikael’s burgeoning need grew at a frantic pace.

Her fingers left near branding paths as she worked a slow, methodical path from his chest out to his shoulders and back down to his stomach. He slipped out a breathy groan when those adventurous fingers grazed his hips and a crack of want ran right through him.

Cyril’s smile against his lips did nothing to help that.

The temptation to take that hand and show her precisely where he wanted to feel those lithe fingers of hers nearly drowned out any other thought in his mind.

If it weren’t for the echo of a quiet, pointed cough serving as a startling reminder they were in the middle of the fucking hallway, Mikael may have very well followed through.

And it was a quiet, feminine cough that he’d recognized anywhere.

He’d spent his entire twenty-seven years of life hearing his mother use it to get a message across, after all.

It took every ounce of his willpower to break the consuming kiss that Cyril showed no interest in ending, and rest his forehead against hers. Both of their breaths came in ragged, uneven bursts.

“Cyril, we should…”

Hells, he didn’t know what they should do, or what she really wanted, but they couldn’t stay there, and his decision-making skills were not in their prime that late into solstice.

“Come inside.”

Cyril half spoke over him, already fumbling for the door handle. She grabbed his hand and tugged him into her room before he even processed the wild implication of every threshold they were crossing.

It hit Mikael, though, when the lock clicked behind him and he turned to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, just a strand of gold left clinging to them, and she had her kiss-swollen bottom lip drawn between her teeth.

Mikael’s blood ran south at an alarming rate.

He hadn’t even taken a breath before Cyril was reaching for him again, pulling his mouth back to hers. She wielded a soft, needy whine like it was a gods damned weapon.

Mikael gave in to the consuming urge to feel her hair slip through his fingers and threaded them through the silky strands at her nape, gaining every bit of leverage that he could. His other hand found its home anchored across the soft swell of her backside, pulling every damn inch of that deceptive little frame against him.

He’d been a fool to think they wouldn’t end up here.

There was no denying the initial bodily interest he had in Cyril, the day she showed up on their doorstep, armed to the teeth. But he wrote that off as circumstantial, a byproduct of weeks spent cooped up at the mountain base.

Then she beat the hells out of him.

He wondered if he’d misunderstood the glint of wild excitement in her eyes that day, if his hot blood had just clouded the reality of a woman raised to fight.

But the clarity of it was painfully obvious now.

Every time she flushed or stammered or went downright fucking awkward in his presence, it wasn’t because of repulsion or disinterest.

No, that wasn’t it at all.

It was because of that same itching curiosity he tried to drown in the barracks with liquor and with warm, willing bodies in his bed. How she’d kept her own sanity? Mikael had no fucking idea. He was tempted to ask if she’d thought of—

Cyril’s hand slid over the front of his pants, over where he was already half-hard and straining against his laces, and thoughts vacated Mikael.

Well, all but one.

A ragged groan left him, and he swore against her lips.

“Bed?” she breathed with a hint of what seemed like uncertainty, like she didn’t understand just how badly he ached under her touch.

Bed, wall, floor. It didn’t matter to him.

“Lady’s choice,” he said with a smile, and Cyril’s nod was all he needed.

A startled gasp of a laugh left her as Mikael slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and hauled her up, dress and all. Her legs felt like they were crafted just to be wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, and those damn fingers in his hair.

She made quick work of the leather band that kept it all tied back and raked her nails across his scalp. Mikael was sure he’d never made a more indignant noise in his life. It was worth it though, for the sultry, satisfied smirk that crept across her face as he laid her out on the bed and kneeled over top of her.

With her blush-stained cheeks and heavy, hooded eyes, Cyril looked like a lewd vision made flesh, framed by a sweeping spray of silky black. A thing of beauty, to marvel at and appreciate and drink in.

But Mikael just wanted her out of that damn dress.

He tipped her head back, baring the full span of her throat, and pressed his lips to the delicate flesh at the base of her jaw. His fingers found the front closure of her bodice—a fucking wondrous invention—and made quick work of loosening the laces holding it together.

He nestled his face into the crook of Cyril’s neck, breathing in the heady undertone of cinnamon and something sweet that rolled off her skin.

Mikael wasn’t sure something so tantalizing had ever filled his lungs, and the urge to nip and graze his teeth across her flesh was consuming. But the likelihood she’d ever been with a full-blooded moon-fae seemed slim, and Mikael had zero interest in scaring her off right out of the gate.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, if only to occupy his mouth.

Cyril tensed, fingers digging into his shoulder. Something akin to surprise had settled into her features when he glanced at her.

Just like that, she validated his suspicion that the men of the south were selfish bastards.

“I…I don’t know,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to be shy with me.”

Mikael leveled his gaze with hers, just a sliver of sun-spun gold left clinging to the darkness she looked at him with.

There was a flicker of something uneasy there, so Mikael kissed her.

Soft and slow, but backed by restrained desperation. He wedged his thigh between hers too, and just about came fucking undone when she ground down against him and groaned.

“I promise you, I will enjoy anything you ask of me,” he said roughly as he broke away from her and dipped his head.

“If you want control”—his lips met the base of her jaw—“or praise, or pain”—again, to the hollow of her throat—“I will gladly give you those. Gods, if you just want me to put you on your knees—” A final press of his lips, between the loose ribbons draped across the snow-white expanse of her sternum. “ Or have me spend all night on mine, I will be thrilled. Just tell me what you want.”

Mikael wasn’t a hard man to please, truthfully.

There wasn’t much he disliked receiving, even less so with giving, and he fucking ached. All he wanted was to taste her or fuck her. Gods, both if she felt so inclined.

“Mikael, I don’t know what I want. I…”

Her chest heaved with a shaky breath and Mikael eased back up beside her, trailing a gentle touch up her side.

So she was shy in the bedroom.

He could handle that, and work with that. It wasn’t like—

Cyril made a quiet noise.

“I’ve never…”

A blast of cold shot through Mikael’s veins, more sobering than any tonic he’d ever taken. He stared at her. “You’ve never what, Cyril?”

She chewed her lip for a moment that stretched on forever.

“I, uh…I’ve never been with anyone…ever.”

“Fucking hells.” Mikael sat back and shook his head in disbelief. Every bit of want and aching need took off running from his body. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Cyril grimaced as she pushed herself up. He couldn’t look at her long enough to figure out if that was misplaced shame in her eyes or not. “But I still want—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Mikael grabbed the hand she skimmed right up his thigh and set it aside. “Not like this. I’m not taking that from you when you couldn’t even walk back here on your own.”

He shouldn’t have been taking a single fucking thing from her, period.

But he was an idiot, through and through, letting his gods damned cock and a day of drinking dictate his decisions.

“But it was fine before? Before you knew…?” The quiet hurt in Cyril’s voice compelled Mikael to finally look her in the eyes.

They were tear-lined and round, and he…

He’d fucked up in such an unfathomable way.

“Am I just not good enough now? I’m not experienced enough and now you…you don't want me anymore?”

“Cyril, that is not—”Mikael swore and pinched his brow.

With all that lockmead still coursing through her system, rational thoughts were bound to be her enemy.

His too, truthfully.

He turned to Cyril and took both her hands in his, holding them tight even when she tried to pull back.

“When we were just a couple of drunks making equally questionable decisions celebrating the solstice? I could live with feeling shitty about that tomorrow. But your virginity? That tips the scales way too fucking far out of balance.”

Cyril said nothing.

She just kept looking at him with those big, heartbroken eyes.

“And this isn’t a good enough or experienced enough thing, okay?” Mikael added.

Gods, if only she knew what the prospect of her sharing that sort of vulnerability did to him. That was the sort of thing most men with a heartbeat could only ever fantasize about.

“I like the way you look at me now, Cyril, and I don’t want regret to ever be a part of that. This is entirely about my conscience and treating you with some respect.”

Not to mention the slight, healthy fear he had of the fucking terrifying men she casually referred to as her uncles.

Again, silence.

Cyril shook her head as she slid off the bed and staggered down to the footboard. She leaned against the wooden post, quietly sighing and cursing as she struggled to pull off her boots. They ended up tossed in opposite directions, one soaring right past Mikael as he stood.

“Not going to say anything?” he asked.

The caustic glare she cut him spoke volumes to her thoughts.

“Fuck off and leave me alone,” Cyril mumbled, pushing off of the bedframe, but Mikael hooked her around the waist and pulled her back against him.

“Cyril,” he said quietly, “I’d be happy to be your first, okay? Just not like this. Maybe get to know me a little and then decide if that’s something you actually want to give me.”

Now wasn’t the time to delve into why he held such a firm stance on the matter. Another day, maybe, if she deigned to speak to him again, but not now.

“I said, fuck off and leave me alone.” Her voice wavered, and she pushed away from him.

Mikael didn’t bother to stop her.

She stalked over to her wardrobes and started rifling through cabinets and drawers, and he decided it was time to leave.

“Oh, before I forget…”

Hand on the door, he turned back just in time to glimpse Cyril’s bare back as her bodice sank around her hips. She tossed the laces he just had his fingers tangled in onto the floor.

What a sight to be walking away from.

“Someone will come around with food and tonics in the morning. Try to survive on your own until then.”

Cyril didn’t say a damn thing or even bother to look back at him. She just raised her hand and flipped him off.

Mikael left her room with a smile on his face and an ache he was going to settle for sating on his own.

Chapter 29

Cyril never wanted to hear the word lockmead again in her life.

She told herself that over, and over, and over in the hours she spent huddled on the cool tile of her bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket and fucking miserable. She wasn’t sure exactly how much sleep she’d gotten after Mikael left—the reasons for which she wasn’t allowing herself to entertain—but it definitely hadn’t been enough when the waves of nausea hit and forced her out of bed.

She never made it back in.

Her throat was raw and her stomach ached something fierce from all the retching and purging. Anything more than a few sips of water refused to stay down—she’d learned that the hard way, multiple times—and it was safe to say she had at least a handful of regrets.

Aside from the painfully obvious one relating to how thoroughly she celebrated the solstice with foreign spirits, the other was how barren she’d let her medicine bag become.

Satchel of chewing tablets for nausea? Empty.

Tonics to ease every bit of a hangover? Nowhere to be found.

Pain tonics? She had a single vial left, and one smell of it sent her straight back on her knees in front of the toilet.

All she had left in any reasonable quantities were a dozen tincture packs bearing the stamp of Bright Apothecary that she’d brought to ease her cycle in the horrible event that it reared its ugly head while she was in Reykr. It hadn’t even been anywhere near six months since the last, but still—better safe than sorry, and—

Cyril was an idiot.

A complete and utter moron.

Her head rolled back against the cupboards with a sigh before she pulled herself up, slowly.

It had been hours since she looked at those packs and wrote them off as useless because she wasn’t cramped into a fetal position and bleeding. Hours, since she never considered that she didn’t have to be either of those things.

Draped in a blanket and wearing the dark tunic and shorts she got herself into between vomiting fits, Cyril braved the blistering morning light filling her room. She grabbed a cup from her desk and her canvas medicine bag.

She’d deal with the damn curtains after.

Her head throbbed an agonizing beat in time with each clatter and clank as she set everything on the bathroom counter and dumped a package of the crystalized powder into the cup. She filled it half full with cool water straight from the tap, gave it a rough stir with her finger, and braved a first, tiny sip.

That first taste of mint laced with clove and ginger wasn’t exactly…pleasant, but it didn’t come right back up, either.

Progress.

Cyril wet her lips with another cautious sip and the most minute wisp of relief rolled down her throat.

She could have sobbed.

Cradling that cup of gods-sent liquid in her hands, she headed straight for the sofa.

It was the first soft surface she’d set her body on since she hauled out of bed all those hours ago. Nothing had ever felt more inviting, and each sip of tincture went down easier than the last until the glass was empty.

At its base, the medicine’s compounds eased the debilitating cramping and bleeding that came with fae cycles. A fair price to pay, the mortal women always liked to remind them, for something that only came once or twice a year.

Cyril begged to differ.

But most apothecaries, like the one the Rhodea Estate ordered its tablets, tonics, and tinctures from, liked to add a few other niceties to the mix. Namely, just a touch of a mild sedative and a couple of choice plant extracts to ease pain-induced nausea before the rest of it kicked in.

Apparently, it also did one hells of a job easing lockmead-induced nausea, too.

Cyril hadn’t even realized she’d nodded off on the sofa until a persistent knock at the door startled her awake. She was still upright, the empty cup on its side in her lap. If the simple wooden clock on the mantle was to be trusted, it was eleven. She was certain it said eight the last she looked.

“Lady Cyril, are you awake?” came a soft, feminine voice from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” she called from the sofa, and gods, her voice. It was more of a raspy, broken croak than anything else.

The short, enviably curvy fae woman who pushed open her bedroom door offered Cyril a warm smile that spoke of nothing but empathy as she wheeled in a cart behind her stacked full of loaded trays. She recognized the woman right away from the long, golden brown braid that swept down to the backs of her thighs.

But her name? Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea.

Marlie? Maisey? Mari?

“Thank you,” Cyril said, instead of fumbling out what assuredly would have been the wrong name.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.” The woman tossed her another smile before floating her finger over the trays, humming softly to herself. She crouched down and pulled one from the second shelf as she said, “Did you have a good solstice, Lady Cyril?”

“Too good, I think,” Cyril groaned.

The other woman chuckled as she sat a tray down on the cushion beside Cyril.

A covered dish with something Cyril hoped was plain, a mug steaming with the scent of ginger, and a trio of tonic bottles served as the perfect distraction from letting her mind dwell on the events that made her solstice too good.

Namely, that it hadn’t even been twelve hours since she was tangled up with the prince in her bed and making a gods damned fool of—

“If I could offer a suggestion?”

Cyril blinked up at the woman and nodded.

“Take this before you eat.”

She slid one tonic bottle to the end of the tray closest to Cyril.

“Take this one afterward.”

The next bottle she slid to the middle, and then she tapped her finger on the one still left at the far side.

“And don’t take this until you are absolutely ready to sleep. It is potent.”

“Speaking from experience?” Cyril rasped, and there was a glimmer of amusement in the woman’s gray eyes as she sighed and nodded.

“I am, unfortunately.” She looked from Cyril to the tray, and back again. “Can I send for anything else for you?”

“No, thank you. I—” Cyril’s eyes caught on the small, tented piece of parchment on her tray with a neatly written C. R.—to keep track of where the trays were going, no doubt. It may have been a long shot, but…

“Actually, have you been to Mi—Prince Mikael’s room yet?”

The woman gave her a curious look and shook her head.

“No, not yet. Her Majesty prefers we take care of their guests before the family. Do you…need something from him?”

“No, but…” Cyril gritted her teeth. She couldn't possibly make any more of a fool of herself after the display she put on last night, right? “Can I give you something to bring to him? Just a note. I’ll even put it on his tray?”

Through her wariness, the woman looked a shade of empathetic. Like maybe she too had waded through regrets the morning after the solstice once or twice before.

“Alright.”

Cyril stumbled off the sofa and over to her desk before the other woman even finished getting her wary agreement out. She dug out a notecard and a glass pen from the drawer and started writing before she could change her mind.

Sorry about last night.
- C

There were a dozen specifics she could have gone into about what exactly she was sorry about. But that would involve thinking about them each again, and she planned on pushing that off for as long as possible.

A blanket apology seemed sufficient.

Cyril folded the card up, carefully wrote Prince of Darkness on the outside, and walked over to the cart.

“I feel terrible, but I don’t remember your name,” she said as she looked through the trays, eyes searching for the M. K. marker. The least she could do was thank the woman properly now.

“It’s Hallie, but no need to feel bad. There are a lot of us to remember,” Hallie said, looking away from where Cyril now slipped the note half under the plate on Mikael’s tray. Out of sight, out of mind.

Cyril was just glad she asked and hadn’t fumbled out the first name that came to her mind.

“Well, thank you, Hallie, for the tray and the help.” Cyril mustered up a smile as the exhaustion of just standing seeped into her bones. She wobbled, and Hallie’s eyes went wide, but she waved her off and staggered right back to the sofa. “I’m going to sit and eat before you have to scrape me off the floor.”

Hallie waited until Cyril made it there and sat down before she nodded and said, “Get some rest, Lady Cyril.”

Oh, she intended on it.

Cyril took the first tonic—a watery, minty thing—and, when she was sure it wouldn’t come back up, she made cautious work of the plate of roast chicken and potatoes.

They may have very well been the best thing she’d ever eaten.

The second tonic didn’t go down as easily as the first. Its sickly sweet taste was obviously meant to cover up something unpalatable, but the last dregs of her ginger tea dealt with that.

After she’d made a half-assed attempt at cleaning up the dishes and tray, and blocked out every beam of bright, mid-morning light, Cyril knocked back the last tonic.

She barely made it into bed before it took her feet out from under her.

Cyril whined and pulled the blankets over her head. However long she’d been asleep for—hours, days maybe—had been nowhere near enough, and she wanted nothing to do with being awake.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It just wouldn’t stop. Three raps every few seconds. She was ready to scream, and tell whoever was on the other side of that door where to go and precisely how the fuck to get there.

Sixty seconds is what she’d give them, to move on and leave her the fuck alone.

Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty—

“Cyril?” She blinked. “Are you alive?”

Was that…?

No. There was no way he’d come and—

“If you are alive, I have a peace offering.”

Cyril groaned and tossed back the covers.

She breathed through the wave of dizziness that swept through her as she slid out of bed and stalked over to the door. The equal parts arrogant, intolerable, and handsome prince smiled down at her when she pulled it open.

Mikael’s brows climbed as he said, “Hi. You look…”

She leveled a flat, unimpressed stare at him.

“Do not say it.”

Gods, her voice still. She sounded like Dion after he spent a few too many nights in a row smoking in the lounge.

“Say what?” His lips quirked.

Cyril knew she had to look as wrung out as she felt that morning. She’d caught one glimpse of her gaunt face in the bathroom mirror, and that had been plenty enough. How the prince looked relatively fine, she did not know.

She leaned her forehead against the edge of the door and sighed, gesturing vaguely at herself. “That I look like I got into a fight with a badger, and the badger won. Or whatever snarky version of that you prefer.”

Every possible iteration of that came from her uncles at some point or another. She was certain she’d heard them all by now, but badgers and bushes seemed to always be their go-to.

“You look tired. Almost like you had a late night or something.”

Mikael’s eyes lit up with amusement and, if Cyril wasn’t so damn drained, she’d have shut the door in his face. But it was currently supporting the near dead weight of her body, and she didn’t feel like moving.

She snorted. “Imagine that.”

Mikael smiled.

“I come bearing tea, wine, and cake.” He tipped his head towards the entirely out-of-place wicker basket under his arm. “If some company and any combination of those interest you?”

Just the word wine made her stomach turn.

“Tea and cake. The company too, I guess,” Cyril said after a long, appraising moment, and relief flickered on the prince’s face. She pushed off the door and motioned him through. He didn’t need telling twice, thankfully, and headed right over to the sofa and table.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said.

Mikael waved her off, and she slipped into the bathroom, dealt with her painfully full bladder, and braved a glance in the mirror.

Just as bad as she thought.

Cyril wet a cloth with some balm and roughly scrubbed at the kohl smeared every which way around her eyes. Crying was something she had no recollection of doing the night before, but the tracks of black and gray running down her cheeks said otherwise.

Her face was far from perfect, but it was better. It took just a few seconds more to pass a comb through the limp, tangled lengths of her hair and brush the filmy feeling of sleep from her teeth.

By the time she’d made it back out, Mikael was in full domestic swing, adding logs to the hearth and stoking the flames. Laid out on the low table behind him were two lightly steaming mugs, a teapot tucked between them, and a single bowl with a heaping serving of cake. Sponge cake, specifically, with berries and cream, that had her stomach growling.

Those tonics did a remarkable job.

“Are we sharing, or did you bring all of that just for me?” Cyril asked, maybe a bit hopefully on the latter, as she wrapped up in a blanket and settled down on one end of the sofa.

“All for you, I already ate.” Mikael took the other end of the couch, leaving an entire cushion between them. Maybe for the best. “I thought you might be hungry since you missed dinner.”

Gods, was she ever.

Cyril wasted no time plucking the bowl and fork from the table and digging in. The berries were fresh and tart, the cream light and sweet, and Cyril was a happy woman.

The prince slid one amused glance her way as he preoccupied himself with his tea.

“Who told you that cake is my favorite?” she asked, halfway through inhaling the plate. Manners be damned, it was delicious. She could probably live off of some combination of this and those meat pastries from Brynnhold.

“Dion did. Well, not directly. That would involve interacting with me, and that he does not seem keen on doing.” Mikael laughed dryly and shook his head.

Not surprising to hear, given the less than lovely things Bron informed her that Dion said about Mikael, but still disappointing. She would’ve apologized on his behalf if she hadn’t just shoveled another piece of cake into her mouth.

“But I heard him tell my mother how pissed you’d be if you found out you missed it, and she said, ah…”

Mikael trailed off and occupied his mouth with his tea.

He wore a hint of a grimace when he looked over at her and a knot formed in her stomach. If there was something questionable about the damn food and he was waiting until now to tell her? Fucking hells.

Cyril looked down at her now empty bowl, setting it cautiously back on the table as she asked, “She said what?”

“Ah, well, apparently it was your mother’s favorite as well? She was ecstatic about that. A little emotional too. But that might’ve been all the wine she drank with dinner.”

Oh.

Cyril wanted to laugh at his level of caution. Appreciated, but unnecessary.

“Well, your mother would know. I think they were quite good friends.” Cyril took a sip of her tea and cradled the mug in her hands. She smiled at Mikael as she said, “You don’t have to dance around the subject.”

He raised a brow at her and playfully said, “But you know firsthand now just how good I am at dancing.”

Cyril did not miss a beat.

“Mediocre, at best. You stepped on my toes twice.”

A flicker of surprise lit up his eyes and a warm rumble of laughter left him. It was a sound she was enjoying more and more. Among a couple of others that he made the night before that she was cursing her brain for surfacing.

Her cheeks warmed, and she forced words out of her mouth.

“Did everyone else make it to dinner?”

“My parents and Dion, all in pretty rough shape. Astor and Reyna are gone again though.”

Cyril blinked.

“Were they at the party?”

She couldn’t remember seeing the crown prince or princess at any point during the festivities, but much of the evening had a lockmead-induced haze hanging over it.

Mikael shook his head and sighed.

“No, they left a day or two before. Apparently, all the shit in the city spooked Reyna again.”

“Do they—” Cyril chewed her lip. “It’s probably not my place to ask…”

“Are they usually gone this much?”

Cyril nodded. It was like Mikael plucked the thought right from her head.

In all the weeks she’d been in Reykr, it felt like they’d been away more than home. Not like she fully understood what the roles of a crown prince and his wife entailed, but it struck her as odd. Surely they had obligations at the palace.

“Honestly? No, not at all. Every couple of months, maybe. And even then, Astor doesn’t always go with her.” Mikael sighed and sunk back into the sofa. “He told my parents it’s because of all this bullshit with the murders. Reyna feels safer back with her people, and I get that, but…”

Royal family drama wasn't on the list of things Cyril thought she'd be in for today—or ever, really. It didn’t help that her pleasantly full belly was just whining at her to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.

“But?” she asked.

Mikael was quiet for a long, burgeoning moment, rapping his fingers along the sides of his mug.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Reyna might be sick.”

“Sick?” Cyril blinked. “But why would she be leaving then?”

“Reyna’s village is apparently renowned for their healers, and their practice with old medicine. Or at least that’s what she’s always said. And I’ll admit, I’ve never been exactly…close with her or my brother.” There was a subtle bitterness in Mikael’s huff of a laugh that spoke volumes to the depth of that statement. “But something feels weird about it.”

“You haven’t asked your brother?” Cyril asked, because she was too far out of her element to offer anything helpful.

Mikael sighed. “No. He’s never alone while he’s here. And I’m not about to corner him coming out of a council meeting.”

“…Could you ask Reyna?”

To that, Mikael laughed.

“Have you tried asking her anything? It’s like talking to a damn wall.”

Cyril grimaced and drained the last dregs of her tea.

During her time in Reykr so far, her interactions with the soft-spoken woman were few and far between. They exchanged some quiet greetings and friendly smiles at a handful of dinners, and the princess even asked Cyril how she was enjoying her stay during a passing encounter in the archives. Cyril just thought her to be reserved and a bit shy, especially after she found out about the whole second language business.

But she could see where Mikael was coming from.

“Well, I hope she’s alright.”

Cyril couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be ill and have a murderer terrorizing your home.

“Gods, you and I both. If anything happens to her…” Mikael groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Astor will be a fucking mess, and I’ll be stuck covering his duties.”

Cyril said nothing.

It was clear Astor and Reyna were enamored with each other, as she supposed a husband and wife should be. But Cyril knew firsthand just how irrationally love like that could make people act.

“You know,” Mikael added, “I came here to give you a hard time, not to wallow in my impending doom.”

“Give me a hard time?” Cyril pulled the blanket around her shoulders taut and sunk back further into the corner of the sofa. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Why?”

“Why?” He laughed. Better than his groan of misery, she supposed. “Because you surprised me last night, Cyril. You hadn’t struck me as a virgin.”

She caught one look at the total amusement in his eyes and Cyril wondered if the sofa would be kind enough to swallow her whole.

“You don’t need to tease me about it…” she grumbled, and Mikael’s brows climbed.

“Oh, no, not teasing at all. Just surprised. You had a lot of bark for someone who’s never been…bitten?” The prince looked as uncertain as he sounded when those last few words came out of his mouth.

“That’s an awful analogy.” Cyril’s nose wrinkled, and Mikael just shrugged at her. “And it’s…it’s not for a lack of want, or trying, okay? It’s just difficult…”

“Difficult to find a man willing to take you to bed?” He scoffed as he sat back, draping his arm across the sofa back. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“You’ve met Dion, yes?” she said flatly.

Mikael looked off-put at the fact that these roads were converging. Like her uncle having anything to do with her intimate encounters—or lack thereof—threw him entirely off course.

“Back home, I’m not allowed to go anywhere or do anything on my own that isn’t riding, reading, training, or my chores, and Dion makes sure of that. I’m also certain he threatens every living body at the estate with death if they even think about coming near me. So yes, Mikael, it’s been difficult to find a willing partner.”

This was the sort of conversation Cyril wanted nothing to do with, but the contemplative look on Mikael’s face had her inclined to believe it wouldn’t be over soon.

She should have sent him packing with his damn tea and cake.

“I hadn’t thought about that…” he said, with a bit more humility than his previous statements. It lasted all of about three seconds, though, until his jaw went slack and he turned to her. “Cyril…was I your first kiss?”

He sounded so fucking smug at the possibility.

She snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” He tossed her a wry smile, and Cyril shook her head. “Well, may that poor bastard’s soul rest easy. I’m sure Dion made quick work of him.”

Cyril swallowed. “Her.”

“Her?”

“May her soul rest easy.”

“I… What?” Mikael blinked at her in disbelief. “Shit, I wasn’t being serious, I—”

Cyril wasn’t sure what driving force had her feeling compelled to share any of this with him, but every fiber of her being wanted it out.

The words just started tumbling.

“It was one of our farmer’s daughters, Keelie. We, uh…enjoyed each other’s company a bit.” Cyril smiled sheepishly, and Mikael still looked stunned. “No one really batted an eyelash when she and I would disappear together, especially at parties. But she…well, she got sick a few summers ago. Caught something in her lungs, and it killed her.”

It wasn’t often that Cyril let herself think about that raucous, hazel-eyed woman who had darted in and out of her life for all of, what, two years? But she felt oddly at ease telling Mikael, even if it still stung.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Mikael looked wholly uncomfortable. That helped to lessen the sting in the strangest way. “She was fae, or…?”

Cyril shook her head.

“Mortal.”

And honestly? That was part of the reason she found Keelie so fascinating. She lived with the sort of intensity and curiosity that didn’t come naturally for many fae, not with the centuries they had to wade through life. Not the case for mortals, though, and especially not the case for Keelie.

For a long while, Mikael said nothing, and Cyril appreciated the silence that he let her sit in. Only two other people knew the finer details about Keelie, and Cyril wasn’t well practiced in talking about it. She was okay if it stayed that way, too.

Knees drawn tight to her chest, Cyril pressed her cheek to the back of the sofa and let her eyes fall shut. Feelings were fucking draining, and it wasn’t like she’d gone into this with an abundance of energy either.

Mikael noticed.

“I can go if you want,” he said, far softer than he had any right to. “You look exhausted.”

“You could stay too.” Cyril cracked open an eye to see the surprise that graced his features. “I’m just not long for this world.”

She pressed her face back into the sofa and he chuckled, “That’s alright.”

Cyril wasn’t sure if he said anything else after that.

The next time she opened her eyes, the fire was low and, at some point, she had stretched her bare legs right across Mikael’s lap. The warm strength of his hands was wrapped around her calves, and the man looked blissfully peaceful. His chest moved with the slow, steady rise and fall of sleep, his head tipped back against the sofa.

Cyril smiled and let sleep take her again.

When she woke for the second time, filtered beams of morning light were forcing themselves through the gaps in her curtains, and Mikael was gone.

He’d been busy before he left though.

The fire in the hearth was freshly tended to and roaring.

Every trace of cake and tea, and their late-night conversation, cleared away.

All that remained was a small, cream-colored envelope she recognized from the stationery set on her desk. A neat, but hurried Wrath Incarnate was written on the outside.

Her cheeks flushed, and she wasn’t sure if the second blanket he’d piled on her or the fire was to blame. There was a third option there too, but she tossed that aside with her blankets.

She tugged the card out with care and opened it up.

Come see me at the barracks before dinner.
-M.

After letting her eyes dart over it three or four times, Cyril tucked the card back in its envelope with shaky hands and went to find somewhere in her wardrobe to hide it.

A grin never left her face.

Chapter 30

Going to the barracks— alone—with the sole purpose of seeking Mikael may have been the most nerve-wracking thing Cyril had ever done, and she’d been thinking about his unassuming invitation all damn day.

During her quiet breakfast, and the much-needed ride she took with Attie afterward? Nothing but the question of why bounced around in her brain. Thankfully, no one else was in the dining room when she knocked over her tea. Twice.

When she’d spent an indulgent couple of hours bathing and trying to make herself presentable? Her thoughts went wandering right back to solstice night, and her hand went wandering with them. As murky as they were with lockmead haze, Mikael left her with just enough memories to sate that ever-growing itch.

And when Cyril went down to the archives, in a last-ditch effort to distract herself for a few hours before dinner? She got through precisely half a page of The Dark History of Purism in Reykr before her mind started rolling through every damn possible reason Mikael would want her to come to the barracks that early—not good reasons, either.

The scribes must have noticed her just stewing away in that chair by the stained glass, or the timing of Isa’s invitation to help re-shelve a few carts of tomes was the perfect coincidence. Not quite enough of a distraction to halt her spiraling thoughts completely, but they slowed to a less panic-inducing speed.

Now, though? Cyril was fucked.

Not quite twenty feet separated her from the propped-open barracks doors, and her palms were clammy. The silky, charcoal gray fabric of her blouse clung to her back too, and the muggy afternoon heat wasn’t entirely to blame for that.

She was grateful, now, that she’d persisted through the struggle of braiding her hair into the crown style Sebille taught her last summer. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but at least it was up and out of the way.

Cyril realized her momentary distraction had evolved into a full-on delay tactic as she stood there on the path, adjusting her blouse and pressing her hands along her hairline far more times than she needed to. Embarrassing, really, that she’d let herself get this flustered over something she had so little information on.

To hells with what Bron said about them never being disappointed in her, Cyril had let her hold on her faculties slip to an abysmal degree.

She forced a slow breath in and out of her lungs, pulled her shoulders back, and walked straight into the barracks.

Two steps past the threshold and the panic came back in full swing.

People were everywhere.

Some she recognized, sort of, but most she didn’t. And she realized then that the barracks were huge, and she didn’t know where Mikael would be, or where he even wanted her to go. She started scanning from one end of the room to the other, looking from table to group to—

“Good afternoon, beautiful!”

Cyril whipped around to where that familiar, feminine voice came from—Kaia.

What a fucking relief.

She strode over with a grin plastered on her face, and Cyril felt an immediate twinge of guilt.

“Sorry I never came by,” Cyril said with a grimace. “I tried looking for you all at the solstice party, but…”

Kaia just shook her head and slung her arm across Cyril’s shoulders. “No hard feelings. The boss mentioned you got pretty sauced, had a rough day after?”

“I…yeah,” Cyril sighed.

Lovely to know that was the sort of information Mikael was passing on about her to the guards. A nagging, itching part of her wanted to ask if the prince mentioned anything else about her, but Kaia cut in first.

“You know, I never asked you about your trip to Brynnhold. Did you get to do anything other than…work?”

Cyril winced. “No. But I finally got to see a bit of the city at least, so that was nice.”

“Shit.” Kaia stared at her. “Had you not been yet?”

Cyril shook her head.

“Well, we would have taken you weeks ago if we knew!” Kaia squeezed her shoulder and grinned. “I’ll make sure we drag you along the next time a few of us sneak away for some drinks. The ale is so much better in the city, and some of the clubs are quite an experience.”

“I’d seriously have to sneak away.” Gods, Cyril didn’t even want to think about broaching that sort of conversation with Dion. He’d shut her down before she even got it out. “But I’d like that.”

Kaia gave her a bit of a curious look, but she nodded. “Good, we would too. Oh!”

Her eyes darted around the room, and she hooked her fingers in her lips, letting loose a whistle so shrill that Cyril winced. She may have had a lingering headache.

“Ari? Gunner? Pay up, you cynical fucks. I told you she’d show!”

There were a couple of grumbles and curses from the other end of the room, and a middle finger waved in the air. Cyril just blinked.

“Did you…?”

“Bet on you? Oh, absolutely we did. It’s our new favorite pastime.” Kaia chuckled. Her dark eyes gleamed with a bit of mischief. “Mika mentioned you might drop by for a little visit this afternoon, and those two arses didn’t believe him. But I did. So I bet them each five coppers that you would show up. And, lo and behold, I am now ten coppers richer, so thank you for actually showing.”

Cyril sighed and shot Kaia a glare.

The barracks were really just a repackaged version of the estate; the guards weren’t any better than the rogues.

“I’m honestly not sure if I should congratulate you or tell you all to go fuck yourselves.”

“Oh, I’d love it if you did both.” Kaia grinned and started moving, pulling Cyril along with her. “But come on, the boss is in his office with some of the boys. I’ll take you back there.”

Cyril had no control over the frantic rhythm her heart set into when she walked into Mikael’s office behind Kaia.

He fixed her with one hells of a fucking smile from where he leaned against the edge of his desk.

With his hair down.

And his uniform jacket unbuttoned.

And his hands slipped in his pockets.

Gods help her.

Kaia bumped her shoulder with a smugly cocked brow as she said, “Come grace us with your pretty face again soon, yeah? Doors are always open.” Cyril didn’t manage more than a stuttered syllable or two as Kaia looked from her to the two men lounging in the chairs pulled in front of Mikael’s desk. “Come on, boys. There’s still a whole rack of shields I need help with.”

The men grumbled and sulked out of their chairs. The one with short, blonde hair and a wicked scar along his jaw smiled and dipped his head at Cyril as he walked past. “Nice to see you again, Lady Cyril.”

Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea who he was.

But she smiled anyway and said, “Nice to see you too.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and a modicum of sense rushed back into her. She turned back to Mikael, eyes narrowed, ready to—

“Gods, isn’t it disgusting how cute she is?! I swear, if Mika isn’t fucking her already…” Kaia’s voice disappeared down the hall and the flush crept back into Cyril’s cheeks.

Mikael looked at her with raised brows.

“Do not. I’m annoyed with you.” Cyril folded her arms over her chest and planted herself firmly in front of the door, willing every semblance of reason back into her body.

“Annoyed with me?” Mikael, obviously, was skeptical, if his huff was any indicator. “Please, go on.”

“What kind of half-assed note was that this morning? Come see me at the barracks before dinner. You couldn't be bothered to give me any context? Let me know why? You ruined my morning ride and my trip to the archives.”

He certainly didn't ruin her bath, but he didn't need to know that.

Cyril took a deep breath, and the insufferable prince smiled at her.

“You know, Cyril.” He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned back on them on his desk. “You could’ve just said you spent the whole day thinking about me.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I do. But, if you’ll let me defend my actions today…”

Cyril gestured for him to get it the fuck out already.

“One, I think I deserve a bit of credit for tidying up and tucking you in without waking you up. Two, I was half asleep when I wrote that, so cut me some slack. Three—”

“Three? You can’t be serious.”

She had the sneaking suspicion that Mikael might like to listen to himself talk as much as Dion did. And that was…concerning. Also endearing in the worst way possible.

Mikael was not impressed with that.

“I’m very serious. Three, if I had written that dinner tonight is just you, me, and my mother, I had a feeling you might not show up. And lastly—”

“Wait, why is it just the three of us?”

Cyril didn’t care if she was interrupting him anymore. She would have found an excuse out of dinner if she had known that beforehand. It sounded like a recipe for one hell of an awkward evening.

He sighed.

“Because my brother and his wife are gone, your uncle is apparently back in the city, and my father is busy. Can I finish?”

Cyril gave him a wary look but nodded.

“Lastly, I also wanted to ask you something, and it felt a little disingenuous to just write it down on a note instead of asking you in person.” Mikael’s voice was far gentler than with his previous declarations, and her damn palms started to sweat again. “Does all of that sate your annoyance with me, or…?”

“I… It might.” Cyril gripped her arms and frowned at him. “What did you want to ask me?”

She was already rolling through a list of possibilities and—surprise, surprise—none of them were pleasant.

Mikael fidgeted, gripping the edge of his desk.

Fucking hells.

She was sure she’d never seen him look nervous before, and there was no realm in which that boded well. This was when he was going to tell her it was a mistake, right? Say that it wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t drunk, and ask her to keep her mouth shut about it?

She would’ve preferred a note, honestly. This was excessively cruel.

“On solstice…was that just drunk desperation, or are you actually interested?”

Cyril stiffened.

That was…not what she was prepared for.

The answer to that was something she knew immediately, but she was not ready to put any of it into words. She was certain she liked Mikael. A lot. More than made sense to her for how little she knew about him.

But she didn’t think he’d want to fucking talk about it.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“You won’t hurt my feelings or scare me off either way.” Mikael gave her a smile she assumed was supposed to be reassuring. It was not. “I was going to ask you last night, but it seemed like a pretty shitty follow-up to the whole dead girlfriend thing.”

“I…I forgot we talked about that.”

Cyril wrapped her arms a bit more tightly around herself. She’d handed him something so fucking personal and hadn’t thought twice about the implication of it. He had the upper hand in everything now, but that didn’t scare her like it should.

“What if I said the answer was both? That I’m…interested, and that may have influenced my drunk and desperate behavior?”

Tension slipped from his shoulders.

“Well, Lady Cyril, if that were your answer, I would say—” Mikael extended his hand to her, and she took it, letting him guide her over. The unease in his eyes gave way to a sort of frosty intensity that made her want to kiss him again. Badly. “—that I am very relieved.”

A smile passed between them that Cyril wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to properly articulate the feeling of. Her body thrummed with this warm and foreign sort of happiness that she didn’t want to leave. Ever.

“What happened to Wrath Incarnate?” she breathed.

Mikael already had his fingers notched under her chin, his thumb grazing her lower lip. He lowered his mouth to hers, pausing when their noses brushed to murmur, “I’ll call you whatever you want, Cyril, as long as I get to kiss you again.”

That made two of them.

Cyril braced her hands on his hips, surging up on her toes, and didn’t hesitate to close that last breath of space between them. The rich, rumbling hum of appreciation that left Mikael sent any last rational thought of hers skittering and she nipped at his bottom lip.

The prince approved of that.

His tongue met hers with a consuming, needy sort of hunger and he flipped them in one fluid movement, pinning Cyril between the warmth of his body and his desk. Any fear she’d had of her solstice memories being tainted and distorted by all the damn lockmead went out the window.

All that heat, and need, and want, coursing through her body like wildfire? A thousand times more intense than she remembered. The feeling of his hand slipping across her throat, cradling her jaw? It sparked a tone of possessiveness that had her knees weak and her thoughts vacating.

She slipped a needy whine against his lips, and Mikael moved her like she was made of air. He hauled her up onto the worn wood surface behind them and tugged her legs around him.

The desk groaned and something metal creaked as Mikael leaned forward and ran his lips down her throat.

“Just a thought,” he whispered, and the three words turned her molten. “We could skip—”

“Boss? We— Oh fucking hells, really?”

Cyril didn’t recognize the male voice that came from the other end of the office, and her lust-addled haze may have had something to do with that, but she went deathly still.

Mikael’s eyes flared with shock before they narrowed. His attention snapped over his shoulder, a snarl peeled back on his lips. “In what fucking world do you not knock? What. Do. You. Want?”

“It can wait!”

The door clicked shut and Mikael swore a name that Cyril didn’t know.

That was probably for the best.

Mikael’s breathing was uneven as he looked at her with resignation.

“Sorry about that.” He squeezed her thigh before untangling himself from her legs and taking a step back. “We should get going, anyway.”

Cyril may have pouted.

“That wasn’t what you were going to suggest, was it?”

“No,” Mikael chuckled. He extended a hand to help her down and ran the other through his hair. “But we shouldn’t be late for dinner. My mother already isn’t impressed with us.”

“…Isn’t impressed with us?”

She tensed, and Mikael’s grimace did nothing to help.

“Yeah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She saw us in the hall on the solstice.”

Suddenly, Cyril had no appetite.

Chapter 31

Dinner was less awkward than Cyril expected it to be, and that was unsettling.

She was sure the moment they settled into the small, private dining room inside Runa and Lars’ suite that she and Mikael would both get one hells of a dressing down.

But nothing happened.

Runa hugged them both, got them all seated around the table, and spent their entire meal talking and asking questions about perfectly innocuous things. The family’s hunt before the solstice, Cyril’s trip into Brynnhold, and her first lockmead hangover.

Not a single mention of a certain solstice hallway entanglement.

Now, after a bit of guilt-tripping from the queen, Cyril and Mikael followed her into an adjacent, well-appointed sitting room armed with three glasses and two bottles of wine.

The overstuffed sofa and its periwinkle blue velvet felt like it might swallow Cyril whole, but she wasn’t complaining about it.

“In the spirit of being transparent, I have two things I’d like to offer,” Runa said as she finished pushing open two sets of glass doors, letting the evening breeze sweep in off the terrace. “The first is for both of you, and it’s a bit of advice.”

Mikael paused mid-pour of wine to glance at Cyril, and she was certain he looked as tense as she felt. The damn queen had waited until they had their guard down to corner them.

“And that advice would be…?” Mikael asked warily.

Better him than Cyril.

“Discretion.” Runa sighed as she settled in an armchair opposite them and fixed them both with an unimpressed stare. “Personally, I don’t care what the two of you get up to. You’re both adults, and it isn’t my business. Lars doesn’t care either and, in fact, I think he seemed rather supportive of the entire idea of the two of you. But Dion?” She raised her brow at Cyril and shook her head. “I cannot fathom what would have happened if he had been the one to stumble upon the two of you down each other’s throats that night.”

Cyril’s cheeks burned.

She opened her mouth, but Runa held up her hand. The damned prince just busied himself with his glass of wine.

“I don’t need or want an explanation, apology, or defense from either of you. I would just like the both of you to promise me you will exercise some amount of caution in any of your future…encounters.”

Well, at least all three of them looked equally uncomfortable now.

Cyril and Mikael both nodded.

“Good.” Runa sank back in her chair and took a languid sip of her wine before she fixed her eyes on Cyril. “Now, my second offering. Just for you. When I was giving my son hell yesterday for his deplorable behavior, he mentioned something very…interesting to me.”

In the entire month she’d spent in Reykr so far, Cyril had never seen Mikael look as meek as he did when she glared at him. The prince commander slumped back into his seat, avoiding eye contact.

“What did you—” She looked back at Runa. “What did he say?”

The grin that crept across the queen’s face brought Cyril no comfort.

“My son mentioned that, if given the opportunity, you would have an interest in seeing memories of Malia and Hector?”

To hear her parents’ names spoken with such warmth and ease?

Gooseflesh rippled up Cyril’s arms.

Dion enjoyed keeping a degree of separation between the people he referred to as her parents and the dead family members whose names he must have once used often. There was an implication, too, to what Runa was asking her that Cyril didn’t want to consider the possibility of.

“I… Yes,” Cyril’s voice was hoarse, and it took an effort to swallow down the lump building in her throat. “I would.”

Runa’s eyes searched her face, and she nodded.

“If you are certain about it, I’d like to offer you that opportunity.”

“What do you…” Cyril hadn’t realized her hands went slack until Mikael swore and reached for her tilting wine glass. Her chest suddenly ached. “You know someone? Someone here that could…?”

No. It couldn’t be possible. This was just some cruel joke.

Runa's smile fully lifted her eyes as she nodded again. “I do.”

If it weren’t for the speed with which Cyril clamped her hand over her mouth, she surely would have made a gods awful noise. She looked to Mikael, who nodded in confirmation and gently squeezed the leg she hadn't even realized she was bouncing off the floor.

“I take it Dion never told you then that it was a possibility? I had my suspicions that he hadn’t, but…”

Cyril just shook her head.

She wasn’t confident that she’d be able to string together more than one or two coherent words with the way the shock and anger took their turns surging up through her.

It wasn’t even like Dion keeping another damn secret should have been a surprise. But this? He had no fucking right. No matter what his feelings were about what happened, how much grief and anger or indifference he harbored, they were her parents. She had a right to know that it was possible. The right to decide what to do with that information on her own.

Dion was probably going to have one hell of a fucking excuse about why he kept this from her.

Cyril took an unsteady breath.

A bitter quip about Dion was about to leave her lips when she looked at Mikael and everything clicked.

“When you asked me about them…you knew?”

“I pieced together a few things, yeah.” He gave her a tight smile. “I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up, honestly.”

“Do my uncles know?” Cyril looked at Runa.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer. If everyone but her knew…

“I don’t believe so,” Runa said, shaking her head. “Truthfully, Cyril, I would have told you much sooner, but after the letters…I didn’t want to upset you anymore than I already had if it was something you didn’t want.”

Cyril tried not to think about that afternoon, and not because of Runa’s gesture. The queen's attempt to forge a connection with someone she owed nothing to was generous. Cyril avoided thoughts of that day because of her abysmal behavior and the gods damned fight she’d had with Dion afterward.

“You caught me off guard that day.” Cyril’s response was sheepish, but true.

She hadn’t been at all prepared for that, not from someone she just met, and especially not from someone who reigned over the people she spent her whole life being taught to distrust. Things were…different now.

“I realize that now. You’re sure that this is something you want?”

“Please, I—” Cyril clenched her teeth. The desperation tumbled out before she’d even thought about it. She tried to reel herself in, to take a breath and calm down, but her efforts failed. “This person…they’d be willing to meet with me? I can pay them if that matters, I just… Are they close to the palace? It’ll be difficult, with Dion, to get away, but I think I can—”

Runa and Mikael's smiles grew as the questions and words and half-thought-out statements kept tumbling out of Cyril. Like it was funny that she was so worked up.

Finally, she scowled and ground out, “I don’t know how any of this works, okay? I’ve never met a weaver before. I…I don’t know if they want money, or—”

Runa came to perch on the sofa arm beside Cyril.

“You don’t have to worry about any of that, Cyril. You don’t have to go anywhere, or pay anyone, or make any sort of arrangements.” She took Cyril’s hands in her own, tattooed and warm, and just looked at them for a moment as she brushed her thumbs over Cyril’s knuckles.

Cyril braced herself for the incoming wave of sentimentality. Some speech about the friendship Runa had with her mother. Some debt the queen felt she owed to her departed friend, that she would bear the burden of—

“And trust me, Cyril, when I say that it would be an honor beyond words to share my memories with you.”

Her memories.

No.

Cyril hadn’t heard that right.

Because that would mean…

“You…”

Some new, budding instinct drew her eyes to Mikael. It felt like she hadn’t heard him speak all night.

He exchanged a glance with Runa.

“My mother is a weaver, or vefari, as we call them here. It just wasn’t my place to share that with you when you were drunk in the grass on solstice.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left Runa and Cyril looked back at her.

There was a veil of emotion on the queen’s face that Cyril couldn’t quite place. Like she was happy and devastated, wary and eager, all at the same time.

“Thank you, I…” It was all Cyril could manage.

There was more that she wanted to say.

So much more.

But her thoughts were a fucking mess.

She was sure the hand Mikael was skimming up and down her back was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Because there was no way any of this was real.

“You are so very welcome, Cyril.” Runa cupped her cheek and smiled at her with the sort of warmth that made her chest tighten and ache. “Finish your wine, and we’ll get started.”

It took two glasses of wine, and the start of a third, for Cyril to settle down enough for Runa to feel comfortable dipping into her mind.

The queen spent the entire time explaining how it would all work and checking, over and over, that Cyril was sure she wanted to do this now. That she didn’t want to wait a few days.

Cyril was certain.

She didn’t want the chance to think about it, to work herself up to the point she’d back out. Or worse, risk Dion’s unpredictability and be robbed of the opportunity in its entirety.

According to Runa, it might feel unpleasant at first, to have someone slip into her thoughts and forge that connection, especially for the first time. Then, Cyril would have to show Runa something clear and deep-seated in her memories—thoughts of Helia, they decided—for that strand of connection to forge and flow.

Simple enough, but Cyril would have to place total, unrestrained trust in Runa.

For this, she would throw every bit of caution to the wind.

Sitting on the ground, cross-legged on a plush rug in front of the queen, Cyril watched as Runa rubbed a few drops of oil on her fingers. Whatever it was, its scent was sharp and minty.

“I won’t spend long in your mind,” Runa said as she motioned for Cyril to move in closer until their knees brushed and Cyril was locked in face-to-face with silvery blue eyes. “Just long enough to show you a couple of things, and then I will back out. We can always do more another day, but I don’t want to overwhelm you right now, alright?”

“Okay.” Cyril nodded. As if it was possible for her to feel any more overwhelmed right now.

From the sofa beside them, Mikael cleared his throat.

“You’re positive you don’t want me to leave?”

That was the second time now that he asked if she was sure. After the other two times he clarified he had no problems leaving them on their own, to give Cyril and his mother some privacy.

He was uncomfortable about it, apparently, and Cyril may have taken an ounce of enjoyment in that. His mother may have as well.

“I’m sure.” She smiled at him and looked back at Runa. “I’m ready.”

Runa reached for her, brushing her thumbs across Cyril’s temples and slipping her fingers through Cyril’s hair to cradle her head. That pungent, minty, and medicinal scent flooded her nose.

“Close your eyes, and just focus on breathing. I’ll guide you through the rest.”

Cyril let her eyes fall shut, but she was not prepared for the immediate brush of something cold and otherworldly up her spine.

She tensed, making a soft noise, and the cold withdrew.

“I know it’s strange, but just relax and breathe.” Runa sounded distant, quiet.

Cyril took a slow breath, and the cold started to climb again.

From her tailbone to the base of her neck, it came in like a slow tide.

Waves of it lapped at her, ebbing and flowing as they built with persistence. That ethereal cold rose and rose until it crested and breached some invisible dam inside of her, flooding into her limbs with a heavy, pulling weight.

Then came the pain.

Sharp and sudden, pressure bloomed behind her eyes. It pulled a ragged, heavy breath from her and was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Show me your home, Cyril. Think about Helia.”

Runa sounded so far away, but thoughts of the grasslands came tumbling in.

Days spent cooling off in the creek behind the estate house when the summer sun hit its blistering peak. Climbing the apple trees for Sebille while she waited on the ground with a basket. The great hall, packed for a meal and rumbling with the raucous noise of rogues well into their ales.

Gods, she missed home.

“I know you do,” Runa said softly, and Cyril felt the shift in control. A quiet, soothing sort of darkness settled into her mind that she had no sway over, pushing out those longing memories of her home. “I’ll start with something familiar.”

Dion.

Much, much younger.

Sitting outside somewhere with Lars, with no trace of the fine lines that settled around his eyes in recent years, or that persistent crease between his brows.

His hair was longer and shaggier than she ever remembered seeing it too. He ran a hand through it and laughed at something Lars said. When he turned to look at her—at Runa—that’s when Cyril saw his scar. It had a pinkish tone to it, like it was still settling.

This was an exceedingly long time ago.

“Now, maybe a little less familiar…”

Cyril didn’t want to stop looking at Dion, at the youthful glint in his eyes she never knew existed, but the memory blew away like mist.

And then her father filled her vision.

He looked so much like Dion.

She knew that too, and had always told herself that from the vague, fleeting memories she had of him, but nothing compared to seeing them stand side by side. He was a couple of inches taller than Dion—and towered over Runa, looking up at him—and he was broader in the shoulders. But there was a softness to him too, that she hadn’t glimpsed even in a young Dion.

Her whole physical being ached with the want to reach out and touch him, feel what it was like to hug her father again. But Runa’s hands moved of their own accord, gesturing and flowing as she spoke muffled words to them.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the memory drifted from her mind.

“I think this is who you really want to see, and, if you are okay with it…” There was a hint of hesitation in Runa’s distant voice. “I would like to show it to someone else afterward too.”

A beige blanket spread over grass came in first. A mess of wavy, auburn hair settled into her vision next, belonging to a toddler who stood unsteadily between Runa’s legs on the blanket, gripping onto her fingers as she kept him upright.

Him, because Cyril knew instantly who that someone was.

She knew exactly where they were too. With the royal gardens in sight and the lake down off in the distance, they were on the terraced grass of the back lawn. Just like where Mikael had found her on the solstice.

Movement came into Runa’s periphery and it knocked all the air from Cyril’s lungs in one ragged breath.

Her mother.

There was no one else that could be.

She came from behind Runa and settled opposite her on the blanket, reaching her hands towards Mikael. The toddler prince made a shrill, joyful noise and stumbled across to her.

Cyril was captivated.

Her mother’s hair was short, falling just above the tops of her shoulders, but it was the same silky black as Cyril's, and there was no mistaking who she inherited her bone structure from. Even though everything about Malia’s face was just a touch sharper, more angular from her half-nymph blood, Cyril felt like she was looking in a mirror.

Now she understood why people always felt the need to tell her that.

Their only contrasts came from the vibrant blue, water-bearer eyes her mother held, and the unmistakable gentleness in her voice. Cyril was sure, even as she called to Dion and Hector, telling them to come watch Mikael walk, that this was a woman who couldn’t carry hatred or anger in her voice. A healer, through and through.

Just as Cyril’s father came to sit behind her mother, resting his chin on her shoulder and looking down at Mikael with wide, playful eyes, her chest started to ache.

Not from fondness, or longing, but from her heart thundering.

There was pressure too, building in her mind, but she ignored it.

She pushed past that budding discomfort, clinging on to her mother’s voice.

Her father’s laugh.

The bewildered expression on Dion’s face when Mikael staggered towards him.

They all looked so happy.

And then it was gone, the memory swept away by darkness and devastating silence.

“No,” Cyril’s voice came as a rasp, “No, Runa, please. Bring it back, I…please, Runa—” She gritted her teeth, holding back the sob that crept up her throat.

She wanted to see every memory Runa had of them.

Every bit of laughter, every word they spoke, she wanted to hear it.

She wanted to see her mother again.

She wanted to see the happiness on Dion’s face again.

She wanted—

“Another time, Cyril,” Runa said, and that cold heaviness withdrew from her limbs, the tide retreating down her spine. “That is enough for now. Too much at once, and I can cause damage.”

Cyril’s eyes opened of their own volition as the last trace of cold skittered away. Runa looked at her, her own eyes glossy, with as sad of a smile as Cyril had ever seen. A twinge of guilt ran through her.

“Just sit for a bit, alright? You’re quite flush.” The queen’s hands skimmed down her face, her palms pressing against Cyril’s cheeks. “You might feel dizzy and a bit nauseous, but that will pass soon.”

Never mind dizzy, Cyril barely felt like she was in control of her own body. Her limbs refused to move, and blinking felt like it took an eternity. Distantly, she was aware of warmth radiating up through her chest, of her damp skin and the shirt stuck to her back.

She swallowed and nodded.

“You can…You can show—”

Her eyes drifted to the now empty spot on the sofa that Mikael had occupied.

She blinked.

“Right here.” Hands squeezed her shoulders, and she settled into herself a bit more. Mikael had moved right behind her, letting her lean back against him.

“You’re sure?” Runa asked, and Cyril nodded again.

She was sure for several reasons, one being that she couldn’t stomach that sad look in the queen’s eyes anymore.

Another was the emotions that seeped their way into her as she felt more tethered to herself. The strange, out-of-body happiness was being shoved cleanly out of the way by something dark clawing its way up from deep inside her.

Cyril needed to be alone.

She waited until Runa stopped watching her with wary eyes and tapped into Mikael's mind, to get up on uneasy feet and walk out onto the terrace. The cool evening breeze filled her lungs, and Cyril clamped a hand over her mouth and sobbed.

Well, Cyril certainly looked like her mother.

To an almost unnerving degree.

Mikael was sure his own mother had the best of intentions, but to show Cyril that, of all things… He didn’t feel good about it.

The room slid back into focus as Runa eased out of his mind, a lofty warmth seeping back into his limbs. Not as taxing on him as he was sure it was on Cyril, with how many countless times his mother had done it over the years, but it was still a sensation he didn’t enjoy.

He blinked, looking around and—

“She’s outside,” Runa said softly, all her attention turned to the patio doors.

His eyes found Cyril’s shadowed form standing out near the railing and, for fuck’s sake, he could hear her—quiet, heart-rending sobs.

Mikael went to stand, but his mother held out a hand.

“Go easy with her, Mika. If she’s anything like Dion, she won’t enjoy being coddled. She might need some time.”

Mikael was willing to test his luck.

He drained the last mouthful of his wine and walked out to the terrace.

“Cyril?”

She sucked in a shaky breath and stilled.

Mikael braved a few steps closer.

“I’d ask if you’re alright, but I think I know the answer already…”

“I’m fine,” Cyril mumbled.

Her sniffle and the way she wiped at her face with her sleeve said otherwise. Despite the overcast night sky dimming any moonlight, enough warm, orange glow flickered from the brazier to light up the glossiness in her eyes. She never pulled them from whatever she fixated on out in the gardens.

“No, you’re not.” Mikael brushed his hand on her back, and Cyril bristled.

Wrong move.

She took a step closer to the railing and away from him.

“It’s just hard, okay? We don’t—” Her voice wavered and fell quiet. “We don’t talk about her, or him, or them, and I…”

Whatever else she planned on saying, she abandoned in favor of blowing out a slow, shaky breath. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the polished stone cap of the railing like her life depended on it. Like that was all that kept whatever was cresting inside her together.

Mikael rested on his forearms beside her on the railing. He heard the patio doors pull shut behind them.

“You look just like her.”

It was all Mikael could think to say, because what other options did he have?

Sorry that apparently he got to meet her mother, and she never did?

Sorry that she likely never got to see that sort of easy, genuine happiness in her father's face? In Dion’s too?

Sorry that her family had been no better than massacred, torn apart at the seams?

He didn’t know what the fuck to say, or how to navigate anything with tact.

“I do.” The two words were quiet as Cyril nodded slowly. Then, she added, “I killed her. And I killed him too.”

“Cyril, you did not—” Mikael straightened up and stared at her, even though she still didn’t want to return the favor. “None of that is your fault.”

She huffed a laugh. And, gods, it was a pained noise.

“Isn’t it, though?” Cyril’s eyes finally drifted over and the vacancy in them was chilling. She shook her head and looked back out at the gardens, slowly saying, “My mother died because of me. She would still be here if it wasn’t for me. That means if it wasn’t for me, my fucking coward of a father would still be alive too, and Dion would be happy. So yes, Mikael, it is entirely my fault, every fucking bit of it.”

Mikael stilled.

Good gods. That was…

What a weight to carry.

His mother always preached about the hidden burdens people bore—the guilt and regrets, and the fears buried deep within them. The things that were never given the chance to see the light of day. The things that, despite often being misguided and muddied, and lost to years of self-sabotage, drove the very essence of their being.

He’d never witnessed a more prime example.

And Cyril’s logic, it was…flawed, entirely. As if she purposely came into this world to cause death and destruction. As if she had a choice about being brought into it. But that battle wasn’t worth the breath.

Something else she said, though, got to him.

“I respectfully disagree with you, Cyril, and…” This territory was uncharted and dangerous. “Your father was not a coward, I—”

“Do. Not.” Cyril seethed through clenched teeth, her glare caustic.

“He wasn’t.” Mikael’s words were soft, but if there was something he would not back down on, it was this.

Mikael knew Cyril’s father had taken his own life—he’d spent the last few weeks regretting wielding that knowledge like a weapon at their first dinner—and that there were certain…stigmas associated with it, especially in Helia. His mother had explained as much. But that didn’t change the fact that Hector was a fae man who had lost not only his wife, but his bonded partner, and in such a tragic way. Mikael couldn’t even fathom his grief.

“He was! He was a fucking coward, and he…” Cyril drew her lips into a tight line, but they trembled mercilessly. One hells of a fucking internal battle was raging in there.

She slammed her fist off the railing capstone and stepped away, walking further down the edge of the terrace.

Mikael let her put plenty of space in between them before he asked, “And he…?”

“He left me all by myself!” Cyril bit out, jamming her finger into her chest. “He didn’t want me, and…” A soft, whimpering noise left her. “And Dion doesn’t want me, and nobody…”

Cyril cracked.

She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders heaved with a sob.

Mikael took a few lengthy strides to her, but Cyril wanted no part in it. She backed away from him until she hit the end of the railing.

“Cyril…” he said softly.

“No.” The single word was half choked as she wiped at her face, her voice thick with tears. “Please don’t, I—”

“Fucking hells, woman, just let me comfort you.”

Cyril swore and pushed at Mikael’s chest as he reached for her, but she didn’t stand a chance. He tugged her to him, and she lasted seconds before her body weight sagged against him. Her warm, damp face pressed into his chest. Another few seconds and the pained, rattling sobs started.

Cyril’s fight left her with alarming speed.

So Mikael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her close. This woman, that he knew next to nothing about, but there they were.

The next words she spoke made his chest ache.

“Nobody wants me.” They were ragged, half-sobbed things. “And I…I don’t know why.”

Mikael had no answer for her, despite the abundance of clarity she just gave him.

It was why she could be quiet and shy. Why she was reactive and abrasive. Why her confidence wavered and faltered. Hells, it was probably why she fucking drank. It was why Cyril was every fucking curious thing he’d wondered since the day he met her.

All the damn woman wanted was to be wanted, and Dion had done a piss-poor job of ever giving her that sort of love without conditions. That much was obvious and had been since the moment Mikael watched him lay into her in the hall all those weeks ago.

But Mikael understood more than most what that bitter sort of rejection felt like. He was intimately familiar with what it was like to always be second best, to toe that line between worthy and waste day in and out. He was closest to his mother for a reason.

At least he’d always had his freedom though—something he wasn’t sure Cyril ever had the luxury of experiencing.

“Let’s go sit inside. Your room?” Mikael smoothed his hand down her back, and a soft, shuddering breath broke through her quiet sobs, but Cyril nodded.

The evening air had taken on that cool, heavy quality it liked to when night settled in, and Mikael didn’t want to stand there anymore. Not when he couldn’t comfort her like he wanted to.

Mikael took her free hand as she wiped at her face, and he led her back inside. Back through the quiet and turned down sitting room, glasses and wine all cleared away, and down through the main hall of his parents’ suite. He’d have to thank his mother for that bit of privacy, even though he was sure she needed it too.

The walk back to Cyril’s room occurred without as much as a word or a glance from her. But as she sniffled and coughed, and wiped at her eyes, her hand squeezed his. That spoke enough for him.

He settled them both onto the sofa, keeping Cyril tucked close to his side. She sat still and quiet for a long while, her knees drawn up and attention turned entirely on the crackling hearth in front of them. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what she was thinking, even though the temptation to ask gnawed at him.

When she finally shifted and looked up at him, there was no wicked sun-spun gold left in her eyes. There was only darkness and defeat there. And she held his gaze for a few long breaths before her eyes slipped shut and her head settled against his shoulder.

“I’m tired of being alone,” she whispered, and it was then that Mikael made a decision.

As much as he tried to believe whatever was budding up between them was just physical and fun—another conquest, as the guard so ineloquently put it—there was something else to it.

He didn’t understand the obligation he felt to Cyril, or where the fuck it came from. But for however long Cyril stayed in Reykr, be it days, weeks, or months more, Mikael would see to it that she felt wanted.

He would make sure that she didn’t feel alone.

Even if that meant it might be fucking painful for both of them when she inevitably was brought back to Helia. Because he knew Dion would drag her back, regardless of what she wanted.

And maybe it was cruel, with how much it might hurt, but at least she would go back knowing what it felt like for someone to want her around. And maybe, just maybe, she could find herself some happiness then. He would gladly deal with whatever repercussions came if it meant he could give her that.

Mikael rubbed her arm and said, “You’re not alone, Cyril. Not here.”

Chapter 32

Cyril woke up on her sofa—again. For her stiff body’s sake, this had to stop happening.

No vague note from the prince this time though, or any indication that he spent the night curled up on the sofa with her. She didn’t know if that was good or not.

It was safe to say she’d made a fucking fool of herself again in front of Mikael last night, and she owed him no shortage of apologies for dragging him into something she was wholly under-prepared for. Something that already felt like a mistake.

That striking, raven-haired woman haunted every fitful moment of Cyril’s sleep. Her smile. Her eyes. The soft warmth of her laughter.

The happiness she looked at everyone with.

All painful, aching reminders that Cyril single-handedly took her away from all the people who loved her. It didn’t matter what Mikael said to convince her otherwise, because it was her fault.

If Cyril wasn’t brought into existence, Malia would still be alive.

It was simple.

And her father? Gods. She still thought him a coward, for leaving her alone somewhere she wasn’t wanted.

But now?

Now he was a coward with a devastatingly clear face that every fiber of her being wanted to see again, with the sort of desperation that made her chest ache. Her cruel dreams tried to trick her into thinking it was his strong arms wrapped around her, not those of the prince trying to offer her silent comfort.

Safe to say, she was not well rested.

It took a concerted amount of effort for Cyril to get up off the couch and drag her ass to the bathroom to get ready. She didn’t want to spend all day in the archives, but she desperately needed something to focus on.

Her head felt like it was floating in a fucking storm cloud after the solstice, and the night before did nothing to help that. This was exactly why she avoided people and relationships, and the messy feelings that came with them.

Besides, Dion was bound to be back in a day or two, and she knew he’d have something to say if she hadn’t spent time there.

Not that he cared about what she read.

Or what she learned.

Or her theories and opinions about the murders.

Or her at all, for that matter.

He just wanted her quiet and occupied, tucked away somewhere safe.

Cyril sighed and raked her fingers through the stupid braid she’d spent so long working on the day before, reworking it into something low and loose. She didn’t think anyone even noticed she’d done something different and she…well. It’s not that she cared that no one noticed, but it might have been nice.

At least now the kitchen staff didn’t mind when she ventured in at odd hours of the day, on the hunt for tea and scraps of food. There was even a woman—who Cyril had been too afraid to ask for her name—that had taken it upon herself to give Cyril shit for not eating properly while she loaded up on odds and ends.

Her very own Sebille away from home.

Cyril ate as quickly as she could with a plate balanced on a ledge out in the servants’ hall, and washed down the bits of cured meat and bread with the dark, bitter tea she’d grown accustomed to drinking in Reykr.

Tobias was not overly fond of her bringing in any unsanctioned food or drink to the archives, and she couldn’t blame him. The rule just didn’t apply when Tobias found himself peckish.

She hovered her hand in front of the archive doors and they groaned petulantly at her as they swung in. No nausea, no dizziness, no hair standing up on the back of her neck. A welcome change.

Truthfully, she’d gotten so used to the magics of convenience they seemed fond of in the palace, that she had more than one embarrassing encounter with a regular door. She was sure Dion would never let her live those down.

A frazzled voice came from down a row of shelves.

“Just a minute, I’ll be right—”

Cyril smiled.

“Don’t worry, Isa, it’s just me.”

“Oh! Hi Cyril,” Isa called back. “I’m almost done with this cart. Just yell if you need anything.”

And that told Cyril that Isa was working alone today.

If there was one thing Tobias despised more than damaged books and disorganized shelves, it was people speaking loudly. He and Konnor—who Cyril had still never heard speak—had a hell of a scowl whenever anyone raised their voice in the archives. Isa, on the other hand, seemed prone to just yelling from one end of the archives straight through to the other whenever she needed anything.

Cyril wandered down to the shelves at the far end of the room, tucked closer to that breathtaking stained glass mural, where most of the history tomes lived.

She pulled The Dark History of Purism in Reykr out from where she’d shoved it back yesterday and tucked it in her arm. She skimmed her finger over the other titles housed on the same shelf, but they were all the same. Written in varying voices and points of view, they each detailed the rise of the purist movement in Reykr after the fall of the Great Kingdom and the subsequent resurgences in the following years.

Cyril had learned nothing different from the first book than the second, third, and fourth she’d read, but she’d give this one a try too, just in case Dark History was where all the secrets lay.

It hadn’t helped at all that Reykr was such a fucking big place, with more settlements and towns than Cyril could keep track of. And resurgences had popped up all over the kingdom in the hundreds of years since the initial movement. Some small, some large, but the names and geography meant nothing to Cyril.

Runa had even mentioned the names of a few problematic places—all spread out across Reykr—in the days after their history lesson, and Cyril recorded them down in the small notebook she kept in the archives. But outside of records of the initial movement, and a single resurgence over a hundred years ago, those names never surfaced again.

The guard she’d worked with in Brynnhold even let her skim through the files they had housed for the murders, and there was not a single record of the victims being from or having ever been to the places Runa mentioned.

“Isa?” Cyril called out, and a hum of acknowledgment carried from a few rows over. “Do you keep books on…places? Like, of regions and settlements in Reykr?”

“Mmm. Other side. Should be theeee…third? No. Fourth row up from the window. Bottom shelf.”

Cyril had no idea how Isa remembered that, but it was exactly where she found what she was looking for.

She crouched down, brushing a thick layer of dust off the titles. She skimmed through names of places that meant nothing to her until one gold-leafed spine caught her eye—the Forn Peninsula. Runa hadn’t gone into too much detail about the region of Reykr that she, Reyna, and a few other court members hailed from, but the name stuck with Cyril.

Not exactly what she had been hoping to find. But after what Mikael had said the other night, about his concerns with Reyna’s health and the healers from her village…

Well, maybe Cyril could switch gears for a day.

It’s not like she was making any meaningful contribution to the investigation, or even knew what was going on with the investigation at all. For all she knew, Bron could have tortured a confession out of someone a day or two ago and they just forgot to tell her.

So Cyril freed the tome from its spot on the cramped and neglected shelf, grabbed a few sheets of parchment and a glass pen from the supply cart, and made herself comfortable at a worktable.

Her eyes didn’t leave the book for hours.

Balance and equivalency.

The two principles—at every size and scope imaginable—were heavily ingrained in the beliefs of the people of the Forn Peninsula, or so Cyril surmised after gorging herself on the tome about the region and its history.

Her notes were messy, haphazard things, but carried a clear theme;

For every blessing or good fortune given to one, another paid its price.

For every death, the gods brought about a new life.

For each day of sun, there must be one of rain.

The references went on, and on, and on.

Cyril had sworn Mikael said their healers were renowned, but the principles of their practice touched on in the tome seemed, well…foolish. They inferred that ill health was a matter of balances being upset and that their healers knew how to determine what had tipped the scales, and what was necessary to restore that balance. Nothing about how they knew, of course, just that they did, and that the practice was never taught to outsiders.

She supposed it was all interesting, but not in a useful manner.

If Reyna was truly sick, and traveling back for treatment, Cyril wasn’t particularly hopeful about the quality of care the crown princess was receiving. But that was the sort of conversation she did not feel like broaching with anyone, especially just working off of Mikael’s hunch.

She should have just read the Dark History tome and kept her uselessness contained to a single crisis.

“Oh, just a second!” Isa called out from the row she camped in, organizing shelves that Cyril had heard her swear at‌ repeatedly.

The archive doors had creaked open a moment ago, but Cyril hadn’t bothered to look up from where she had her forehead rested on her fingertips, staring down at her half-legible notes.

“What— Oh! Your Highness.”

Isa’s squeak of surprise had her eyes darting up though.

Mikael.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here for Lady Cyril.”

He flashed Isa a polite smile as he strode straight down the row of desks, and Cyril thought the poor woman might blow right over. If only the scribe knew he was a prickly, insufferable arse beneath the uniform that he had no business looking that good in.

Cyril leveled the prince with a flat, unimpressed stare as she rose and tried to shuffle some order into her papers.

“None of that lady shit in here,” she said, and a half a smile tugged at her lips. “I’m surprised the wards even let you in.”

Mikael huffed a dry laugh.

“That makes two of us. I was worried I was going to have to knock.”

“Oh, but that would have been—”

It was Cyril’s turn to squeak as Mikael came to stand flush behind her, caging her against the table. He pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck as he leaned over to peer at the books and parchment spread out in front of her.

So much for discretion.

Isa was still planted at the end of the row she emerged from, staring wide-eyed at the two of them. She looked…happy. Maybe? Cyril wasn’t sure.

“Mikael,” Cyril hissed, “What are you doing?”

“Well, Cyril,” he said softly, “when two people are attracted to each other, they tend to display this thing called affection, and—”

Mikael groaned when Cyril elbowed him in the stomach.

“I know that, you arse. What are you doing here?”

“I…” His amused expression turned scrutinizing. “Why are you reading books about…purists and the…Forn Peninsula? Did my mother put you up to something?”

“No, she didn’t. I’m just…educating myself, that’s all.” Cyril stepped away from him to stack the tomes and tuck her notes between the two volumes. He didn’t need to see the evidence of her failed attempts at usefulness. “Did you come to bother me, or do you actually need something?”

“Such hostility from you, wrath.” Amusement glimmered in his eyes as he leaned against the desk behind them. He was quiet, though, as he said, “I wanted to see if you were alright, after last—”

“I’m fine.”

They were not going there.

“Noted. I also need you to come eat dinner, so you have a fighting chance at keeping your feet under you when we go to the barracks.”

Dinner? Cyril blinked.

A cursory glance towards the other end of the archives told her that the sun no longer filtered through the stained glass window. She’d been at this stupid tome for hours.

“How thoughtful of you.” Cyril flashed him a tight smile. “Does anything other than drinking happen at the barracks, or…?”

Mikael shrugged. The arse.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

That felt like a no to her.

She shook her head at him and gathered the tomes up in her arms. Mikael followed behind her as she wove out of the desks and back towards the doors.

“Isa?” she called out, the woman having made herself scarce again. “Is it alright if I take these two tomes upstairs? I’ll bring them back in a few days.”

A soft thud and a curse traveled down an aisle.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine!” Isa stumbled down, sticking her head out. “Have a good night Cy—Your Highness and Lady Cyril.”

Cyril was certain Mikael grabbed her around the waist and kissed her cheek as they walked past Isa just to see the poor woman stammer and zip right back down the aisle.

Chapter 33

“You like it here, don’t you?” Mikael murmured in her ear, and Cyril nodded. It might have been the doing of her third pint of ale, but if Cyril closed her eyes, it felt like she was back home.

Her earlier assumption about the barracks was largely correct.

The primary activity the off-duty guards busied themselves with the evening was indeed drinking. With a healthy dose of darts, card games, and a few other pissing contests sprinkled into the mix, of course.

The laughter and bawdy behavior saturating her senses was identical to the raucous symphony that rumbled out of the great hall on any given night at the estate. That familiarity, combined with the generous serving of ale placed in her hands the moment she and Mikael walked through the doors, did wonders to help her ease in.

“It’s like home,” she said quietly, eyes never leaving the current pissing contest unfolding between Kaia and two other guards.

Apparently, this was the part of the evening they usually migrated down into the throwing room to prove their mettle. A sizeable amount of copper had already changed hands.

Mikael just made a quiet noise of confirmation, tugging her closer to him.

The only difference, really, between the barracks and her home was that other than Bron or Ren or Tyr hauling her over a shoulder to put her to bed, no one at home ever came near her.

Not in the same way the prince did, at least.

From the moment they left a mildly awkward dinner with his parents—Lars was enthusiastic about their prospect, just as Runa had mentioned—Mikael was hellsbent on never not being in physical contact with her. Either his fingers were twined with hers, an arm sat wrapped around her waist, or, much to her horror, he was hauling her into his lap while they played cards.

The prince’s particular brand of possessive and public displays of affection was an experience Cyril had been wholly unprepared for.

The thrum of embarrassment she’d felt in the archives earlier paled brutally compared to what seeped into her when Mikael kissed her in the barracks, in front of everyone.

Not just a peck, either. No, it was a kiss that lingered with depth.

Her entire damn body flushed afterward, and Cyril drowned herself in her mug.

Everyone else got a laugh out of it, at least.

By the third or fourth time Mikael had tipped her head back and slipped his tongue into her mouth, Cyril may have found herself less worried that people were around and more annoyed that they had company.

Even now, as they stood against the back wall of the throwing room, watching knives of a concerning size fly toward targets on the far wall, the prince gave her no reprieve.

Just like when he came to her rescue at the state dinner, his hand sat splayed across her stomach. This time, though, he had his thumb hooked in the waist of her pants, and he kept her pulled back snug against him. Merciless heat had bloomed in her core even before he started pressing his lips to her throat, from the crook of her neck to the base of her jaw, and up along the shell of her ear.

The arrogant prince was out to drive her fucking mental.

“If you want to go upstairs at any point…” Mikael finally said, his voice a gruff whisper.

Cyril didn’t need any further elaboration.

She lifted her eyes to his and nodded. Mikael was steering her out of the room before she’d even fully set down her empty mug.

From behind them a voice she now clearly remembered hearing the day before called out, “For fuck’s sake, lock the door this time!”

A rumble of laughter and whistling chased them out of the room.

When they had managed to keep their hands off each other for long enough to make it back up to his office, she and Mikael both reached for the bolt on the door. A flicker of amusement danced between them before his hands cupped her face and pulled her to him.

“You're a rake,” she murmured against his lips.

Mikael laughed and abandoned her mouth, kissing his way down her throat as he walked her backward.

“Go on,” he rumbled.

“You can’t keep your—” Those fucking canines grazed her skin and Cyril whined. “—hands to yourself.”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

She lost whatever argument she had when his hands gripped her ass and hauled her up onto his desk.

His eyes roved her with a sort of interest she had never been on the receiving end of when he added, “And can you blame me?”

“We have to be careful…”

It wasn’t what she wanted to say, not with the way Mikael was looking at her and how he’d notched himself between her thighs. But she knew if Dion ever found out that this was how she’d spent her time, gods…

He’d rip this bit of happiness away from her in a heartbeat.

“I know, and we will.” Mikael tipped her chin up. “But that means we have to enjoy ourselves when we can, yeah?”

That she could agree with.

Cyril wrapped her arms around Mikael’s neck and, against his lips, she breathed, “Yeah.”

A sharp grin came only moments before the feeling of wood met her back, and Mikael kissed her until she was breathless.

Despite all her whining and writhing, and her needy fingers sinking into his shirt and his hair, the boundary the prince refused to cross was painfully obvious. His broad, strong hands palmed at her breasts and her backside, drawing sinful noises from her, but they never ventured beneath her clothes.

And gods, she wanted them to.

She arched into every touch that felt scorching even through her shirt and reciprocated every subtle rock of his hips, but Mikael wouldn’t fucking budge. And maybe this was her limited experience, but the teasing had gone on for too fucking long.

“Mika, I…”

Cyril finally had enough. He drew back just far enough to give her a curious look, and his eyes flared when she hooked her fingers in the laces of his pants.

She had his attention, at least.

“I want more.”

“Mm. The feeling is mutual, wrath.”

She wasn’t sure if it was possible to get off on the sound of someone’s voice alone, but that…that might have done it.

Mikael grabbed hold of both Cyril’s wrists and eased them up over her head, pinning them to the desk. Her breath caught, and her heart thundered in her chest. This was not helping at all.

His lust-blown, glacial eyes held hers as he said, “I want to bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you can’t speak, but…some things are worth the wait, aren’t they?”

No, that certainly did it.

Cyril whimpered, and Mikael claimed her mouth in a slow, languid kiss.

“You’re cruel,” she groaned, and a rough laugh left him.

“No, it’s not cruelty.” Mikael wore a lopsided smile as he pulled her to sit up. “Consider it a…test of patience. One that will see you thoroughly rewarded at the end.” He notched his fingers under her chin and chuckled, “Gods, you’re a needy thing. Don’t scowl at me.”

Cyril continued to scowl.

She and the ache between her legs were not impressed about any of this.

“So, what? You’re going to bring me here every night, work me up, and not do anything about it? That hardly seems fair.”

“Not every night, no. That would be needlessly cruel.” The smirk on his face told Cyril that needlessly cruel might be something he’d still enjoy. “Just most nights, when we don’t have to worry about…prying eyes.”

Ah, Dion.

“And what I’d really like to do? One night, when I’m sure we can get away, I’ll take you somewhere in the city. Somewhere I can torture you and maybe do a little something about it. Alright?”

On principle, Cyril didn’t want to do everything on Mikael’s terms, but that sounded like the best idea she’d heard in a long time.

She feigned her begrudging sigh as she agreed with the prince and let him lead her back to the palace for the night.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” she asked, maybe a bit too hopefully, when they stopped in front of her door.

Mikael only smiled and shook his head, leaving her with one hell of a parting kiss before he walked down the hall to his room.

Again, that night, images of her mother haunted Cyril’s dreams.

But it wasn’t just glimmers of what Runa showed her.

This time, her mind tortured her with what could have been.

Fragmented pieces of a different life, one filled with support and warmth and guidance, left her in cold sweats.

Sleep was not something she got much of.

Chapter 34

The next morning, Dion returned from the city. He came and found Cyril in the archives, where her scattered brain had her jumping between six different tomes on different topics with almost no relation to one another.

Under the heavy fog of sleep deprivation and a touch too much ale, little made sense. But Cyril was determined to find a kernel of something, even if it took her all damn day and night. She didn’t care if it was something to aid in the murder investigation or something she might give Mikael about his suspicions. She was desperate to contribute.

“You look like you’ve been...busy?” Dion’s voice was tentative as he pulled up a stool beside her.

Cyril groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Nothing makes any fucking sense. I think I’ve been through half the archives and haven’t found anything helpful.”

“Cyr, you’ve been learning another language, and cataloging for us. I’d hardly call that not helpful.”

Cyril cast him a narrow, sidelong glance from her palms. She wanted precisely nothing to do with a half-assed pep talk from her uncle.

Dion turned his attention to her shitshow of a desk.

He plucked one of her pieces of notepaper, turning it this way and that as he mumbled aloud what she had written. “Scales tipped…must be reset…cleansing…rune—”

Cyril tried to snatch it out of his hands, but Dion held the paper out of her reach, his eyes still roving her half-scribbled notes and drawings.

“Don’t,” she groaned, “I told you nothing makes sense.”

He cast her a look that had her sinking down into her chair.

“And I already told you about the elemental cleansing stuff, remember?”

Dion made a noise. “The stuff I told you not to worry about? That Ezra and the guard already dismissed?”

“…Yes.”

“The stuff that you are still evidently worrying about?”

She sighed.

“Yes.”

“Do I even want to know why you think the purists, this cleansing stuff, and Runa’s home have anything to do with the murders?”

“They—”

Cyril stilled.

Dion and the general be damned. Two of those had a connection. But the third…her brain just tried to forge a foolish and unsettling connection.

Sleep deprivation was really taking its toll.

“They don’t,” she lied. “I just…I don’t know anything about Reykr and I’m trying to learn.”

Dion looked skeptical at best.

“I can appreciate that. Does anyone other than myself and the scribes know you are looking into all of these topics at the same time?”

Runa. Mikael. Bron. Hells, probably Tyr and Ren too, and a handful of guards.

“No,” she lied, again.

Fuck. Twice in one conversation.

“Good. It’s probably best if it stays that way.” Dion gave her a tight smile. She knew full well it meant there was no room for argument. “I can’t even begin to describe how bad it would look if the wrong person found out you were doing that. We’ve had a few things surface in the city that are promising, anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about getting yourself too wrapped up in this stuff.”

“You have leads?”

That was certainly news to her ears.

“Mm, we do.”

News that, of course, must be above her pay grade.

“I take it that means you won’t be here long?” she asked. At least she could get something personally beneficial out of him if he was set on keeping her in the dark about everything else.

“Probably until the day after next. Eager to get rid of me already?”

Yes.

Painfully so.

Because the longer he sat here beside her, dictating what she should and shouldn’t do, the more she thought about two nights ago.

About him and her parents sitting out on the back lawn, happy and carefree.

About the opportunity he seemed fine to rob her of.

Her anger started to surface again.

“No.” Cyril hadn’t meant to snap, but she did. “I just never know where anyone is anymore.”

Dion’s brows climbed, and he leaned back, studying her.

“What’s wrong?”

Fucking hells.

“Nothing, I just—” Cyril groaned and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. “I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

It wasn’t a lie, at least. Between her brutal hangover from the solstice and the last two nights of fitful sleep, ragged would barely describe how she felt.

“Less research, more sleep, kiddo.” Dion smiled at her and kissed her temple. “Some fresh air and sun might do you good too. I’m sure Runa would love to join you in the gardens at some point.”

Cyril tried not to roll her eyes. Mother hen Dion was always a taxing thing. She was sure Runa would love to, but Cyril wasn’t sure she was ready for a one-on-one with the queen anytime soon.

“I’ll go for a ride for now.” She got up and started stacking her papers and tomes. Dion gave a nod of approval. “Do you want to come with me?”

She knew the answer already and truthfully didn’t want him to, but for the sake of keeping up appearances…

“Ah, if only. Have to meet with the guard today, and keep everyone coordinated and apprised of what’s been going on. But I’ll walk with you to the stables.” He took a wary glance at her stack of tomes and the surrounding shelves. “Do you have to put these away, or…?”

“No, thankfully.” Cyril grabbed her stack of papers and Dion trailed behind her. “The scribes prefer them left on the desks so they can put them away. I just need to give these to Isa.”

“…Cyril, do you have the scribes doing filing for you?” Dion’s voice was quiet, but the amusement was plain.

Isa offered them both a warm smile and a wave as Cyril dropped off her papers at the main desk.

“No! I—” She frowned at him once they were out of earshot of the scribe’s desk. “They offered to keep everything here for me, so I can keep my notes organized and not always have to bring papers back and forth from my room.”

“Ah.”

They cleared the archive doors, and a wry smile tugged at Dion’s lips. Cyril could see him again, much younger, smiling like that as he talked to her father.

“Someone must have told them about the state of your room back home.”

“Wonder if anyone told them you’re a right pain in the ass,” she grumbled, and Dion laughed.

Chapter 35

Two evenings later, Cyril couldn’t get her damn hands to stop shaking as she saddled up Attie, alone in the stables well after sundown. Whether that was from excitement or fear, she didn’t know.

Both, maybe.

Communicating with Mikael while Dion was at the palace had been a monstrously frustrating task.

When Dion was occupied with meetings? Mikael was in attendance.

When she would finally see the prince at dinner? Dion was glued to her.

He’d apparently interpreted her inquiring after his whereabouts as a sign that she missed him, that she was feeling uneasy on her own.

That couldn’t have been any further from the truth.

Feigning indifference to the prince had been a monumental exercise in restraint, especially when he found every opportunity to fix her with a piercing stare or brush his leg against hers under the table. Cyril didn’t have the faintest damn idea how to navigate a regular relationship, let alone one that demanded secrecy.

She didn’t know how the fuck she ended up here.

When Cyril woke up that morning, the same day Dion was heading back to the city, she found a note slipped under her door. Addressed to Wrath Incarnate from one Prince of Darkness, it contained a set of very specific instructions in the prince’s handwriting.

The same instructions that now had her riding towards the palace gates, a cowl pulled up over her head, and a kernel of excitement blooming inside of her. The guards manning the gate let her through with nary a second look, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she found Mikael waiting down the road.

“You’re ready to go?” he asked her as if she hadn’t just shown up dressed and ready, on her horse.

“Where are we going?”

“Into the city.”

Cyril groaned, encouraging Attie into a faster trot to keep up with Mikael.

“Yes, but where in the city?”

Mikael looked back, his grin gleaming in the moonlight, and said, “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Even when they’d left their horses with the guards working the city gate and started walking through the streets, he kept his mouth shut. Mikael just took her hand and tugged Cyril along beside him, giving her an amused look when she grumbled about never being able to find her way back out of the city after the third or fourth turn they took.

“Our destination.”

Cyril blinked at the uninviting door that they approached.

Steel and a little rusted, it bore a worn sign that read The Stairs.

Her skittering excitement morphed into unease.

She planted her feet on the cobblestone and pulled the prince to a stop.

“Mikael, where are you taking me?” she hissed.

“Somewhere I think you’ll have one hells of a time. It’s safe, don’t worry.” He eased an arm around her shoulder and pulled her along. Cyril didn’t stand a chance at stopping him.

Mikael steered her right up to the door where he pushed back his cowl and exchanged a nod with a frightening moon-fae man standing watch outside. The door creaked open and Mikael motioned for her to go ahead of him.

“Watch your step,” he whispered.

Suddenly, the name made sense.

From a few feet inside the doorway, a winding staircase dropped off the landing. It looked like it wound down forever, and Cyril found herself holding on to the railing with a death grip while Mikael walked casually beside her.

With each half-flight they wrapped around, sound rolled up the stone walls. Murmurs at first, and soft rumbles of undecipherable noise, that gave way to the laughing, yelling, and chatter of what had to be dozens of people.

The air became heavier the further they descended too. Full of something smokey and sweet that made Cyril’s eyes water and her lungs burn.

So the prince had brought her to some kind of tavern. She supposed there were worse places to be.

A night out was a night out in her books.

When they finally reached the bottom, and she pushed open the door, the sheer burst of noise that hit Cyril had her staggering a step back into Mikael.

This wasn’t a tavern at all.

It was a club.

Mikael had brought her to a proper, bustling nightclub.

The two-story room that opened up in front of her was filled with bodies, packed nearly wall to wall. To her left, a crowd was gathered in front of a dark stone bar running the length of the wall, and to her right was the sprawling main room, well-appointed with tables and chairs, chaises, and nooks draped with burgundy curtains. The floor felt like it was nearly vibrating from the indistinct hum of conversation and laughter, and bodies moving across its surface.

Cyril had heard about clubs like this before when she’d eavesdropped on rogues coming back from their travels.

They would trade bawdy stories about everything from the sex to the staff, to what sort of drink and other relaxants the various establishments had. Helia, she knew, had at least one in Epheos that was renowned for the…willingness of the staff that worked there.

The entire notion of such a place always struck her as fascinating, but the thought of actually going to one? Cyril had never let herself consider that, for obvious reasons.

Mikael’s hand slipped around her waist as she gaped at the people, the scantily clad staff, and the general state of debauchery that wove itself with natural ease between all the patrons.

No one was shy, with their hands or mouths, or even their eyes, for that matter. Her own eyes snagged on a couple laid out on a chaise against one of the far walls. Half-dressed and wholly entangled with each other, they had an audience.

Heat flared in her cheeks.

“Welcome to The Stairs, Lady Cyril,” Mikael whispered in her ear, and Cyril turned back to look at him, her eyes wide. He grinned. “I thought I should show you what a proper night of fun in the city looks like. We’ll grab some drinks and get settled in.”

Cyril had no words.

She just nodded and let him guide her along as she gave in to the pull to look back at the crowd. Her eyes drifted as they walked, taking in faces and bodies, drinks and pipes, and lewd acts she wasn’t sure she understood the mechanics of.

Then she froze.

Those eyes… She wasn’t supposed to see those eyes here.

Or that scar.

“Mikael,” Cyril hissed, latching her eyes desperately onto him. He cocked his head at her. “Is that… Is that fucking Dion over by the—”

She waved her arm vaguely behind her. There was no way it wasn’t him, but a woman was straddling him and Cyril looked away quickly. His hands were moving, and she wanted no part in witnessing that.

“Dion? No, this isn’t the sort of—” Mikael looked past her and his eyes went wide. “Fuck me.”

For a moment that felt painful, he just blinked.

“Mika? I think we—”

“Change of plans,” Mikael said as he grabbed her hand and pulled Cyril past the bar with determination.

She kept her eyes glued to the ground, to the sheen of things coating the stone that stuck to the soles of her boots, and only dared to lift her attention when Mikael finally came to a stop.

They were at the base of a narrow set of metal stairs.

A glance upwards told her they led to some balconies up on the second floor that she still couldn’t quite see.

A fae woman stood there, clothed in a sheer black dress that just grazed her hips, and she grinned at Mikael.

“Your Highness. Should I tell Lily you’re here?” she said to him before her eyes darted to Cyril, “Oh, and with a friend? I’m sure she’d be willing to entertain the both of you.”

Mikael winced.

“No, gods. No. Just a suite.” He dug a gold coin out of his pocket that Cyril even blinked at. “And discretion, please. I’m not here, and neither is she.”

The woman took the coin without a second thought, slipping it into a velvet bag belted around her waist, and unlatched the gate at the bottom of the stairs.

“Go with her. I’ll be back with drinks,” Mikael said quietly to Cyril before he vanished into the crowd.

But Cyril’s damn legs didn’t want to move.

This night had gone from possibly one of the most exciting of her life so far to one she already wanted to forget about. The fucking odds that Dion—

“Come on, darling,” the woman’s voice drawled from halfway up the stairs, “I don’t have all night.”

Cyril took the stairs up behind her two at a time.

She followed the shimmering fabric of her dress down a catwalk at the top of the stairs, lined with dim faelights along one side, and numbered doors along the other. The muffled noises seeping out from under the doors told Cyril everything she needed to know about what went on up here.

“You haven’t been here before, have you?”

Unlatching a keyring from her belt, the woman looked back at Cyril with some unmistakable judgment.

Cyril shook her head. “No. I…I’m not from here.”

“Well, come on then.”

She unlocked a door halfway down the hall and ushered Cyril in. The private room was dark, and far quieter than it had any right to be, especially with its balcony open to the commotion below.

A spacious chaise and a couple of armchairs, in the same burgundy fabric as the drapes downstairs, and a low table filled the center. All simple and comfortable looking.

“Can I offer you some advice, dear?”

Cyril turned to face the woman, who had a tobacco roll hanging out of the corner of her mouth. Her long, honey-brown hair hung half in front of her face as she fished something out of one of the other velvet bags on her belt.

“…Sure?”

“Just speaking from years of personal experience, our dear prince doesn’t like a tense woman,” she said as she pulled a flint stick out, lit the roll, and extended it to Cyril.

Sweet smoke wafted up into Cyril’s face, and she blinked.

The entirely unsettling comment aside, whatever the woman was smoking was not tobacco.

“It’s just a faelock roll.” She planted a hand on her hip, waving the smoldering roll in between them. “A few puffs, and you’ll have a lovely evening. The first one’s on the house.”

Cyril didn’t know what compelled her to throw caution to the wind, but she took the roll from the woman and let the heavy, sweet smoke fill her lungs.

Chapter 36

It took Mikael all of ten minutes to work his way down to the bar, grab a bottle of wine and two glasses, and make his way back up to the suites. He regretted those ten minutes the moment he saw the hostess walking back down the hall with a predatory smile on her face.

“I got that sweet little thing loosened up for you. Seemed nervous,” she purred, patting Mikael’s chest. “She’s in number eight.”

Mikael stared at her, nudging her hand away. “What did you do?”

“Oh, she just smoked a little ‘lock.” The hostess scoffed and brushed past him, waving her hand in the air. “Enjoy your evening, Your Highness,” she crooned.

Mikael sighed.

He should’ve just brought Cyril back to the damn barracks again.

When he made it halfway down the hall and pushed open the door to suite eight, he swore quietly.

The air was hazy, and there was no mistaking that cloying smell.

In the center of the room, Cyril stood with uneasy stillness, her arms hanging at her sides. Mikael took a few purposefully heavy steps towards her and sat down the wine bottle and glasses with a clatter, but she didn’t move.

He put out the half-burned faelock roll that was smoldering in an ashtray on the table.

“Cyril?” he said.

Silence.

He brushed his hand up her back and her body went rigid, wide eyes darting back at him. It took a long moment, but her features softened and she smiled.

“Come with me? I want to go look,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his middle and tipped her head toward the balcony. As if the few feet over there somehow required him to escort her personally.

Which he did, awkwardly, with her refusing to relinquish her hold on him.

“Trust me, okay?” Mikael said as he peeled Cyril’s hands off of him. He turned her around, planting her hands on the railing instead, and stood beside her.

Her eyes didn’t leave him.

“I know I’m nice to look at, Cyr,” he chuckled, “but I think it’s a bit more interesting down there.”

Mikael tipped his head to the floor below and, slowly, Cyril’s attention drifted down. Her eyes widened, and she took a half step closer to the railing.

Down in the main room, all the dark corners and moving bodies made it easy to lose track of what you saw at ground level, but that wasn’t the case up in the suites. From the balconies, you could see everything.

From the more reserved patrons, chatting and dancing casually wherever space allowed, to the duos and trios that retreated to the walls and soft surfaces, their hands and mouths all over each other.

They had a front row to every bit of it, with the added benefit of being mostly shrouded in shadow magic—a little perk of being an upper-class patron.

Despite not a single bit of this going any way he planned, the awe in Cyril’s face did wonders to ease his simmering annoyance.

All Mikael had wanted was for her first night out to be a memorable one. A night she’d look back on fondly weeks, months, or even years down the road, wherever she was. Now they’d be lucky if she even remembered being here.

But, truthfully, as long as Cyril's first night out at The Stairs wasn't anything like Mikael's first, he would be happy.

Which, considering she wasn’t sixteen and being forced into a room with a courtesan, and told she couldn’t come out until she’s thoroughly made a man…her prospects looked alright.

A resigned sigh left Mikael.

He leaned over Cyril, his hands grasping the railing on either side of hers, and quietly asked, “Have you ever been somewhere like this?”

The answer was something Mikael already knew, but he wanted to hear the wonder in her voice.

“No. I…” Cyril’s eyes didn’t leave the crowd as she shook her head. “I’ve never seen...” Her lips parted, and she fell silent.

She had seen none of this, he was sure, from the glorified prison Dion kept her locked away in. For a woman who probably knew how to kill someone six different ways with her bare hands, her sheltered upbringing still struck him as the strangest fucking thing. Not that he was going to bother ever trying to understand Dion or his reasons for doing anything.

No, that seemed like an utter waste of time that would be better spent showing Cyril every worldly wonder that he could manage.

With nothing but selfish intent, Mikael swept her loose braid over her shoulder. He grazed his lips over the crook of her neck, breathing in her cinnamon warmth, and kissed his way up in slow, purposeful movements. When he reached that soft, sensitive junction of her jaw and throat, Cyril shuddered. A breathy, sensuous incantation of, “Mika,” left her lips and went straight to his cock.

He didn’t have a doubt now about how thoroughly the faelock had saturated her senses.

Mikael smiled and eased back from her.

“You feel good?” he asked, equal parts safety measure and sanity check.

The first foray she’d taken into the stimulant hadn’t gone exactly what he would call well, and they weren’t close to home this time.

Her hummed, half-hearted response as she shifted her weight from side to side gave Mikael no reassurance. Hells, she probably didn’t even know what he said.

“Cyr, look at me for a second.”

He brushed a hand up her back, and she made a noise that sounded vaguely like a protest. Of course, nothing could ever take away the edge of her attitude.

It seemed to take a concerted amount of effort, but her head turned and her eyes drifted up to him. Nothing but a thin, shimmering strand of gold clung to the edge of her pupils, and an amused sort of smile tugged at her lips. The woman had to be soaring by now.

“You feel good?” he asked again.

Cyril held his gaze for a few seconds before she nodded. Her attention waned and her eyes drifted back to all the wonders that lay beyond the railing.

Mikael cupped her face, drawing her back. “If that changes, tell me. Okay? Or if any of this feels like too much, tell me and we’ll go.”

She nodded again, and Mikael let her go. There was an entire bottle of wine with only his name on it now, after all, and a bit of privacy to take in the sights was the least he could give her.

Cyril had other plans.

He made it all of two steps toward the sofa when she snagged his arm and hauled him right back beside her. She clutched at his bicep with one hand, her eyes fully hooked on the floor below.

Mikael leaned back against the railing with a sigh.

Babysitting it was.

Considering he was certain Cyril had never indulged in something like smoked faelock before, she was tolerating it remarkably well. It probably helped that the woman could put back more liquor than someone her size had any right to and still keep her wits somewhat about her.

There was a bit of restlessness in the way her free hand flexed and slid along the railing and the near-endless shifting of her weight. But that was all standard operation for faelock rolls. It hit everyone a little differently, but the blend circulated in the club was…specific.

It was in their best interest to have their patrons blissful, loosened up, and with just enough aphrodisiac in their blood to partake in the staff services, regardless of cost. Cyril, thankfully, hadn’t seemed to tip too far into the latter yet.

When her cheeks flushed suddenly and she stared up at him with wide eyes, Mikael couldn’t help but chuckle as he said, “What did you see?”

Her uncle seemed pretty high on the list of traumatizing options, but anything was possible at The Stairs. The chaos on the floor below made it impossible for him to pick out anything in particular.

“I saw…” She turned back and pointed vaguely to where seating cubbies lined the far wall. The velvet drapes were closed on all but one.

“Oh,” was all Mikael said.

Cyril coughed quietly.

“Is she…”

“Getting thoroughly fucked by…” Mikael made a point of counting slowly enough that Cyril’s cheeks took on nearly a shade of burgundy, and she pressed her face into his chest. “Two—ah, three people? Yes, she is. Talk about making use of every available—”

“Mikael,” Cyril groaned into his shirt.

“What?” he laughed, easing his arms around her. Softly, he added, “Does that sort of thing interest you, wrath?”

Cyril stared up at him, eyes wide, and she looked scandalized.

She was quiet, though, for a long moment, and…

Fuck him.

She was giving it thought.

“No, I…” Cyril nestled her face back into his chest. “I just want you.”

Raw male pride swelled up in his chest with such ferocity it nearly ached. There was no shortage of possessive, smug things that threatened to tumble out of him, but he reined it into a single question.

“Do you want to watch them with me?”

Cyril didn’t even look up as she shook her head, and Mikael breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He would have entertained any damn thing she asked of him, but that would have been a particularly cruel form of torture.

“Come sit, then. I can feel your damn knees wobbling,” he said as he took Cyril’s hand and led her away from the railing.

She dropped into the corner of the velvet sofa with a sigh, leaning back against the arm. Her eyes fell shut as she stretched her legs out over his lap. He had no issue splaying a hand over the thighs so generously presented to him, and it was prime time to get a bit of that wine in his system.

Mikael wrenched the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it across the room. The smell of what would surely be a headache in the morning wafted—

“I don’t know anything about you,” Cyril said so quietly he nearly missed it. Her eyes were half-open, fixated on the rolled cuff of his sleeve as she toyed with it.

He set the bottle down and squeezed her leg, but Cyril just blinked at him as he said, “What do you want to know?”

A sheepish smile formed on her lips. “…Did I say that out loud?”

Mikael nodded.

“Oh,” she chuckled. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” he said, “You can ask me anything you’d like.”

It’s not like she would remember most of it in the morning. But Cyril did not miss a beat. Immediately, she asked, “How old are you?”

Right to the practical questions.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? Is that bad?”

“No, I just didn’t know. When were you born?”

Mikael smiled at her. The temptation to say twenty-seven years ago was painful to pass up. Instead, he said, “Dead of winter, a month after the solstice.”

“How about…” she hummed thoughtfully, her eyes drifting around the room for a moment. “Favorite food?”

“Anything grilled.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Favorite color?”

Mikael hesitated. “Green?”

“Green?” Cyril squinted at him. “I’ve never seen you wear anything green.”

He shrugged. “I still like it.”

Cyril stewed on that for a while, her brow low and nose wrinkled.

But when Mikael reached for the wine, he garnered all of her attention. Her eyes followed the bottle as he tipped it back and took a healthy swig of the not-overly-pleasant, dry red.

“Can I…” The damn woman looked like she was salivating over wine that wasn’t worth it at all.

Against his better judgment, he poured her a short glass. Faelock rolls and wine weren’t a friendly combination, but it was better than risking her wrath or handing her the entire bottle.

She clasped the glass between her hands and just stared at it.

Just when Mikael was about to give her a gentle nudge back down to reality, a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a snort left her.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, wholly bemused.

“What do you”—Cyril stifled a half-laugh, half-hiccup—“do for fun, Prince Mikael?”

“What do I—oh, you snarky arse.”

“Do you not paint, or…or sew—” Cyril lost the tail end of her words to a snort of laughter. The wine glass in her hands—and its measly contents—hit the floor before Mikael could grab it.

Cyril stared at Mikael, a hand clamped over her mouth and her eyes wide.

“Gods, I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He laughed as he shook his head. “Come here, you difficult woman.”

It took a moment of maneuvering, but Cyril was more than pliant and settled into his lap with ease. She slipped her arms around his neck, nestling her face in close. And gods—she radiated heat like a damn hearth.

“Your turn, Lady Cyril,” Mikael said, as he settled his hands around her hips. His own masochist streak may have had him pulling her body a little more snugly to his.

“For what?”

Oh, her sweet, faelock-addled mind.

“This isn’t just interrogate Mikael time, wrath.” He kissed the top of her head, and the quiet, contented noise she made just about cleaved him in two. “Same questions. Your turn.”

“But you know everything already.”

“Not everything. I know you are twenty-one, and you love cake. Oh, and you are also a lady of culture and violence, with no shortage of hobbies.”

Cyril laughed.

“But I don’t know when you were born, or what your favorite color is.”

“Samhain,” she said with sudden softness.

“…You were born on Samhain?”

He wasn’t sure how they regarded the day in Helia, but in Reykr they always said it marked the start of darkness. Shorter days, longer nights, and, the worst part, cold.

He felt the warm puff of her sigh on his neck.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What’s wrong with—”

Mikael was a gods damned idiot. Of course, her birthday was a sensitive topic. Cyril had already made her thoughts on the matter of her existence crystal clear.

He wouldn’t drag her back down that road again tonight.

“Nevermind. Favorite color?”

“I like the colors of our crest.” She sighed again. “Red. Orange. Yellow.”

Mikael really had a grade-fucking-A talent for putting a damper on Cyril’s evenings.

The woman hated the entire notion of being born and was undoubtedly homesick, and he had her thinking about both. At least on the solstice, he had a day of drinking to blame for his idiocy.

“You look good in orange,” he said, but Cyril was quiet.

Mikael ran his hands up her back, and warmth radiated through the damp fabric of her shirt. One of the unfortunate side effects of the stimulant running its course, and the downfall of many an over-eager reveler. He’d lost count of how many guardsmen he’d helped haul back to the city station to ply with tonics.

“How are you feeling?”

Other than a soft, contemplative noise she hummed into the crook of his neck, Cyril didn’t answer right away.

She shifted and fidgeted in that same uneasy way she had all night, with the added torture of doing so directly in his lap. He adjusted them both as discreetly as he could, trying to relieve some of the merciless friction he was in no position to act on.

“Cyr?”

“I feel…” A rush of air left her lungs. “Tired, but I don’t want to sleep. And my body, it…it’s buzzing. And…” She laughed, quiet and almost sheepish. “It feels really nice when you touch me.”

Ah, she was in the thick of it now.

Better her thinking about that than anything else.

“I’m sure it does.” Maybe to appease them both, Mikael slipped his hands under her shirt and splayed them across the damp, bare skin of her back. Skin that was fucking hot to the touch. “Cyr… You’re really, really warm.”

“Mm. That too.”

“That means we should think about leaving.”

This may have very well held the record for his shortest night out at The Stairs, ever. Not how he envisioned their night going by any means.

Cyril sat back on his thighs, her cheeks stained red and eyes glassy, and fixed him with a wholly disappointed stare. “But downstairs… I wanted to go and…”

The woman had the audacity to pout.

“Maybe another time, when your uncle also isn’t downstairs?”

Her eyes flared.

“Did you forget about that?”

“I… Maybe.” She clambered out of his lap with the sort of urgency that he found humorous. That bit of information had absolutely vacated her mind.

Not that her mind had a fighting chance of holding onto much of importance, anyway. And honestly, that was probably for the best. Seeing as her firsthand experiences with carnal pleasures amounted to, well…nothing, a front-row seat to a public foursome might have been throwing her far into the rapids.

Cyril reached for his hand, clear concern contending with the euphoric haze that painted her face for the last couple of hours.

“Mika, let’s go. If Dion sees me…fuck. He’ll kill me. And gods, you too, for bringing me here.”

She swore again, fucking colorfully at that, and her eyes darted to the balcony.

“Do you think he…? Fuck. What if he already—”

Mikael stood and cupped Cyril’s face in his hands, shaking his head. “He hasn’t seen you, Cyr, and he won’t see you, either. The balconies are glamored for privacy, and we’ll just go out the back.”

She stilled, and he could see her spiraling thoughts come to their screeching stop. The crease between her brow softened, and she smiled lazily as she said, “Right.”

One crisis avoided.

Now he just needed to get her home in one piece.

Mikael took one final swig from the wine bottle—he’d need it, he was sure—before he steered Cyril towards the suite’s door.

Navigating the hall? Arguably one of the more challenging parts of their night.

Cyril was unsteady at best and clutched at his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the damn earth.

Nearly every sight and sound they encountered in the walkway made her stop and stare, and Mikael had to pull her along every damn time. She wore one hells of a sheepish smile, but he just focused on steering her this way and that to avoid the staff and patrons moving to and from the other suites.

She climbed the stairs tucked discreetly at the end of the hall with ease, and for that, Mikael was grateful. Playing babysitter was a wholly different experience when he wasn’t just keeping an eye on another guard with a half-vested interest.

And that wasn’t even considering the complete and utter hells he’d end up in if a single damn thing happened to Cyril under his watch. He was more scared of his mother than he was of Dion, truthfully.

“G’nite lovebirds. Keep each other warm, yeah?”

From half a flight of stairs up from where they were, a boulder of a man stood up from a chair tucked by the back doors.

Keep warm? They weren’t even a couple of weeks out from the Summer Solstice. Reykr was about as far from cold as it would ever be.

The one eye the man still had picked upon Mikael’s confusion and he jerked his head towards the door. “Started pissin’ rain an hour ‘go.”

Fucking hells.

Now that the rumble and buzz of the club had faded back into the depths of the stairwell, he could hear it pelting away on the street beyond the door.

Cyril, bless her strange and loaded little heart, just looked up at him and grinned, saying, “I like the rain.”

“Ah, ‘am sure you do, sweetheart. Get on then, night’s callin’ ya.” The man chuckled and shook his head.

The metal door squealed as he nudged it open.

He clasped Mikael on the shoulder as he walked by and gave him a knowing smile as he said, “Good luck, friend.”

He was going to need it, too.

Out in the middle of the alleyway, Cyril basked in the downpour, with her arms splayed out wide and her face upturned to the sky. She was wearing the most shit-eating grin he’d ever seen.

All Mikael could think about was the fact he had to get this woman onto a damn horse and keep her on it.

Gods help him, truly.

Chapter 37

Thankfully, faelock of the smoked variety didn’t have the same gut-turning effects that the distilled kind had. But it still left Cyril with a headache for almost three days after her trip to The Stairs with Mikael.

A trip which, much to her annoyance, she remembered abysmally little of.

The start of that night? Crystal fucking clear.

The end of that night? Fuzzy, but there. Sort of.

The entire middle of that night? She didn’t have a damn clue.

All normal, according to Mikael, and he even agreed to take her back to the club another night with the strict rule that she not ingest anything unless it came from him. Cyril was just relieved he didn’t want to delve into why she smoked it to begin with. Explaining the strange twinge of jealousy that woman had stirred up in her wasn’t a conversation she felt like navigating.

In those three days, Dion still hadn’t returned from the city, and for that she was grateful for a few reasons.

She remembered the start of that night far more clearly than she ever wanted to, and she wasn’t sure if looking her uncle in the eyes was something she could stomach.

Plus, the longer he was gone, the more time she got to spend with Mikael. Even if that meant spending her evenings getting wound up in his office after spending a few hours mingling in the barracks.

The exercise of patience was becoming exhausting.

Today though? The prince surprised her.

She had mentioned to him, entirely offhand, that she was going to give afternoon rides a go, instead of her usual early morning forays. A change to break the nagging pull that she had to lose herself in the archives all afternoon, lest Dion show up and accuse her of researching forbidden topics again.

She hadn’t expected to see him waiting for her in the stables when she wandered in after lunch.

Mikael gave her some spiel on how he wanted to ride with her so they could talk and see each other in the daylight for once. One look at the glint in his eyes when they made it to the glen told her talking would be the last thing they’d do there.

She didn’t mind.

Especially not now that she sat comfortably in his lap, her fingers carded through his hair and his lips working a steady path up her throat. They’d lasted a matter of minutes sitting under the generous shade of a white wisteria tree, talking about nothing important, before he hauled her over.

“Gods, you’re going to drive me mad,” Mikael murmured on the tail end of a breathy groan.

Cyril wasn’t shy about seeking the friction she was desperate for anymore. She would do anything to grant even a fraction of relief to the merciless, empty ache between her legs, caused entirely by Mikael.

He swore every time she did, but it never stopped him from sinking his fingers into her hips and pulling her down a little harder.

“Then do something about it.” She cupped his face in her hands, grasping onto a little current of boldness that ran through her. “Stop being a coward and touch me.”

His eyes locked on hers, the glacial blue flickering with something she couldn’t quite place.

Cyril almost thought she went too far with that.

But Mikael shifted, and she was on her back in the grass before she could process why his hand had suddenly splayed across her shoulders. His fingers started tugging at the laces of her pants, and Cyril’s breath caught in her chest.

She should have called him a coward a week ago.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” he murmured against her mouth.

She wanted to say okay, intended to vocalize it fully, but Mikael’s hand ended up under her shirt and it felt like a fucking brand. His fingers brushed up her stomach, slipping beneath the band of her breast wrap, and some half-whined agreement left her instead.

The prince laughed, but he didn’t tease her for long.

The warmth of his hand, seeping into every fiber of her flesh, traveled southward, dipping just below her waistband. Her core clenched with anticipation, hips arching up to meet his hand, but Mikael stopped.

He leveled his gaze with hers—a silent question.

“Please,” she whined.

Mikael’s eyes flared.

“Be careful with that word,” he said roughly, but Cyril didn’t have a chance to ask why. He was kissing her again, drawing his fingers through the slick heat waiting for him between her legs. He stole every bit of breath from her lungs.

Mikael eased a finger into her, pumping slowly to start, and Cyril lost any hope she had of forming words. His hands dwarfed her own, and he used them in the kind of way that made her doubt she’d ever find her own fingers satisfying again.

“You’re so wet.” Mikael’s half-groaned words oozed smug, masculine pride, and Cyril didn’t have it in her to even try to knock him down a peg. This was entirely his doing, and he knew it. “More?”

She whined and nodded, and Mikael sank a second finger into her. He swore, Cyril groaned his name softly, and she wasn’t sure if they were going to make it out of this glen in one piece.

Mikael was eager to drink down the wanton, desperate noises he drew from her with the slow, steady rock of his hand. The fullness she felt from his fingers was as foreign as it was blissful, and Cyril was entirely at his mercy.

She knew she wasn’t long for this world.

All it took was Mikael crooking his fingers just so, and telling her just how fucking good she felt, and she came apart. It was like a little crack of lightning skittered up and down her spine, taking every fleeting strand of conscious thought it with.

She gripped Mikael’s shoulder, a shuddering incantation of his name rolling off her tongue and onto his lips, and he worked her through what may have very well been a life-altering orgasm.

The cocky grin on his face told her he probably assumed as much too.

Cyril let her head fall back in the grass with a groan.

“I take it that was to your liking?” Mikael chuckled, placing a trio of decidedly tender kisses up her throat.

“Shut up,” Cyril mumbled.

It wasn’t just to her liking, it was un-fucking-real.

And despite becoming acutely aware of just how fucking hot it was outside, she still made a quiet noise of protest when Mikael’s weight shifted away from her.

They were not done yet.

Cyril reached for him, skimming a hand up his thigh as she asked, “What about you?”

“I seem to recall my cowardice only extended to me not touching you.” Mikael caught her hand and kissed her palm before he set it back down in the grass. “Besides, I’m fine. And we should head back before they send someone looking for the two of us.”

“You do not look fine.”

No, he looked hard as hells, straining against the laces of his pants, and Cyril was riding a wicked high. When she ran her hand up his thigh again, Mikael didn’t stop her. She palmed him gently, like she’d done so many nights at the barracks now, and leaned in to kiss his jaw.

“C’mon Mika,” she murmured. The shift in his hips as he tipped his head back was subtle, but it was all the encouragement Cyril needed to touch him a little more firmly. “Let me make you feel good.”

Mikael took a ragged breath. The heat in his eyes when they slid over to her had Cyril’s heart beating faster than it already was.

“Wrath,” he said roughly, “I don’t want someone to come and find you on your knees for me.”

There was no stopping the sultry smile that crept onto Cyril’s face.

“Is that what you think about? Me on my knees?”

The sharp breath Mikael took and the throb of his cock beneath her hand answered that.

“You have no idea,” he said as he notched his fingers under her chin and ghosted his lips against hers. “But when I fuck this perfect mouth of yours for the first time, wrath, I want time and privacy, and we have neither of those here. Okay?”

Cyril swallowed thickly as the budding confidence driving her hand and her thoughts banked, yielding to some deep-seated submissive pull. It should have been alarming that a few haughty words could steer her like that, but she fucking loved it.

“Okay.” She nodded, easing away from him, and Mikael smiled.

He leaned in to kiss her once more before he stood and helped haul Cyril to her feet with him.

As she tucked her shirt back and righted the laces on her pants, Cyril sighed the entire time. She made a mental note to never get off in a place where she couldn’t immediately take a nap again. Her limbs still felt like they were half-filled with lead, and getting saddled up on Attie while she was still drifting in her post-orgasm haze was a task that took an egregious amount of effort.

The self-satisfied smile Mikael kept tossing her way made it worth it though.

Cyril was flustered and still giddy as all fucking hell by the time she and Mikael made it back to the stables, because the arrogant prince suggested they race back.

So, of course, instead of just sprawling across Attie’s back and letting the horse meander back, Cyril rode like her life depended on it.

Her pride did, at least.

She was tempted to ask Mikael if he made a habit of pleasuring a woman within an inch of their damn life and then challenging them to a fucking competition when their guard was down. Cyril would have, after they passed off their reins to one of the stable hands, if Mikael hadn’t swept her down the aisle and kissed her again.

“We have to be careful,” she murmured, right against his lips.

Discretion had gone out the fucking window, and the prince was becoming brazen. Even now, as he backed her against one of the stone pillars, the stables were full of late afternoon noise and commotion. It was only a matter of time before someone—

“I know.”

Mikael drew back enough to notch his fingers under her chin, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip. She must have made a noise because he smirked at her.

“I was thinking.” He leaned down and kissed her again. Cyril’s bones felt like they were giving way. “Tonight, after the barracks, you should come spend the night with me.”

The haughty gleam in Mikael’s eyes told her she did not misinterpret what he was suggesting at all.

Her entire damn chest tightened, but she nodded and managed to get out, “I’d like that.”

“Good.”

Mikael kissed her again, and Cyril wasn’t confident she would be able to walk out of there on her own if he kept it up. It was a mercy that the stable master’s voice began echoing through the stables far more prominently than Cyril ever heard it before.

Boone wasn’t a quiet man by any means, but he was speaking with some purpose.

She flattened her hand against Mikael’s chest, forcing some room in between them, and gods that was a scowl if she’d ever seen one. The prince opened his mouth, but she clamped her hand over it and shushed him.

“Oh, Lady Cyril? Is that… Black hair, right? With the lovely gold eyes?”

Cyril’s lovely gold eyes widened, and she watched as Mikael reeled himself as fast as a bolt of fucking lightning. She barely blinked, and he had tied his hair back into something decidedly less handled and smoothed down his shirt.

The stable master was doing them one hells of a favor.

“She just came back from a ride. Should be ‘round somewhere if you’ll follow me.”

Cyril couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but his voice was far too close for comfort and closing in every second. Gods, if Dion was back…

“Go,” she hissed at Mikael, shooing him with waves of her hands, and the twit had the audacity to look amused. He bowed at the waist as he walked backward, turning around just in time to sidestep Bron and Tyr as they came through the doorway.

Cyril loosed a tiny breath of relief.

“Gentlemen,” Mikael said by way of a remarkably calm and collected acknowledgement, and then the prince disappeared from her sight.

Bron tracked him for a moment, though, with a look of wicked curiosity, and Cyril felt sweat slip down her back as she walked to meet them. The raised brow Bron pinned her when she came to a stop beside Tyr did nothing to help. Even Tyr’s usual quiet smile had an air of judgment about it.

“Hi, dove.”

Bron pulled her in for a hug so tight the hilts of the knives strapped across his chest dug into her cheek. Her uncles hadn’t been back long if they were still geared for travel.

Cyril wrestled herself away from Bron, but he slung an arm across her shoulders and started steering her back through the stables. Tyr fell in step behind them.

“I didn’t know you were all coming back,” she said. “Is everything alright?”

Bron half shrugged. “Eh, just an impromptu visit. Investigation’s a bit stale, felt like getting out of the city for a little.”

“Oh. Ren didn’t come too?”

“He did, but he’s with the boss. Probably for the best that someone kept him busy.” Bron winked at her, and Cyril was just about ready to disappear. “And if I could offer you a morsel of advice, dove? Scrub up before dinner, and get changed. You reek.”

Cyril blinked at him.

She lifted her shirt to her nose and…No? A little sweaty, maybe, from the damn blistering heat that didn’t want to break, but reek? Unless…

“Is it the horses?” Cyril sniffed her sleeve. She was probably just so damn used to it by now, not that they smelled bad…

“No, not the horses.” Bron shook his head, and Tyr fucking laughed.

“If you’re just being an arse—”

“You smell an awful lot like the prince, Cyr, and he smelled an awful lot like you.”

Cyril nearly tripped.

Oh, fucking hells.

“I…We—” She cleared her throat because she needed half a fucking second to think. “We went for a ride together. Of course, we smell like each other with your freakish sense of smell.”

Cyril, perhaps, hadn’t thought about what a problem ascended fae and their absurd senses could be. She was going to have to talk to Mikael as soon as everyone left, or she could catch him alone.

The total silence they met her with had her looking from Bron to Tyr, and back again between each when they met her with tight smiles.

“Oh, this is all you, friend,” Tyr said to Bron after they exchanged a look that Cyril understood no part of.

A sigh slipped through Bron’s entire body as he said, “Dove, dear, you smell like sex. Reek like it, in fact.”

That stopped her right in her fucking tracks. Cyril nearly swayed into the bushes lining the pathway back to the palace.

“We did not…”

Gods, she didn’t even want to say the words, not to her gods damned uncles, of all people. And they hadn’t, truly! Not that this was the place to get into technicalities…

“I did not…” Cyril waved a hand back towards the stables, like that would help her case out at all.

The doubt in both of their faces spoke to just how convincing any of that was.

But it was Tyr that said, “Cyr, you have grass in your hair.”

Her eyes flared, and she fought to get the tie out of her braid, shaking it all out. Grass, white wisteria petals, and a single fucking twig fell out.

Backup plan.

“Please don’t say anything to Dion.”

Cyril looked at Tyr first. The rich hazel of his eyes softened, and he held up his hands in a show of submission she wholly appreciated.

“Not my place, don’t worry.”

Next, she looked at Bron. He still looked far too fucking amused with all of this.

“Not my business, either. But…” Bron gave her a wry smile, and Cyril clenched her teeth. He needed to stop there. “I take it this means you don’t want me to break his hands?”

“No! Gods, do not,” she hissed and flashed a forced smile at the pair of maids that stepped around them on the pathway, unease flickering on their faces.

“Well, the offer always stands.” Bron pinched her cheek before she had a chance to swat at him, and he turned to start back down the path. “Oh, and make sure you take a tonic, yeah? Be smart about it?”

“Bron!” she whined.

Not this conversation, no no no.

“He’s right, dove.”

Cyril stared at Tyr, but he only shrugged.

“Not you too! Mikael and I…we aren’t…we haven’t…!” Cyril groaned and stalked away from her uncles and the rumble of laughter that broke out between the two of them. She’d take the damn long way back inside if it meant getting the fuck away from them and this topic.

“Cyr, I’m just teasing you!” Bron called out, but she flipped him off and kept walking.

Mikael would be lying if he said the day’s turn of events hadn’t left him disappointed.

A trip to the barracks with Cyril wasn’t going to happen, and that meant that after the barracks wasn’t happening either. Likely for days now too. A cruel thing to accept, with little glimmers of the afternoon still drifting around in his head. Namely, those gods damned little noises she made, and how fucking good she felt—

“Distracted, boss?” Ari muttered from his right, all thinly-veiled amusement.

Mikael blew out a slow breath and knocked back the rest of his wine.

He knew he wasn’t observing Cyril as discretely as he should as she talked and drank on the other side of the lounge, flanked by her three more personable uncles.

The damn woman was just, well…distracting.

Her budding, drink-laden laugh tore through the white-noise chatter and thin haze of smoke that filled the room—entirely his father and Dion’s doing—and her lips kept peeling back into a wide, eye-lifting grin. She was having a far better night than he was.

Mikael sighed. “Long day.”

Ari made a non-committal noise and turned his attention back to whatever bullshit General Ezra was rambling on about. Eleven years now of listening to his lifeless, grating voice and it never got easier.

Mikael supposed he only had himself to blame for making such an impulsive choice when his blood ran a little too fucking hot. Not the first time, and probably not the last, truthfully, not with how thoroughly fed up he was with his self-imposed test of patience. He wanted to bed her so fucking badly, but things were getting…complicated, and in a way that he wasn’t sure how to navigate.

Mikael may have had plenty of experience with women in the physical sense, but courting? He was fucking lost. The feelings, and romance, and sweeping someone off their feet were not things he ever had to worry about. Nevermind with a woman who had a family brimming with men that frankly horrified him.

The men she sat with right now, joking and laughing without a care in the world, were the same men who tortured and killed mercilessly, just in the name of contracts. He didn’t want to imagine what they would each be willing to do for Cyril.

Mikael needed another damn drink, and a stronger one at that.

He slipped away from the group of captains and commanders still feigning their interest in Ezra’s droning lesson about fucking whatever piece of irrelevant history.

The moonstone-topped sideboard tucked along the far wall had a bottle of something dark and pungent on it that seemed like it would do the trick. He poured himself a few fingers worth and the half he shot back burned the entire way down.

“You’re brooding more than usual.”

Mikael stiffened and glared down at his mother.

Out of thin-fucking-air, every damn time.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Runa smiled at him and smoothed her hand over his back.

“Usually, you’re a little broody,” his mother spoke quietly as she sorted through the open bottles of wine and found one that caught her interest, “But tonight, you’ve been especially broody. A little pouty, even.”

Mikael just cast her a sidelong glance and drained his glass. He wasn’t sure how his father enjoyed drinking this firewater, but that didn’t stop him from pouring himself another.

“Did something happen?” A little more softly, she added, “With Cyril, maybe?”

“Nothing happened.” And that was the entire damn problem.

His mother hummed. “Interrupted plans?”

Mikael might have scoffed. “Something like that.”

One of them looked amused, at least.

“You really like her, don’t you?” More a statement than a question from his mother, her eyes lingering past him for a long while, to where he knew Cyril sat with her uncles. He could hear her over there, giving shit to one of them about something he couldn’t quite make out. “And I actually mean her, as a person, and not just her body.”

Mikael knew he didn’t have a shining reputation for his comfort with commitment, but fucking hells…

“Good to know you think so highly of me.”

Runa rolled her eyes. “It’s just nice to see, Mika.”

“That’s not what you were saying a couple of weeks ago.”

He seemed to recall having a remarkably different conversation with her in the atrium the day after the state dinner.

“And I see things differently now.” His mother took a long sip of her wine. Gods forbid she admitted she was wrong about something. “Why don’t you go join her?”

“Join her?” Mikael stared at his mother. “There are four people in this room I am certain would enjoy dismembering me if I get too close to her. So, discretion.”

It felt better than it should have to toss his mother’s advice back, as if she conveniently forgot about that lecture. He’d had so many, it must have been hard for her to keep track.

She didn’t have an immediate argument against that.

Her eyes lit up, though, and Mikael feared whatever just ran through her mind. He would have walked away if she hadn’t linked arms with him and started tugging him along.

“You should try to get to know Dion a bit. I think it would do a world of good.”

Absolutely fucking not.

That man was about as thorny as they came, and Mikael had no interest in getting to know any bit more of him. But his mother was stronger than she looked and Mikael wasn’t about to cause a scene.

“Mother, I don’t think–”

“Lars, my love? Dion?” Runa called out, waving a hand delicately in the air. “Can we join the two of you?”

Like hells, his father would never say no to her.

The King of Reykr stood, a hint of sway in his step, and Dion followed suit. They hauled over another two armchairs to the fire and his mother all but corralled him into the one between herself and Dion.

He should’ve just stayed for Ezra’s lecture.

“Do you smoke?” Dion asked, and it took Mikael a second longer than he’d have liked to realize that Dion was speaking to him. The Rogue Master fixed his eyes on him, a metal case tucked between his middle and pointer fingers.

“I, uh, yeah—”

“Only when he drinks, just like his father,” Runa interjected, because Mikael was evidently a child and couldn’t speak a damn word for himself.

She smiled too warmly, too forced, like she was desperate to remind Dion that Mikael was cut from the same cloth as his dear friend.

But Mikael wasn’t.

He and Lars had painfully little in common.

Dion tossed him the case and held open his hand once Mikael fished one of the tobacco rolls out, a lick of flame swirling across his palm. It shouldn’t have felt degrading to lean over and light the end of his tobacco like that, not with how many times Gunner had done the same thing for him, but it did.

A subtle display of dominance, and a message fucking received.

“Appreciated.” Mikael tossed the case back to Dion, getting nothing but a silent half-nod.

Mikael didn’t let his gaze linger long, but there was not a single trace of the man he glimpsed in his mother’s memories left in Dion. Memories from only twenty-five years ago, at that. Not kind years, Mikael supposed, with the tragedies that ravaged the Rhodea family. Dion was nothing but hard edges and darkness now.

Mikael turned his attention to the fireplace and let the tobacco fill his lungs.

“Will you all be here for long?” Runa broke the budding tension, as his mother was always good at doing. “I’m thinking we should eat outside if we’ve got a crowd, I’ll just need to—”

Dion shook his head.

“Don’t worry about making plans for us. The others are heading back tomorrow and I’ll likely go the day after. They needed a change of scenery. Morale has been…” He laughed roughly. “Well, it’s been fucking piss poor to put it lightly.”

“Not much luck with leads?” his mother asked, even though Mikael was aware how loosely his father spoke with her. She knew everything.

“Nothing that holds up once one of the boys gets through with it.”

Mikael didn’t even want to know what that meant.

Cyril had made a couple of offhand, drunk comments about what each of her uncles was skilled at—what they had each taught her to do—as casually as if they were good at knitting.

That was enough for his imagination.

“No one had any complaints when I suggested a night off. I know that one has missed them too.” Dion took a drag of his cigarette and jerked his chin back towards where Cyril and the others sat as he exhaled. “So, four birds, one stone.”

“You always have been painfully pragmatic,” Runa chuckled, and Dion held up his hands in some kind of mock defense. His lopsided smile tugged at the wicked scar down the right side of his face.

The next hour proved to be one of the most awkward of Mikael’s life.

His father and Dion supplied nearly all the conversation, shooting back and forth about something to do with the politics of the mortal lands that Mikael didn’t quite understand, and his mother provided airy little top-ups where she could.

Get to know Dion. Easy for his mother to say when the man actually spoke to her.

Mikael polished off another two glasses and three tobacco rolls—all proactively and silently supplied by Dion—and finally saw his opportunity for escape when a few lingering guards filed out.

“I’m going to turn in as well,” Mikael cut in and stood when his mother and father and Dion’s gazes followed the group out.

He did not expect Dion to stand as well.

“I’ll walk with you.”

Mikael almost sat back down but his mother was up next, giving him a less than discreet smile of encouragement as she hugged them both goodnight before she sat on the arm of his father’s chair. Lars didn’t even bother getting up, just waved them both off with a wry smile Mikael knew meant he was a little too far into his cups.

“After you.”

Dion motioned to the door and, against every instinct to not leave his back open to this man, Mikael walked ahead of him. He caught the briefest glimpse of Cyril, braiding Bronson’s hair of all damn things with a shit-eating grin on her face, before he slipped down the hall.

Mikael was ready for the most awkward hour of his life to just roll into the most awkward walk of his life, but Dion stopped as soon as they cleared the first few steps into the atrium.

The look that the Rogue Master fixed Mikael with raised every alarm in his body.

“I will only say this to you once, Prince. My niece is not some object for your amusement. If you value your hands, keep them to yourself and stay the fuck away from her.” Dion spoke with a quiet, lethal sort of calmness, but Mikael held his gaze. He just didn’t have any fucking words. “Is that clear?”

Mikael knew there wasn’t a true answer he could give to that question that wouldn’t spark disaster.

Dion did not wait for a response before he turned and stalked toward the main doors, oblivious to the determination he had just ignited in Mikael.

Chapter 38

Cyril never considered that her life might fall apart in Reykr. That all she ever knew and loved could be ripped to pieces. But two days later? Everything unraveled.

The banging at her door at just past four in the morning jarred her awake and had her stumbling out of bed in a haze.

She bleared miserably at the guard who stood in the hall.

He looked apologetic as he said, “I’m sorry to wake you, Lady Cyril, but you’re wanted down in the infirmary.”

Cyril blinked.

“Was there—” She tried to clear the hoarse sleepiness from her throat. “—another murder?”

“I’m not sure.” The guard grimaced. “I was just starting my hall patrols when someone asked me to come and find you. They didn’t say why, but it seemed urgent.”

Cyril rubbed at her eyes. “Who asked you to come find me? My uncle?”

“I, ah… I’m not sure who that is? This was a frighteningly tall man, sun-fae, I think, with black hair and dark eyes. There was another man with him, a dark-skinned fae, but he didn’t say anything.”

If that was Ren and Tyr, which it really fucking sounded like…

Sleepiness peeled away from Cyril as her heart started racing.

“Fucking hells, hold on a second.”

She shut the door in the poor guard’s face and rushed to find the clothes she discarded on the floor the night before. She hopped around one-legged, trying to get her pants and boots on, and didn’t even have her shirt fully over her head by the time that she was half out the door.

“Thank you,” Cyril said to the red-faced guard, and then she was running as fast as her feet could carry her. Straight out of the residential wing, down the main staircase, and into one of the hallways off the side of the foyer.

After half a dozen wrong turns and dead ends, her heart pounded so hard it ached, and the acrid taste of bile burned at the back of her throat. Panic had sunken its claws into every inch of her body by the time she spotted Ren and Tyr at the far end of the hall that she’d just turned down.

Ren, sitting on the ground, with his face buried in his palms.

Tyr beside him, standing with no readable expression on his face.

Between them sat Bron’s travel bag.

If all three of them were here…

Her breath came in ragged pants and she willed her feet to carry her faster.

“Where is Dion?” she called out, and her voice broke. “Where is he?”

Ren didn’t lift his head, but Tyr’s attention snapped over and his eyes went wide.

Cyril started shaking.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She always knew it was only a matter of time before Dion’s habits caught up with him. Before he smoked and drank too much and hurt himself badly. Or worse.

But she wasn’t ready for that to happen here.

Not here, not now. Not anywhere, or ever.

“Dove, wait, do not go in there.” Tyr was moving, his voice desperate, but Cyril was closer to the infirmary doors than he was.

“Tyr, what happened?” she choked out, tears already running down her face. “Is Dion—where is he?”

“Please dove, wait—”

Panic tore through Cyril as she flung the infirmary door open.

She shouldn’t have been worrying about Dion.

Halfway into the room that reeked of death, her uncle was staring down at an exam table. Laying on that table, battered and broken, and draped up to the chest in a sterile white sheet, was Bron.

A ragged, broken sound left Cyril.

She surged forward, but two broad arms wrapped around her and held her in place.

Nononononononono—

“You shouldn’t see him like this, Cyr.” Tyr’s voice was hoarse, laden with grief.

She fought against his hold, writhing and twisting, and sobbing for him to let her go.

She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the lifeless pallor set into Bron’s skin.

The gaping wound in his throat.

His blood-soaked, matted hair, still half braided back.

“Please, dove, come outside.”

Cyril’s feet left the ground, and she threw her elbows back against Tyriel’s chest, clawing at the arms wrapped tightly around her.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no, no—”

“Tyriel, let her go.”

Dion’s flat, empty voice stilled them both, and Tyr eased his hold on her.

She pushed away from him, making it all of two steps forward before the cold, stone floors met her hands and knees.

The sobs that seized every inch of her body were violent, and she couldn’t catch her fucking breath. The weight of the entire room felt like it bore down on her, the air so thick with death that her lungs refused to take it.

Bron couldn’t be… No.

She needed him more than she needed anyone else in her life.

The possibility of an existence without him was never an option.

The man who taught her how to swim and ride and fight; how to nurse her first hangover, and the dozens that followed. The man who knew all her secrets, who helped her clean and wrap her wounds when she was too afraid to tell Dion. The man who held her after Keelie died, when everyone else wrote it off as a shame and nothing more.

Glimmers of it all ravaged her mind.

And he was so smart, so careful. He never, never would have…

But Bron’s body was there, just feet from her.

Void of the abundance of life it usually held.

Nausea, and anger, and a maelstrom of feelings she didn’t even understand swept through her as she staggered to her feet and wiped at her face. Cyril looked up at Dion, at the hollow darkness in his eyes, and mustered up a single, anguished word.

“How?”

Her uncle half-shrugged and shook his head. “We don’t know. The guards found his body by the gates at shift change.”

“You don’t know?” she choked out in total disbelief. “Where were you?! Where was Ren? And Tyr! Why—”

“Choose your words very. Fucking. Carefully.”

Dion spoke through gritted teeth and leveled her with a stare so cold, so seething, that Cyril took a step away.

He pointed at the door.

“Out. You don’t get to be in here if you’re going to act like a child.”

Cyril was already backing up, her feet moving entirely of their own volition, and she didn’t stop until she hit the door.

She barely heard what Dion said, with the way her ears rang and muffled everything around her.

She needed out.

She needed air.

She needed quiet and dark, and for her skin to stop feeling so fucking tight.

She needed—

The light in the hallway was blinding.

There were so many people there now, and their unreadable faces felt smothering.

She couldn’t fucking breathe.

Mikael, flanked by his parents, reached for her. “Cyril…”

She pushed past the three of them, clawing the prince’s hand off her arm. She pushed past Ren and Tyr, past the gathering group of guards, and Astor and Reyna at the end of the hall.

“Cyril, wait a second!” Mikael shouted after her, but Cyril just ran.

Chapter 39

“This doesn’t feel right, Mika,” Runa said, her wariness plain.

Mikael leaned against the wall and sighed. A housekeeper standing between them dug a keyring from her apron and started sorting through its contents.

“I’m not worried about right anymore.”

No one else was in the residential wing, at least, as they broke into Cyril’s room.

With a key.

In their own home.

His mother still couldn’t look past how ridiculous it sounded.

“It’s been nearly two days, and if that useless fuck can’t be bothered to get her out of there before the pyre…”

“Mikael,” she intoned, features pinched as she rubbed at her brow, “they are both grieving a loss that I cannot even fathom and—”

“And she could be fucking dead in there for all we know.” He threw a hand towards Cyril’s door and his mother fixed him with a lethal stare.

“Do. Not. Even—”

“Ah, Your Majesties?” The poor housekeeper standing between them with an uneasy look on her face held up a key. “This is for Lady Cyril’s room.”

She made no move to unlock the door, and his mother took a step back as she said, “This is all you, my boy.”

Mikael sighed and took the key from the maid. The lock turned over easily, and the maid was gone the instant the key was back in her hands.

“Well?” Runa looked at him and then eyed the door expectantly. He scoffed. “We’ve come this far, open the damn door and let’s make sure she’s all right.”

It wasn’t easy to ignore the anxious feeling that surged up through him, but he smothered it down as he clasped the handle and turned it.

She was fine, he told himself, because there just wasn’t another option. Nothing bad had happened to her. She just needed time and probably had just cried herself to sleep. She hadn’t drowned in the bath. Or drank herself to death. Or hurt—

The door wouldn’t budge.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbled as he leaned his weight against it and pushed. The wood groaned but didn’t yield.

“It’s stuck?” his mother asked from her safe distance of observation.

“Very.” Mikael took a step back and stopped to think.

More force didn’t seem like the answer, as much as he felt like just throwing himself against the door until it came off its hinges. He wouldn't put it past Cyril to have barricaded herself in with every bit of damn furniture in the room.

And if going through the door wasn’t an option…

“Wait here,” he said to his mother as he handed her his jacket and started heading back down the hall.

He didn’t even need to look back to know how unimpressed she was when she called out, “And where are you going?!”

Maybe it wasn’t the most well-thought-out idea Mikael ever had.

His front half was filthy and soaked through by the time he finished scaling the drainpipe running alongside Cyril’s balcony. It would be his luck that they’d just had nearly an entire day of rain. But it was fine because all that separated him from the reassurance he desperately needed was a set of already half-open patio doors.

At least one thing decided it wanted to work in his favor.

“Cyr?” he called out in a harsh whisper as he slipped through the doors. The room was dim, lit only by the fleeting traces of evening light.

Silence and damp, frigid air answered him.

He sidestepped the writing desk beside her patio doors, half pulled out from the wall with a tipped-over water jug on it, and slid a couple of discarded cushions out of the way with his foot.

Not only was the room freezing, but it was a fucking mess.

Admittedly, he was a little distracted during his last visits to her room, but this felt entirely wrong.

Books and linens and things he couldn’t quite make out in the shadows were tossed about everywhere, and an overturned armchair occupied the center of the room. And all it took to bar entrance to her room was the chair from her writing desk, jammed under the door handle, and a couple of slim books wedged beneath the door.

“Cyr, are you in here?” Mikael asked again, as gently as his budding guilt would allow.

Fuck giving her space. He never should have waited this long to check on her.

That unease swelled something fierce when his eyes caught on dark droplets woven in circling paths amongst her discarded belongings.

Blood.

Not pools or lakes of it, thank the fucking gods, but enough splatter to raise concern.

He passed her empty bed, the linens half torn back and spotted with blood, and was moving towards her bathroom when a nagging itch compelled him to take one more look back.

From this angle, he glimpsed the gleaming black of the crown of her head, just in front of the sofa, and all the air left his lungs.

Slowly, he stepped around a discarded cushion and blanket, rounding another armchair, and Cyril was just…sitting there. Her eyes had a chilling vacancy in them, set on the burned-out hearth in front of her. She had her knees drawn up and a cloth-wrapped hand cradled against her chest. Oblivious to his presence.

Mikael kneeled beside her and Cyril’s eyes drifted over to him, all dark and brandished gold, and she blinked.

Once.

Twice.

One corner of her mouth tugged upwards, just slightly.

Mikael let out a slow breath.

“Hey, wrath.” He smiled as he brushed his hand up her shin.

No flinch, no movement, no reaction.

Even though her eyes fixed themselves on his face, it was like she was looking right through him.

He kept his tone soft as he said, “Something happened to your hand?”

Cyril’s lips parted and clamped back shut in a flash. She glanced down at her hand, at the cloth blotched with rusty brown, and nodded when she looked back up at him.

Oh. Something was very, very wrong.

Words were not something she usually had a short supply of.

“Can I look at it?”

She nodded again and extended her hand to him, her movements stiff.

He unwrapped the cloth slowly, turn by turn, until he uncovered a jagged wound that ran on an angle across her palm and, gods, it dipped all the way between her first two fingers. It surfaced on the back of her hand too, and had Mikael grimacing.

The entire gash looked half-healed, half-angry-as-hell, and it must have hurt like a bitch.

He hadn’t seen any broken glass or knives when he came in though, which begged the question of how…but Mikael was more preoccupied with the icy chill of her skin.

There wasn’t a lick of an ember left in that hearth. It must have been over a day since it died out, and gods knows how long of that she spent just—

“I didn’t mean to.”

Cyril’s voice came as a hoarse rasp as she pulled her hand back, and her eyes… Why did she look so afraid all of a sudden?

“That’s okay, Cyr,” he said as he sat back on his heels and watched her. “I’ll be right back with something to clean that up, alright?”

Cyril nodded absently, the wound across her palm having stolen her attention away from him. She flexed her fingers with a wince, turning her hand from side to side, as he got up and went over to the door.

If he wasn’t so fucking worried about whatever was going on in that beautiful head of hers, he might’ve taken a moment to appreciate the amount of force she put into jamming that chair under the door handle.

He leaned it against the wall and wrenched out the two books jammed under the door. Hopefully, Fae Ascension: The Sixth Edition and Considerations of Ascension weren’t of any real value to Cyril or the archives, because their bent-back covers and pages looked past salvaging.

Mikael took a slow breath as he opened the door because he knew, waiting on the other side—

“It took you long enough,” his mother hissed, trying to peer past him and into the room as light poured into the entryway. “She’s there?”

“Because you would’ve climbed up there so much faster...” Mikael closed the door behind him, scrubbing a hand over his face. “And yes, she is, but she has a wicked cut on her hand that needs dealing with. Can you get a medkit while I get her fire going again?”

All the annoyance slipped from his mother’s face.

“Oh. Of course, let me—” She had already taken a step away when she stopped. “She’s alright though, besides…?”

Mikael shook his head.

“No, she’s not. I mean…” He exhaled a shaky breath. “Physically, yes, I think so. But mentally…”

His mother smiled empathetically.

“That’s to be expected. I know it’s difficult to see someone you care about grief-stricken like that, but she’ll get through it in time—”

“That’s not what I mean.” Mikael sighed. “It’s like…she’s not all here.” He tapped his temple. “Like she’s dazed or something…”

Runa pursed her lips and nodded like that made complete sense to her.

“Go deal with the fire and I’ll be back with a kit.”

Chapter 40

It took Mikael a few tries to get the fire back up to roaring, but the faint gleam of interest that picked up in Cyril’s eyes was worth every false start. He’d apologize at a later point for the half of an empty journal he sacrificed for kindling.

Warmth seeped steadily into the room, and Cyril gave no protest when Mikael stood her up, wrapped her in a throw blanket, and settled her on the sofa.

And now, as he sat on the arm beside her, wondering where the fuck his mother was, Cyril leaned against him. Silent, still, with the same vacancy in her face as she watched the fire, but that subconscious pull was still there. It made his chest ache.

A braver man would have filled that silence, but Mikael didn’t know where to start. Especially not after seeing the state of Bron’s body yesterday morning. Condolences felt meaningless for such a ruthless tragedy.

Instead, he undid the tie left clinging to the ends of Cyril’s hair and carded his fingers through it, working apart the remnants of her braid. She made a noise so soft and meek that Mikael almost missed it, and leaned a bit more heavily against him.

A few minutes later, the room flooded with light as his mother nudged the door open.

She came well prepared, with a bowl in one hand, a gently steaming mug in the other, and a medkit tucked under her arm. Not surprising in the least that his mother would prioritize tea during this.

“Give this to her to drink,” she said, extending the mug to him as she closed the door with her foot. “It’ll warm her up and help settle her a bit too.”

A waft of pungent peppermint filled his nose as he took the mug from her and the bowl as well. He eyed the steaming mug as he asked, “Mint tea?”

“Amongst other things.” A smile tugged at his mother’s lips as she waved her hand effortlessly and dim faelights gathered in the air all around the room. He’d seen her do it a thousand times in his life, but it never failed to spark a bit of awe. “It’s pleasant, I promise. I wouldn’t be cruel.”

No, but she would dose unwitting people with her tinctures.

He wasn’t going to argue with her now.

Mikael walked back to the couch and set aside the bowl of clean water. A little glimmer of interest sparked in Cyril’s eyes again as she watched him, and the small smile she gave him nearly took him out at the knees.

“Drink this,” he said, maybe a little more desperately than he hoped, as he took her uninjured hand and wrapped it around the mug.

Cyril gave it a curious glance, sniffed, and then drank without a word. The mug didn’t leave her lips until she was handing it back to him empty.

And Mikael? Well, he felt like a fucking idiot now for overlooking the fact that the damn woman might have been thirsty. Gods only knew how long she’d been sitting here with nothing. Every bit of training he’d ever received as a guard went out the window with her.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

Mikael inclined his head towards his mother. “All her.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Runa’s voice had that soft sort of gentleness to it that always reminded him of his childhood.

Cyril’s eyes drifted over slowly and her brows climbed in what looked like pleasant surprise as she said, “Hi, Runa.”

“Here, let me—” Mikael reached for the medkit his mother held, but she shook her head and stepped around him, taking a seat beside Cyril.

With practiced ease he had to assume all mothers had, she unrolled the leather pack across her lap, dipped some cloth into the bowl of water, and held her hand out to Cyril.

“May I?”

It took Cyril a lengthy moment to process what his mother was asking of her, but she eventually sat her hand in Runa’s and let her clean the wound. A task done in near silence, save for the occasional sharp breath from Cyril and quiet apologies from his mother.

Mikael had never felt so useless.

He paced behind the sofa until his mother cut him a sharp glance that quite explicitly said occupy yourself.

So, for probably the first time in his life, Mikael tidied.

He started near his point of entry first, sliding her writing desk back against the wall and picking up a scattered spread of stationery and books. Then it was pillows and bedding, hauled up off the floor before he turned his attention to the overturned armchair.

By the time he looped back to the seating area, his mother was already wrapping Cyril’s hand. Mikael had to give her credit—she knew what she was doing. And it wasn’t Astor that gave her years’ worth of experience in wrapping every sort of injury imaginable. No, that was all Mikael’s own doing.

As his mother moved all her supplies off to the side, Mikael settled back onto the arm of the sofa. He stiffened when she said, “Cyril, do you remember what happened yesterday morning?”

Right to it, then.

For as gentle and loving as his mother was, she was ruthless in equal measure.

He watched Cyril as silence swept in, uneasy and heavy. She looked away from Runa, running her fingers over the fresh wrap of bandages on her hand.

She nodded, slowly.

“Bron,” Cyril whispered. “He…”

The way her voice cracked…

Mikael wasn’t sure he could handle this.

“I’m so sorry, Cyril,” his mother said as she nodded. “And I didn’t want to assume either way, but…do you want to go to his pyre? They’ll be lighting it soon.”

Cyril looked at Runa and nodded with glassy, tear-rimmed eyes.

“Good. Mikael and I will just tidy up, get you a clean shirt, and then we’ll head down.”

His mother’s eyes met his, and she inclined her head towards where Cyril’s bathroom and wardrobes were. Despite the urge to never be more than a foot away from Cyril again in his entire damn life, he followed his mother.

“Well, that answers that,” Runa sighed when she nudged open the bathroom door. “I’ll have to get someone in to clean while we’re out.”

Mikael peered over her shoulder.

Broken and bloodied glass littered the floor in front of the vanity, and Cyril was going to need a new mirror.

“Were her knuckles cut?” he asked as he stepped past his mother and swept aside some of the shrapnel with his foot. He hadn’t noticed, but his mother shook her head. Not that it mattered. “Do you see what I mean though? She’s not…here.”

“Sometimes, Mikael,” Runa said slowly, “when someone goes through an event that is particularly…traumatic like she did yesterday, they can…detach from themselves, in a way.”

She moved past him and dumped the bowl of blood-tinged water into the sink.

“It’s the mind’s way of trying to keep you safe, and at arm’s length from whatever is happening. But when left unattended and isolated like this, it can consume people.”

“She’s…detached?” It didn’t entirely make sense to Mikael. But if his mother seemed so sure of it, he’d believe her.

Runa nodded.

“A bit, but not badly. They used to bring people like her to the temple for sanctuary when I was younger. But some of them were alone for so long that we couldn’t do much to help them, outside of giving them a safe place to lay their heads. Cyril, though? She’ll be alright with a bit of time.”

Well, that was…not as reassuring as his mother intended it to be.

He glanced back out into Cyril’s room and quietly asked, “Is there anything I can do to help her?”

“You’ve never been one to sit idle, have you?” His mother smiled and squeezed his shoulder as she stepped over, a comb and hair tie in her other hand. “Let me ask you something first, though. Are you sure you want to help her?”

Mikael narrowed his eyes at her. What a strange fucking question.

“Of course I am.”

“This is a commitment you have to make, Mika. You can’t just say you want to help her, and then decide you’re tired of it all in a couple of weeks and move on to another warm body. She might not recover from that sort of cruelty.”

Another warm body? Fucking hells.

He opened his mouth to protest. He knew his reputation with commitment wasn’t shining, but—

“And I will not judge you if you say no, if you do not want to take that on. Wren will help her in the infirmary to get back on her feet, so don’t worry about that.”

There wasn’t a doubt in Mikael’s mind.

“I want to help her.”

Runa pursed her lips and studied him, nodding.

“Then you are going to need to spend time with her, and help her ground and engage her senses.”

Mikael narrowed his eyes at her.

His mother had a terrible habit of phrasing things like they were the most simple concept imaginable.

“And I would do that how?”

“Oh, my boy,” she chuckled. “Let her hear your voice and feel your touch. Take her to sit in the sun and have the kitchens brew her strong tea. Make sure she eats and walks too. Anything to help her feel connected to the present moment. And”—she tapped his arm—“you need to be patient with her, above all else.”

For her? Mikael could do all of that, and then some. He would take some long overdue time away from his duties and focus on making sure she had everything she might need. That was easy.

“I can do that,” he said. “All of it.”

“Good.” His mother smiled at him, some measure of pride exuding from her. “Now, I’m sure you can handle getting her out of that bloody shirt while I find something for her to wear?”

Even with how Mikael and his mother rushed to get Cyril changed and out the door—his mother going as far as braiding Cyril’s damn hair while they hurried through the palace—Bron’s pyre started without them.

By the time their feet met the cragged back shore of the lake, the cloying smell of incense hung heavy in the air. Dion had already lit the first two corners of the flower and greenery-filled structure and was walking around to the third.

“Are you alright?” Mikael asked Cyril quietly.

A loaded and stupid question, he knew, but her face was unreadable and the silence she existed in was making him anxious. Cyril just stood there, between Mikael and his mother, with her arms slack at her sides and her eyes fixed on the pyre.

Her eyes slid over.

Her mouth opened and closed twice before her brows knit together.

“I don’t know…” she said so softly Mikael almost couldn’t hear her.

He knew that meant no.

So Mikael moved in behind Cyril and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He lowered his mouth to her ear and said, “I’ve got you, wrath. No matter what, okay?”

He felt her chest heave with a breath before she nodded.

That was good enough for the moment, and Mikael forced his attention out to the modest crowd that had gathered before them around the lake. Groups of guards mainly, of various ranks and stations, clustered with somber faces across the shore. His father stood with a handful of lords and other court officials. Even some staff from the palace had grouped up along the far edge of the lawn, where the grass just yielded to rocks and gravel.

Ren and Tyr held solemn posts closest to the pyre, watching as Dion set it alight.

Bright, crackling orange flame—not the usual blue preferred in Reykr—engulfed the structure and the lakeshore fell silent.

It persisted for a few long, heavy minutes before Ren cleared his throat, and a soft, whimpering noise left Cyril as he began speaking. Mikael wrapped his arms around her a bit tighter.

The words of passage carried on Ren’s booming voice were unfamiliar to Mikael, as he was sure they were to the predominantly moon-fae mourners, but a ripple of lowered heads still swept across the lakeshore.

“I do not loathe the Lady Death, as she lifts her veil to me. I do not scorn the Lady Death, as I scatter on the winds,” Ren said, his voice a powerful rumble. “I do not fear the Lady Death, as I walk her lands of eternal sun. For alone I do not walk, in the time that lies beyond. For alone, I will never walk, from now and until we meet again.”

When Ren lowered his head, Mikael found himself afraid to breathe, lest he be the one to break the silence saturating the incense-laden air. Eventually, the quiet movement of bodies picked up again.

Mikael eased his hold on Cyril and the sharp, shuddering breath she took kicked every one of his base instincts into motion.

Fuck waiting until they were freed by the mercy of dawn.

He wanted to get Cyril away from there now.

Away from the devastating reality burning away in front of them.

Away from her pathetic excuse of an uncle.

He wanted—no, needed—to get her inside, somewhere quiet and safe and warm where he could hold her and try to convince himself there was anything he could do to fix this.

But his mother put every racing thought to a halt when she reached over and rubbed Cyril’s shoulder.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” she asked.

“I…I need—” Cyril whimpered and wiped at her face. Defeat was heavy in her voice as she said, “Where is Dion?”

“Right over there. See?” His mother eased Cyril away from him, pointing as she encouraged her forward a few steps. “I can walk with you—”

Cyril shook her head and walked towards him on her own.

“She just needs her family,” Runa said quietly as she leaned her head against Mikael’s arm. He was fixated on the uneasy steps Cyril took across the backshore. “Her and Dion might be like oil and water, but they only have each other left.”

Mikael kept his thoughts on that matter to himself.

When Cyril made it to where Dion stood alone, she reached out, touching his arm. Dion flinched away from her, and tension seized Mikael’s body.

He couldn’t hear what she said to her uncle, not from this distance, but it looked tearful. Dion just shook his head at her and looked back at the pyre.

Cyril touched his arm again, a pleading look on her face, and Dion pulled away from her. He squared his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest, and Mikael had never felt as disgusted as he did in that singular moment.

“Dion, no,” his mother breathed in clear disbelief from beside him.

The feeling was mutual then.

Mikael was certain they just witnessed a family bond shatter right in front of them.

Too many minutes passed before Cyril turned and started walking back towards them. She looked hollow, wounded. If it wasn’t for his mother planting herself firmly in Cyril’s path, he was sure she would have just kept walking until she hit a wall.

“Cyril, look at me,” Runa said, grasping Cyril’s face in her hands. Her bottom lip trembled as she chewed at it, her golden eyes brimming with tears. “We’ve got you, okay? Whatever you need, whatever you want, we will take care of you.”

“He didn’t wait—” The noise that left Cyril was heart-rending. She sank to her knees, and Runa eased down into the gravel with her.

Useless and at a loss, Mikael kneeled beside them.

Cyril made some attempt to speak, but the woman could barely even breathe with how hard she cried. His mother’s own eyes had turned glossy as she wrapped her arms around Cyril and cradled her against her chest.

When Cyril finally got her choked and broken words out, the devastation of them made Mikael’s own eyes burn. Even Runa’s shoulders heaved with a quiet sob.

Dion didn’t give her a chance to say goodbye.

Chapter 41

Cyril was in bed. With Mikael.

Despite her furious blinking and rubbing at the sleep in her eyes, the prince lying on his side in front of her never vanished. Neither did the searing ache in her head, or almost every other part of her body. Her hand had the most persistent, nasty throb too, and it was…bandaged?

Cyril didn’t know what the fuck happened, but she wasn’t wearing pants, and Mikael didn’t have a shirt on, and...

Oh.

Oh gods.

Cyril pushed herself upright in slow, measured movements and touched Mikael’s back. He uttered a soft groan and pressed his face into the pillow.

“Mika?” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. “What…what happened last night? Did we…?”

The sleeping prince just made another not-committal noise.

Cyril sighed, looking around her room.

The drapes were half-open, but the light coming in from them was dim. Her sheets were fresh, if the light, clean scent of washing soap was to be believed. The hearth crackled gently across the room like it always did. Outside of a few half-eaten plates of food, nothing seemed out of place.

Then her eyes snagged on a dark green travel pack leaning beside her door—Bron’s bag.

Reality hit her like a flash flood.

“Cyr?” Mikael said sleepily, but Cyril couldn’t get in enough air to answer him.

Her chest heaved in short, fast bursts, struggling against the vise grip that panic had on her lungs.

Bron was dead.

Bron was fucking dead.

She saw his body with her own eyes.

Not just dead.

Murdered, mutilated, defiled.

Like he’d been sent out for slaughter.

She could smell the oily reek of death in that room, laced with an undercurrent of antiseptic.

And Dion, he…

A wave of lightheadedness swept in, taking the edges of Cyril’s vision with it, and she clutched at the sheets. Her entire body felt flush and she still couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Easy, Cyr.” Mikael’s hand brushed up her back. “Take a deep breath.”

It was too late for that.

Cyril’s stomach knotted, and a sickly feeling crept up her throat. She fought back the blankets and staggered to her bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She sank to her knees in front of the toilet and voided the almost non-existent contents of her stomach in a couple of painful heaves.

When she was certain her body was done, Cyril leaned back against the cupboards. She pressed her palms to the cold floor tiles as she tried to catch her breath.

The door creaked open.

“Do you need anything?” Mikael asked as he leaned against the doorframe.

Cyril closed her eyes, taking a slow breath in and blowing it out.

“His bag,” she whispered. “Can you put it away? I…I can’t…”

Mikael swore and said something else, but his voice trailed away.

There was silence for a moment, then doors opening and closing, and then she heard Mikael walk back into the bathroom. When he sat down beside her, Cyril finally looked up at him.

His auburn hair was sleep-mussed and tousled, but she felt the exhaustion in his eyes. She was sure it hung heavy in her own too for how much they ached.

She settled her head on Mikael’s shoulder and asked, “He’s really…?”

“Yeah,” Mikael said quietly. “I’m so sorry, wrath.”

Cyril blew out a shaky breath.

She was living her worst nightmare.

Chapter 42

Cyril didn’t understand how to navigate her grief in the weeks following Bron’s death. Even the most simple of tasks, like getting out of bed or brushing her damn hair, felt like they took the sort of energy that she couldn’t muster no matter how much she slept. A feat, considering sleeping was all she felt like doing.

She wasn’t sure what she did to deserve Mikael, but he made sure she didn’t have to do anything on her own.

If she wanted to talk about anything, which wasn’t often, Mikael sat on her bed and talked with her. If all she could manage were tears, which was often, he held her silently through it all. If she even insinuated she was hungry, he was back in minutes with food and tea. And when all she wanted to do was sleep, he pulled her into the safety of his embrace and slept with her.

Hells, Mikael even drew a single fit of laughter from her when he tried and failed miserably to braid her hair. He told her how much he loved to hear her laugh, but Bron used to say that too, and her happiness wasn’t long-lived.

Some time after the first week, her sadness evolved into a numb sort of emptiness and she wanted none of the comforts that Mikael was so keen to offer her.

At night, when sleep became more of a fitful, fleeting thing, she was still grateful for his presence. The warmth of his body pressed against hers, and the possessive weight of his arm around her brought a sort of comfort she couldn’t even put into words.

But during the day? His hovering wore on her.

It took his mother making a not-so-discreet suggestion that he consider tending to his duties with the guard, lest they pile up to an unreasonable amount, for him to give her a bit of space. He didn’t seem happy about it.

Seeing as her hand was finally healed, she used that space to ride, and not even out of a personal want to do it. But she owed it to Attie to let the poor horse stretch her legs a reasonable amount again.

Mikael only had to come looking for her once, when she’d just sort of…zoned out, sitting in the glen until the sun went down. There were a lot of days where that happened, truthfully, but sometimes in less opportune places than others.

It had been two weeks since the worst days of her life when she finally saw Dion and the others again.

They returned to the palace to liaise with the royal guard on whatever valuable information they’d uncovered in their time away. Cyril didn’t even care enough about the murders, the old language, or her conspiracy theories anymore to weasel her way into any of their meetings.

The last two months they’d been here had been such an unfathomable mistake.

But it was at dinner that night that the numb and empty pit consuming Cyril cracked open, and her anger came crawling out from its yawning depths.

Anger at Dion for leaving the day after the pyre without a single fucking word.

Anger at Ren and Tyr too, for leaving her when she needed them.

Tragedy had struck their tiny, cobbled-together family, and they all just left.

There was so much more to that anger too, simmering just beneath her roiling surface. Glimmers of words Dion uttered to her at the pyre that night that she struggled to forget.

She tried to drown it all with drink instead of letting it come up for a breath of cataclysmic air.

Mikael didn’t say a word each time she filled her glass, or as she traded barbs with Dion night after night. His eyes spoke volumes about how wary he was of everything that she did, but he never strayed from his self-imposed duties.

Even with underhanded comments from Dion seeing them out, Mikael would take her uncoordinated self back to her room and make sure she at least got her boots off before she crawled into bed. If he ever spent the night, she wasn’t sure, but he was always gone when she’d wake up at noon the next day.

Three weeks after Bronson’s death, everything reached its breaking point.

Mikael was at a loss for how to deal with Cyril anymore.

Comforting her through her sadness was one thing.

In a lot of ways, it felt like it came second nature to him to take care of her like that. He struggled a bit to change course when she built her walls back up, but they fell into a new routine again.

Now, though? He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

And it wasn’t that Cyril’s anger was misplaced. In a way, though, he understood Dion as well. The Rogue Master didn’t seem like the sort of man to sit around and stew in his feelings, and he had work to do.

But it would have been in everyone’s best interest if he attempted to spend a day or two with Cyril before he took off. These were family politics he didn’t, and wouldn’t, understand.

Each night, he watched Cyril carefully as she and Dion traded snide comments, most of which devolved into nothing more than her calling him an asshole and him saying she was childish. Mikael usually found an excuse to wrangle her drunk ass up to bed shortly after that happened.

And every night, like fucking clockwork, Cyril would make some half-assed, liquored-up attempt at goading him into properly sleeping with her. Mikael refused to cross that line, and she’d usually pass out before he even turned her down.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t envy Astor and Reyna and the convenient excuse they found to spend the week back at her village after the first tense night.

And now? Mikael would give up a limb to be anywhere but this dining room after the words that just came out of Dion’s mouth.

“Gods, you are so much like your fucking father.”

Not a compliment, by any means, if the way Cyril stiffened and his mother intoned Dion’s name was any indicator. Mikael hadn’t even heard what she said to Dion before, and he regretted that lapse in attention.

“Excuse me?” A frightening sort of calmness settled into Cyril’s voice.

A cruel smirk tugged at Dion’s lips as he leaned in. “I said, you are just like your fucking father.”

“Like I’m supposed to know what the fuck that means,” Cyril scoffed and drained her wine. Mikael didn’t even have a chance to grab the bottle before she filled her glass again, nearly to the brim.

“It means you think the entire fucking world revolves around you,” he sneered. “It’s fuck everybody else and their feelings as long as you get yours, right? As long as someone is there to stroke your fragile fucking ego.”

Dion punctuated those last three words with purpose and the table fell silent.

“Dion, I think you’ve made—” his mother started, but Dion had the audacity to hold his hand up at her. The audacity to silence the Queen of Reykr in her own fucking home.

Mikael straightened in his seat.

“Oh, I am not done.” Dion leaned further forward, bracing his hands on the table. “Hector acted like a child until the very day that he ended his cowardly life and left everyone else to deal with his fucking problems. So until you grow the fuck up and start getting your shit together, you are no better than him. You are a drunk and a wreck and a burden to everyone, just like he was.”

The only purpose Dion’s words served was to maim, and brutally at that.

As the very man who raised her, he knew how to do it with frightening proficiency. He knew every little insecurity that Cyril bore the heavy weight of, every little thing that made her tick, and he wielded that knowledge with lethality.

One of her other uncles swore, and the plates and cutlery rattled as Cyril stood, the wood of the table groaning under the pressure of her palms.

“Fuck you, Dion,” she snarled.

Mikael was all too aware of how her voice cracked at the end. How the shine in her eyes was far more than just the firelight and liquor’s doing.

And Dion? He laughed.

The monster-given-flesh laughed at Cyril and grinned like an animal as he said, “You’re going to do better than that to hurt my feelings, dove. I’m not fragile like you.”

For a woman who was already at least a couple of bottles into the night, Cyril moved with alarming speed. Her glass sailed across the table before Mikael realized it was in her hand, the wine just a swath of burgundy in the air. It missed Dion entirely.

Fucking hells.

Mikael wanted to be proud of her, but the entire room erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped across the floor, bodies were a blur of motion, and profanities flew from every direction.

Cyril was halfway across the fucking dinner table when Mikael grabbed hold of her and hauled her back. The woman was nothing but swinging limbs, but Mikael lifted her clean off the ground and walked straight out of the dining room with her restrained in his arms. When he thought she hit hard back in basic training, he was woefully mistaken. He’d have a few bruises to show for it tomorrow.

Out in the stark silence of the hall, Mikael let her go, caging her back against the wall with a hand planted on either side of her head.

“Cool off for a second,” Mikael said as gently as he could.

There was a sort of wildness in her face he did not want to be on the receiving end of.

“If that fucker thinks he— Ugh.” Cyril tried to duck under Mikael’s arm, but he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pinned her against the wall. Her chest heaved shaky, ragged breaths and a flush started to saturate her skin.

“I know, Cyr, I know. But it’s not worth it.” Mikael notched his fingers under her chin and tipped her face up to his. Her eyes were all molten, liquid gold. Beautiful and fucking dangerous. “He is not worth your energy.”

She huffed a resoundingly bitter laugh and looked away from him. Trying to look back into the quieting dining room, he realized, as she raised on her toes.

“It should have been him,” Cyril muttered, an unmistakable crack in her voice.

Mikael cocked his head down at her, blinking. “What?”

“Bron never deserved that. He…” A sharp breath left her, and she clenched her teeth. “It should have been Dion. He’s the one who deserves to die like that.”

Well, that was a fucking sentiment to hold.

Mikael had nothing to say to that.

Truthfully, it wasn’t a sentiment he exactly disagreed with, but it was one he knew came entirely from the anger she’d let consume her.

A flicker of tension set into her jaw, and Mikael swore quietly as Dion’s voice flowed out of the dining room.

Mikael was an idiot for not taking Cyril straight upstairs.

Her lip curled back into a snarl and a spark of fire lit back in her eyes.

Ready for round two.

Mikael crowded her a bit more closely against the wall, trying to stem the tide of whatever poorly thought-out thing he knew was going through her head.

He winced when she started yelling.

“It should have been your body dumped at the fucking gates, not Bron’s! He didn’t deserve any of this!” Cyril’s voice hung somewhere between a shout and a sob as she clutched at Mikael’s arm, using it as leverage to look past him. “It should have been you.”

Flanked by a grim-looking Rendal and Tyriel, Dion wore some filthy, self-satisfied smirk as he walked by, shaking his head.

“Real fucking classy, Cyril.” He waved his hand towards them in what had to be the most insulting dismissal Mikael had ever seen. “Go back to keeping the prince’s bed warm.”

Cyril stilled, and Mikael was certain he watched her heart vacate her body.

It was a blessing for everyone involved Rendal clamped his hands on Dion’s shoulders and steered him away, his rough timbre saying in no uncertain terms, “We’re done, Dion. Let’s go.”

Steps behind them, Mikael’s parents filed out of the dining room.

His father looked exhausted—a sentiment he wholly appreciated—and his mother’s eyes were still wide.

“We’re, uh… We’re going to turn in early,” Lars said a bit hoarsely as he looked between Mikael and Cyril. “If either of you needs anything…”

“I know where to find you.”

His father nodded, and Runa muttered, “Goodnight,” so quietly he almost missed it before they disappeared down the hallway.

Cyril was far too quiet now, staring sort of blankly at the wall opposite her.

“Cyr, we should—”

She let out a breath and looked up at him. Tears had quenched every bit of fire in her eyes again. “Is he…jealous? I don’t understand…”

“I don’t know, Cyr. I really don't.” Far be it from him to understand whatever the fuck was going through that man's head. “Let's just go upstairs, yeah?”

“I think…” Mikael sighed.

They’d been in Cyril’s room for barely ten minutes, and she would not stop pacing. From one end of the room straight through to the other, she swore and clenched her fists, muttering teary declarations about Dion.

“I think your uncle is the sort of man that is used to being in control of everything, Cyr, and he is losing that control at a frightening speed.”

She nodded, slow and methodical, but didn’t stop pacing.

Mikael pushed up from the seat he’d taken at the foot of her bed and planted himself directly in her path. She went to step around him, but he clasped her face in his hands and said, “You’re going to wear a hole in the damn floor. Stop.”

A huff of annoyance left her, and she narrowed her glossy eyes.

He couldn’t even fathom what was happening in her head, but there was no way this was productive. She needed to stop for a minute and just breathe.

So Mikael kissed her.

A brief distraction, soft and affectionate, was all he intended. A moment just to ground her, but Cyril leaned into it eagerly. The warmth of her hands settled on his chest, and she made one of those quiet, needy noises that did unreasonable things to his heart rate.

Cyril tasted like nothing but wine and a glaring mistake in judgment.

Her fingers slid down his chest, stopping only when she hooked them in the laces of his pants and tugged. Mikael struggled to stifle his groan as he grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.

“Absolutely not.”

“Mika, please,” she whined, surging up to brush her lips to his neck. “I want—”

“No.” Mikael grabbed both her hands, holding them between them, and he leaned away from her. “Do you know how much you drank at dinner?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” He sighed. Not again. “Cyr, if I can’t have you with a clear mind, I don’t want you.”

In an instant, every bit of simmering heat and anger fell from Cyril’s face, something wounded taking its place. She was already staggering a step back from him when he realized the fatal flaw in his words.

She stared at him, shaking her head, and pointed at the door. “If you don’t want me, you can fucking leave.”

“I didn't mean it like that, Cyr.” He took a step toward her, but she backed away and her eyes overflowed with tears. “You know I want you, but not like this. Not liquor and anger fueled—”

“Mikael, get the fuck out.” Cyril’s voice shook, and Mikael knew he had fucked up in such an immeasurable way. All this time spent earning her trust, making her feel wanted and important, and he squandered it with a couple of poorly thought-out words.

She looked moments away from violence.

“Alright.” Mikael nodded slowly and made his way to the door. Nothing productive would come of pushing this any further, not with her so consumed by her anger. They needed space, and a lot of it. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

And he left.

The pained sob that traveled through the closed door hit Mikael like a physical blow. He took a slow breath and mustered up every bit of resolve he had to walk away.

He needed a fucking drink.

Chapter 43

Cyril didn’t know what force of nature pulled her out of bed.

Guilt, maybe, that it was at least three or four days since she last took Attie for a ride. She knew the stables would see all her base needs well tended to, but they certainly didn’t have time to run every horse every day. And it didn’t feel right for the poor animal to suffer just because Cyril’s life had come apart in every way possible.

That was a trail of thought she tried not to dwell on as she bathed and dressed, making a half-assed attempt at making herself presentable.

Her eyes were still sore from just how much time she’d spent dwelling on miserable things since Mikael became the last in a long line of people to rip her fucking heart out.

The guards manning the residential wing door gave her the same sad, pitying smile as all the various housekeepers who came by her room. It was hard to not tell every single one of them to fuck right off with their pity, but a scant bit of manners felt like the only bit of sanity Cyril had left in her.

She mustered up a smile, waved back to the two guards, and trekked down the main stairs.

After breathing in nothing but the stale linens of her bed for days, the light waft of flowers and fresh air that swept up the staircase was almost overwhelming.

Not unpleasant, but it was stark.

For early afternoon, the atrium hummed with far more activity than usual. It didn’t look like it was busy for a good reason either. Not with the masses of guards standing about and the tension hanging in the air between them.

Not Cyril’s problem.

Or at least that’s what she tried telling herself until she noticed the density of guards and tired faces increased tenfold towards the archives and its wide-open doors. She’d never seen the doors left open like that before, or that volume of people moving in and out of the archives for that matter.

Cyril was halfway there before she realized it.

She wove through guards and lords and chittering courtiers, keeping her head down. There was a long list of people she did not want to see or risk making eye contact with. Kaia hadn’t been a factor on that list, but that didn’t stop Cyril’s eyes from going wide when the guardswoman stepped in front of her.

“Hey, stranger.” Kaia’s smile looked tentative at best, but her hazel eyes were appraising enough that Cyril felt uncomfortable.

A stranger, indeed.

It had been, what, a month?

An entire damn month since…

Since…

Cyril clenched her hands at her sides as she said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been around, I just…”

Kaia’s expression softened, and she shook her head.

“Don’t apologize. We were all at the pyre, and Mika said you haven’t been feeling great since then, understandably.”

Mikael didn’t understand the fucking half of it.

“It’s been…hard.” Cyril didn’t know what the fuck else to say, but she desperately needed to change the topic. “Did something happen in the archives?”

Kaia pursed her lips and followed Cyril’s gaze toward the open doors. “Unfortunately, yeah. Hope you weren’t planning on spending any time there. A scribe went missing and, well…it doesn’t look good.”

Even though Cyril was certain her heart had shriveled and died weeks ago, it ached in her chest.

How fucking considerate of the universe to tell her that, yes, things could still get worse. She wasn’t even sure if she could handle knowing who it was right now, but she felt obligated to ask.

“Which scribe?”

“Ah, I can’t remember the name. But here, come with me.” Kaia’s hand was suddenly on her back, steering her forward through the last few feet between them and the archive entryway. “The others are sitting back there with Her Majesty.”

Cyril understood why Kaia said things didn’t look good.

A small lake of blood had soaked into the carpet near the first set of desks in the center of the archives. Rusty red drag marks snaked themselves back to the scribe offices.

She heard Isa’s wailing next.

It pulled her eyes over to the chairs by the stained glass, muted by the overcast sky, where the young scribe was being comforted by Runa.

Konnor sat opposite them.

That meant…

Cyril felt like she was going to be sick.

She stepped away from Kaia and the archive doors and walked as fast as her feet would take her. People and planters and damn walls kept coming up to meet her, and Kaia’s voice shouted after her, but she didn’t stop.

Cyril struggled to see through the tears in her eyes by the time she made it to the stables, but she kept them at bay. It didn’t stop the stable master from giving Cyril a scrutinizing look as she brushed past him with a tense “Hello” and got straight to saddling up Attie.

“Lady Cyril,” Boone said cautiously as he ventured down the aisle behind her. “Probably not my place to intrude, but are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Cyril didn’t even risk turning around. She was hanging on by a fucking thread. Even Attie’s incessant nudging was wearing her down.

“Right.” He sighed heartily. “We’re all around if you need anything at all.”

Cyril waited until the sound of his boots scuffing on the ground nearly vanished before she led Attie out of the stable and mounted up.

When she cleared the hundred feet to the treeline, the tears came in full force, and she just kept riding.

All Cyril wanted to do was go home.

Back to the sun and the grassy fields, to the chores she hated, and dinners in the great hall she loved.

But that faraway place where she once felt safe was in ruins now.

The fleeting bit of tolerance Dion had for her was gone.

Ren and Tyr and all the others wouldn’t care either.

How could they, when Dion paid their wages and put a roof over their heads?

And Bron was fucking dead.

The only person who ever tried, who ever cared.

Gone. Wiped out of existence.

And even here, in the place she was desperate to forget the name of now, the prince couldn’t be bothered with her anymore. She’d been a fool to think he was different, that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Dion. The same cloth as every other person who only tolerated her when it was convenient for them.

Cyril didn’t even bother making it to the glen before she led Attie off the path. She tied her lead to a low-hanging branch and found a tree to slump down behind.

Under the overcast sky, Cyril cried for hours.

And in those hours of sitting there on her own, under leaves rustling in the humid summer air, Cyril made a decision.

She was done.

Done with Reykr and Helia.

Done with Dion and the Kallans.

Done with the prince and the rogues.

Hells, she was done with Carinae.

There was nothing left for her here anymore, no purpose or calling or people. Nothing to tie her to this place.

So in the morning, before the palace truly came to life, she would leave. She would finally make good on those foiled plans from all those weeks ago in Brynnhold.

That night, she’d bathe and pack, and get her things in order.

She’d write a note for Runa too.

A braver woman would have told the queen face to face, but Cyril was weak. She was broken and tired and didn’t have it in her to talk to anyone anymore.

Well, no one except for Attie.

Cyril hauled herself off the ground and over to where she tethered her equine companion. The singular being who had truly been with her through everything, who never faltered or judged, or cared about anything.

She choked on a sob the moment the damn horse looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” Cyril whispered.

She wrapped her arms around Attie’s neck, nestling her face into her soft, black mane. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“They’ll take good care of you here when I’m gone, I promise. I’ll ask Runa and Boone to make sure someone takes you out and shares an apple with you, alright? You…”

Cyril had to stop to breathe.

“Thank you, sweet girl. For everything.”

Darkness had long since settled when Cyril finally pulled herself together for long enough to make it back to the stables.

She didn’t care that she’d assuredly missed dinner. All she wanted to do was go to her room and shut out the world now. As much as it fucking killed her to leave Attie, she had to do it.

The stable hand that met her at the gate to take Attie’s lead didn’t say a single word after she looked at Cyril. She just gave her a soft smile and nod when she thanked her. Cyril was grateful for that.

The hinges of the main stable door squealed as she pushed it open and—

“Oh! Lady Cyril, before you go.”

Against her better judgment, Cyril turned around. The stable master was jogging down the main aisle.

“Your uncle came by a while ago, looking for you. We told him you were gone for a ride but, uh…” Boone rubbed the back of his neck. “He was quite adamant that we send you to him after, said he’d been down in the royal offices.”

A reminder that, yet again, things could continue to get worse.

“Thank you.” Cyril nodded. She hesitated before she added, “Boone? If I have to go somewhere else, possibly for a long time, will you all take care of her?”

He looked confused as all hell, but nodded slowly as he said, “Of course we will. For however long you need.”

Cyril hoped he understood that however long she needed was going to be forever.

“Thank you. I…can leave some money for her care…?”

Boone waved her off. “Don’t worry about that. Go do whatever you need to do, for however long. Our coffers and stores are plenty full.”

A tight smile and a nod were all she could confidently give the stable master before she turned and kept on her way out the stable doors.

Dion was rock fucking bottom of the list of people she wanted to see, but she wasn’t sure she could handle his wrath if he found out she decided not to come.

So she went to the offices, but no one was around.

A patrolling guard told her he thought he’d seen Their Majesties and Lord Rhodea in one of the lounge rooms, so she went there next.

Lars and Runa looked surprised to see her.

Dion just looked annoyed from where he sat opposite the royal couple at one of the casual tables meant for playing card games. No cards in sight, though, just a bottle of hard spirits, a couple of glasses, and a spread of papers.

“Thoughtful of you, Cyril, to finally grace us with your presence,” Dion said flatly.

“I…I was out riding, I didn’t know you were looking for—”

“Sit.”

He gestured to the chair beside him, but Cyril shook her head. She did not want to be that close to anyone right now, especially not him, or Runa with the sad eyes she was looking at Cyril with.

Dion didn’t look impressed.

“No?” he scoffed. “Fine, don’t sit. I don’t care, as long as you listen to me. Can you do that?”

The way he spoke, like Cyril was so far beneath him she should feel lucky he was wasting his breath on her… This wasn’t going to end well.

“I can,” Cyril said slowly. “What did you—”

“Two things. One, and it should come as no surprise, you are done doing any sort of work for the guild. Ever. Here, Helia, it doesn’t matter. The guild will put a roof over your head for the foreseeable future, but you will have to find work elsewhere. Do you understand?”

Each word that came out of Dion stung, but Cyril nodded against every instinct in her body. Her chest was so fucking tight she wasn’t sure she could draw enough air to even speak.

“Good.” Dion shot back the remnants of his drink and poured himself another glass. “And in case you thought you could still sneak around and get in our way, I had all of your files pulled from the archives and destroyed. Not like anyone will spend much time there anyway, after what happened today.”

“You… You what?”

Cyril looked to Runa for some sort of reassurance, but the queen’s eyes turned down to the table as she shook her head. Lars had his attention locked on Dion.

He actually did that.

It’s not like it amounted to much, but…that was all she had to show for her time in Reykr. Her notes from learning the old language with Tobias, from the hours upon hours he spent taking her under his wing that she could never get back. Her observations from the crime scenes, too. Every little loose strand of thought about the purists and the murders, and…

And Dion took it all from her.

“I don’t think I misspoke, Cyril.” Dion took a long sip from his glass. “Now, the second thing. No more riding by yourself, no more walking around the grounds on your own. You do not leave your room unless you have an escort and I know where you are going. Do you understand?”

Cyril stilled.

Did he think that was the sort of control he could wield? Her plans to leave aside. There was no fucking way—

“Dion,” Runa said quietly, but he ignored her.

Cyril was done.

She was so. Fucking. Done.

It took every ounce of courage, and maybe stupidity too, in her body for her to look Dion in the eyes and say, “No.”

“No?” Dion stood and took a couple of swaggering steps towards her. Shockingly, his drink stayed on the table. “I’m not sure what part of that wasn’t clear, Cyril, but—”

“I’m not doing it.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t think I misspoke.” There was no way this would end well, and Cyril couldn’t find it in her to care anymore. One more showdown before she never saw Dion again. She just felt bad that Lars and Runa had to play witness to it. “No escorts, no telling you where I’m going. You can’t control—”

He stepped closer.

“Cyril, this is about your safety, so lose the fucking attitude.” She could smell the spirits on his breath now, and see the dark circles that clung to his bloodshot eyes. “This isn’t up for—”

“My safety?” Cyril laughed bitterly. “Like you give a fuck about what happens to me. You just want control and you’re too much of a gods damned coward to admit it.”

Dion looked at her with such seething disdain that she wanted to fold in on herself. Cyril was shaking now, her heartbeat just a loud rushing behind her ears, but she held his gaze.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he bit out.

He moved to grab her arm, but Cyril shoved him away, harder than she thought she had in her. Lars scrambled out of his chair in her periphery and said something she didn’t hear.

“No, Dion! Fuck you—”

She never saw the back of his hand coming.

It hit her face with such a crack that her hearing thinned, leaving a muffled, high-pitched whine in its place.

Her vision blurred, a copper tang filled her mouth, and Dion had her slammed back against the wall before Lars grabbed hold of him. The impact rattled her bones and knocked the air from her lungs.

It had to be what getting struck by lightning felt like.

Everything was loud and quiet all at the same time.

Bile burned the back of her throat.

She was dizzy, and everything spun, and her fucking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything.

Cyril slid to the floor.

Somewhere in the distance, Runa’s voice cut through the haze Cyril swam in, the soothing warmth of the queen’s voice telling her to breathe.

Fingers touched her face.

She swallowed down that acrid, sick feeling and took a ragged breath. The room refused to slide into focus. Commotion and noise filled her periphery, but the faces blurred and the words jumbled.

“Can you look at me, Cyril?” Runa asked gently, her voice so much closer than it was before.

Cyril shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m dizzy,” she mumbled.

She didn’t know if Runa said anything else, but moments, or minutes, or maybe hours later, something cold and damp touched her forehead. When it moved down to her cheek, it burned like hell.

Cyril sat there for what felt like forever, struggling to catch her breath. Eventually, feeling seeped back into her limbs and a wicked throb settled into her face. The high-pitched whine in her ears eased too, and when she opened her eyes, Runa was kneeling at her side.

“I…” the queen started, her eyes wary and scanning Cyril’s face. “I think we should go see Wren in the infirmary and get you cleaned up. Then you and I, we can…” she sighed, “we can talk about what comes next, alright?”

What comes next.

Those three words ached.

Because there was no coming back from this, was there?

Dion finally crossed that invisible, finite line that he spent years toeing and pushing and taunting. How could she ever forgive him for that?

A couple of tears slid down her cheek as that weight took its heavy seat in her chest.

She shook her head.

“No…?”

Cyril’s voice wavered as she said, “I… I don’t want to talk right now.”

“Of course.” Runa’s face softened, and she rubbed Cyril’s arm. “Do you want to go to see Wren, or…?”

Cyril shook her head again.

“I need some air,” she said as she pushed herself up on wholly unsteady legs. If it wasn’t for the wall at her back, getting up on her own would have been out of the question.

Runa watched her warily.

“You’ll come find me when you’re ready?” she asked, her voice full of doubt that was entirely justified.

Cyril gave the queen a half-hearted nod before she wandered out into the hall.

Chapter 44

By the time Cyril cleared the palace and made it outside, her cheek stung something fierce every time she dabbed at the weeping wound with her sleeve.

Failed attempts to rationalize what had just happened swam around in her head and left her with little room to think about anything else. She hadn’t realized her feet carried her to the barracks until she nearly walked right into the doors.

Instinct had her pulling one open and taking a few cautious steps inside.

The usual dozen or so guards were sitting around enjoying their drinks, with a handful of women from the city drifting around between them. As she looked and looked, the realization of what she may unwittingly find made it hard to breathe.

She went to go push back out the doors and—

“Cyril!”

She turned back around slowly.

Silas, a lanky man with blonde hair and soft brown eyes, waved at her as he wove through tables and came to a stop in front of her.

“Is Mikael here?” Cyril asked quietly, not entirely sure she wanted the answer even as she kept scanning faces. That would be the perfect fucking end to this, seeing him tangled up with a damn courtesan.

“He’s in his office. I can walk back with you if you’d like?”

Cyril nodded and Silas gave her a curious look, head tipped and brows pinched.

“Uh, Cyril, your uh…” He gestured to his cheek.

She dabbed at her face with her sleeve, the cuff already spotted with blood.

“I know.”

“…Right. Okay then, after me.”

He led her in silence down a couple of dimly lit halls and knocked on a door she knew well. A familiar rumble came from behind it, and Cyril started to fray.

Only days since she last heard his voice, but it felt like a fucking lifetime.

She chewed at her lip to will it to stop shaking as Silas cracked the door and poked his head in. All she heard was her name before chairs started scraping against the floor with muffled, masculine voices.

Cyril avoided making eye contact with the two guards who exited.

Her legs didn’t want to carry her through the half-opened door, even as Silas gave her a gentle nudge forward.

Once Mikael knew…

She was terrified he was going to be mad at her. Think she was an idiot for provoking Dion, just like she always did. He’d think she deserved it…

Gods. If he was upset with her and Dion was too—

“Cyril?” Silas squeezed her shoulder. The tight smile on his face was all thinly veiled concern. “Go on in. He’s all yours.”

She swallowed down a painful lump in her throat and said, “Thank you.”

Silas nodded and disappeared back down the hall.

Taking measured, rigid steps, she forced herself towards the door. Her heart ached as it pounded in her chest, and she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

The smell of old, worn wood and soft leather that permeated his office didn’t bring her any of its usual comforts.

It only got worse as the floorboards creaked, and Mikael looked up from behind his desk. Something like relief settled into his face and he smiled at her.

“I was wondering when—”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“Wrath...” Mikael pushed back from his desk, his chair scraping on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but the tail end gave way to a sob that shook her.

He moved towards her quickly, too quickly, and Cyril flinched.

Mikael stared at her, his eyes wide.

“What do you mean ‘I’m sorry’? What—”

“I didn’t know where else to go, and I…I’m sorry, and…”

Every word left her lips choked and broken. She struggled to get a breath in.

Warm, calloused hands cupped her face, tipping it upwards, and Cyril closed her eyes.

The anger that was surely simmering in those icy-blue eyes was not something she could handle right now. She was a fool to think she could handle both of their ire in one night.

“Slow down, alright?” Mikael said gently.

His thumbs swept through the tracks of tears on her face and she felt him still.

“Cyr…” He was tipping her face towards the light of the wall sconce now, and the prospect of what was coming next had her stomach up in her throat. “Cyril, look at me. Did… Who did this to you?”

Her eyes tried to settle anywhere other than his face, but there was a pull that she just couldn’t fight. The icy blues of his eyes were so dark. His jaw was full of tension.

“Dion,” she whispered, holding back another wave of tears that threatened to crest. “I provoked him. If I had just listened h-he—”

The warm touch of his hands slipped away, and a string of profanities left Mikael as he walked away from her. The worn wood of his desk groaned as he leaned back against it and scrubbed his palms over his face.

“Please don’t be angry with me…I need you, Mika. I…”

Cyril stuffed down the other desperate things that threatened to roll out of her and reached for his arm instead.

Mikael stilled.

“Angry with you?” Everything about his posture changed. Like an immeasurable weight of tension slipped from him. His voice was soft as he shook his head and said, “Never.”

Cyril was desperate to believe him, but she couldn’t.

Because even as his fingers laced through hers and he drew her in…

Even as he brushed her hair back from her face with a ghost of a touch…

Even as he kissed her forehead, then her lips, with gentle reverence…

She was afraid of Mikael, of the vulnerability she felt around him. Of the power he wielded over her because of that.

“I’m sorry,” Cyril murmured against his lips as he eased back from her.

“You have no reason to be.” He held her face in his hands like the broken thing she was. “This is not your fault.”

Cyril closed her eyes.

Waves of fatigue lapped at her, and Mikael was so warm…

“Can I clean this up for you?” he asked, his thumb skimming low on her cheek.

She nodded, and Mikael eased her into a chair.

“I’ll be right back.”

It took no small amount of effort for Mikael not to stray from his path to the supply room.

He wanted to kill Dion in a slow and creative way. Inflicting as much pain as he could manage. He wanted to see the same look of fear in that piece of shit’s eyes as he saw in Cyril’s. That man was a waste of air and deserved every fucking—

Mikael took a deep breath.

If only for her sake, he had to stay calm.

The fear that rolled off of her was heavy and sickening, and he couldn’t stand it. She was afraid of him too, he knew, and he had to prove her wrong. He had to prove that, despite the mess they landed in these last few days, he didn’t operate like Dion. That his love and affection wouldn’t come with conditions and burdens, and whatever the fuck happened today.

Love.

The word rolled around in his mind with such ease that Mikael almost wanted to laugh. He hadn’t even taken the damn woman to bed—not for a lack of want on either of their parts—and yet he didn’t—

“Whatcha lookin’ for boss?”

Mikael swore.

Behind him, Silas leaned against the doorframe with a lopsided grin.

“Medkits. Where the fuck are they?”

Truthfully, he only made it through one cupboard before his thoughts sidelined him.

“Last door on the right.” Silas jerked his head towards the end of the room. “Is Cyril alright?”

“She’ll get there,” Mikael said. Hoped.

Silas made a non-committal noise, backing out of the doorway once Mikael had one of the canvas kits in hand.

He’d made it a few steps back down the hall before he turned and said, “Oh, Silas? If anyone comes looking for her…”

Silas shrugged somewhat dramatically and said, “Haven’t seen her in days, boss, sorry.” He gave Mikael a knowing look, inclined his head, and headed back in the other direction without another word.

For better or worse, Cyril hadn’t moved an inch from where he left her, with that faraway look in her eyes that he’d seen so many damn times now. One day he’d ask her where she went, when the weight of the world became too much to bear and her mind pulled her away somewhere safe.

“Cyr?” he asked, still across the room.

The last thing he wanted to do was startle her, but she still tensed. Then her eyes met his, and she softened. The saddest, faintest smile tugged at her lips and threatened to bring him to his knees.

As he rolled out the kit on his desk, she observed him in total silence. If it wasn’t for the white-knuckled grip she had on the arms of the chair, Cyril almost could have passed for the picture of calm. Almost.

Both of their noses wrinkled when he poured some antiseptic out on a cloth. His eyes burned, and it was only going to be worse for her.

“Sorry,” Mikael murmured as he tipped her face up to get a better angle. “It smells awful and it’s going to hurt. You’re alright?”

Cyril nodded and closed her eyes.

The split ran along the length of her cheekbone, and he dabbed at it with the gentlest touch he could manage. He’d never felt like so much of a brute before, until he held her fragile, broken pieces in his hands like this. Wounds were something he’d likely mended in the hundreds by now, but never were they weighted with such vulnerability.

Through her gritted teeth and winces, Mikael apologized profusely.

And when it came time to swipe some healing salve over her wound, he found his eyes and his fingers lingering far longer than they needed to.

He struggled to accept how hard Dion had to hit her to cause damage like that. That his anger could consume him so much that this was the only answer? All for what? To prove to himself that he was in control? Fucking pathetic.

“We should tell someone, Cyr,” he said, setting aside the supplies and wiping off his hands. “My parents, I mean—”

“They know.”

“They do?”

She nodded, slowly. “They were there.”

So he wanted an audience too. Disgusting.

Mikael sank to his knees in front of her, trying to catch her attention as it settled back on the floor.

“I—” he started, and gods, he should have stopped right there. Stopped before he started offering things that his resolve might not handle. But she held his gaze, and he was desperate to see even a thread of that sun-spun gold light up again. “Do you want to stay with me, for tonight at least?”

Her brows climbed.

“Please,” she breathed, and his heart ached at her shaky inhale. Silver rimmed her eyes. “I…I don’t want to be alone, and…and I—”

“It’s alright,” he murmured. He stood and extended his hands to her. Cold, clammy fingers settled on his. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Cyril didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Dion was her guardian, after all—her damn family—and he was supposed to keep her safe too. Maybe Mikael was different. Maybe he meant it.

It was all she could hope as he led her back through the barracks with their fingers twined. She focused on the warmth of that hand that dwarfed hers, on the dull rumble of chatter and laughter as they neared and slipped through the great room.

But when Mikael stopped to push open the door, all that focus went up in smoke. Cyril’s whole body tensed, her heels anchored to the floor, and she…

She didn’t want to leave the barracks.

She didn’t want to go outside and brave the pathways and the palace and the people, or the possibility of what might await her out there.

Mikael turned back and gave her a curious look.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling the door back shut.

“What if he’s…” She swallowed, trying to will some semblance of moisture back into her mouth. “What if we…”

Cyril clenched her teeth. She couldn’t even get the fucking words out.

“Run into him? We won’t.” Mikael said it with such certainty as he eased his uniform jacket off and settled it around her shoulders. He must have noticed how cold she was. “We’ll take the staff halls and the back staircase up.”

His fingers found hers again, a guiding and gentle pull, and she willed her feet to follow his lead out of the barracks.

And Mikael was right.

The only souls they encountered were a handful of maids still milling about the halls at the lower levels, finishing their duties for the day. Cyril tried not to dwell on the amused smiles they wore—she’d be a fool to think she was the only woman they’d ever watched him lead back through these halls.

If only they knew the circumstances this time.

The winding, functional halls that smelled of food and clean linens eventually gave way to a staircase with well-worn treads and a railing Cyril didn’t dare put any weight on. Not that she had to, with Mikael’s guiding touch steering her along, squeezing her hand, or pulling her near as they navigated crates and people in silence.

And she hadn’t minded it at first, the quiet. It gave her mind a moment to settle, and her a chance to breathe. To focus on the sounds and smells around them, and not on why they were walking.

But now the silence felt heavy and tense, and Cyril itched to break it.

The stairwell darkened as they climbed, illuminated only by a dim faelight dotted every few feet along the walls, and she nearly walked right into Mikael’s back when he came to a sudden stop.

Cyril watched the faint outline of his hand skim the stone wall, then he was pushing and light flooded the landing. She realized, as her eyes adjusted to the light, that they were just a few feet down the hall from his room.

“That’s convenient,” she said quietly, looking back at the wall panel they just exited from as Mikael pushed it back into place. Completely imperceptible and one of many little secrets she was sure the palace walls held.

Half a smile tugged at his lips. “It’s served its purposes.”

She was sure it had.

Mikael led her into his room and locked the door behind them.

He started moving around right away and left her to stand in the entryway, taking everything in. The weapons and gear—some broken, some gleaming—scattered all over tabletops and leaned against walls. Clothes tossed over chairs and door handles. It even smelled like he usually did—earthy and clean, like spring rain.

She tugged his jacket tighter around her shoulders.

The layout of Mikael’s room and hers were nearly identical. His room was just bigger, more spacious, more fitting of a prince. Where her linens and furniture were light and feminine, his were dark and masculine, all navy blues and burgundy. There was a behemoth, four-poster bed at the far side of the room that she wanted nothing more than to crawl directly into.

“You can come in, you know,” Mikael said, with an undercurrent of amusement.

In however little time she thought she’d been standing there for, Mikael had changed out of his uniform and into some dark, comfortable-looking nightclothes, and was tending to the fire. He tossed a couple of logs in and walked back over to her.

Cyril smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

It felt strange to invade his space like this, even though he’d spent weeks living in hers.

“No more apologizing, please.”

The warmth of his arm settled across her shoulders and Cyril gave in far too easily to the urge to lean against him, to let her lungs fill up with him.

“Tired?” he mused quietly.

Not a simple question for her to answer.

That familiar and foggy heaviness of exhaustion pulled persistently at her eyes and her limbs, but her entire body buzzed in tandem with the weight of that pull. It was strange, and she didn’t entirely know what to do about it.

“I don’t know.”

Mikael squeezed her shoulder. “Well, whenever you want to turn in, the bed is all yours. I’ll sleep over here.”

As he gestured over to the sofa by the fire, Cyril realized he’d set up a makeshift bed for himself—on the other side of the room from where he wanted her to sleep.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Was she wrong in thinking…

“Is that…” He eyed her warily. “Is that alright?”

“I just thought you’d want to sleep with me, that’s all.”

An almost pained noise left him.

“Cyril, there are a lot of things I want, but I won’t make assumptions about what you are and aren’t comfortable with right now. I thought you might appreciate some space.”

Gods. Space was the last thing she wanted from him. The last few days that she’d spent not seeing him, holed up alone in her room? Awful. Every fiber of her being craved the feeling of safety and security that came from being tucked at his side.

“Sleep with me, please?” Cyril looked up at him as she issued her quiet plea.

His defeated sigh followed quickly.

“Fine.” Mikael drew her in and kissed the top of her head. “But if you touch me with those fucking cold feet, I’m kicking you to the sofa for the rest of the night. Understood?”

A quiet laugh left Cyril for the first time in what felt like forever. Her cheek ached with the smile that crept onto her face. “Understood, Commander.”

Chapter 45

Cyril tried not to read too far into the unease that lingered in Mikael’s eyes when he left her side and started to pull back the covers of his bed. But the sliver of happiness she felt being in his presence again vanished, something sickening and anxious sinking its claws into her instead.

Was she…not wanted here? No, of course not.

Mikael said he didn’t want her, didn’t he?

His invitation was entirely based on obligation.

She should have said no. She should have gone back to her room, alone.

But she didn’t feel safe alone, she wasn’t safe, alone—

Cyril took a slow breath and pulled off her boots and socks, leaving them by the door. She walked back to the bed, trying desperately to anchor herself to the feeling of the cool, stone floors on her bare feet. Her hands shook by the time she started loosening the laces on her pants, and it took remarkable effort to slide them down her legs.

“Cyr?”

She couldn’t brave looking back over her shoulder at him.

“Yeah?”

“Do you…want something else to wear? Something more…comfortable? I can get you—”

“I’m fine.”

Her shirt was as good as anything right now, and she just wanted to lie down. Or run. She didn’t really know.

But she crawled into Mikael’s bed anyway and felt the mattress dip with his weight a moment later.

She tried to breathe, counting through each breath in and out—like the only person who ever really cared about her taught her to do—as she curled up into the tightest ball she could manage. She focused, too, on the soft sheets as their weight settled on her bare legs, and how much they smelled like Mikael. How that earthy, clean scent made her want to feel safe.

“What’s going on in there?” Mikael murmured, easing himself in behind her. Every bit of warm muscle of his body melded to her back and her legs and he snaked an arm around her.

Cyril didn’t want to answer him.

“You can talk to me, Cyr.” His nose and his breath ghosted up her neck and he pressed a kiss behind her ear. Her own breath came in uneasy waves. “Don’t shut me out again.”

Cyril didn’t want to talk.

She didn’t want to argue, not with him.

But Mikael wouldn’t accept her silence.

“Cyr, please. Just talk to—”

“You don’t have to pretend to care, Mikael.” The whispered words just tumbled out of her, and Mikael stilled. “I know you don’t want me either.”

“What?” he breathed.

Cyril didn’t have any fight left in her when he set his hand on her shoulder and pulled her onto her back. She didn’t have any tears left in her either, when she looked up at him, even though her eyes ached. It was probably for the best that the room was so dim that his face was just a moonlit outline.

“Cyr, how could you think I don’t want you?”

“You said you didn’t.”

That much was simple. The four words that came out of him those few nights ago in her room had taken every shred of will from her. She could even hear it now, cycling through her head over and over.

I don’t want you.

“I did not mean—” Frustration crested in his voice and he swore. “Please don’t twist my words, Cyril. I just didn’t want to bed you when you didn’t have a clear mind. I didn’t want to take your damn virginity when you were angry as all fucking hells with a couple bottles of wine in you.”

She sighed.

“You always have an excuse.”

Cyril was so fucking tired. She wanted to curl up and go to sleep, Mikael be damned, but when she tried to roll over, he held her firmly in place.

“Please don’t do this, Cyr.” His fingers brushed her cheek, skimming just below where her face throbbed. “It scares me how badly I want you, okay? You mean so fucking much to me that I don’t know what to do about it.”

Mikael’s words made her chest ache, but Cyril only had one thing to say to them. She looked him right in those glacial eyes and said, “Show me.”

His fingers stilled.

“Show you?”

“Show me how badly you want me. No more excuses.”

“Cyr, I…” Mikael loosed a heavy breath. “Is that a good idea right now?”

“I need to have a say in this, Mika.” Cyril found a kernel of quiet, fleeting courage and held on to it. “It feels like I…I don’t have a say in anything… Not anymore.”

Silence fell and Mikael was deathly still.

Just like that, she crossed some other invisible, arbitrary line he’d set out.

Cyril let her eyes fall shut and tried to muster the energy to get up, get dressed, and walk out. Maybe she’d just keep walking right to the stables or the city, or…or gods. She needed to pack. She had a plan, and she had to focus on—

Mikael tipped Cyril’s face up and kissed her with the sort of languidness that drew a pathetic, whimpering noise from her.

“No more excuses,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re mine tonight.”

Cyril’s spiraling thoughts screeched to a halt.

The broad span of Mikael’s hand cradled her jaw as he kissed her again, angling every bit of his warmth and hard muscle over her. She didn’t know just how badly she needed the weight of his body to ground her, to tether every fiber of her being to here, to now, to him.

A brush of his tongue against hers, and everything else just slipped away.

There was no slow, honey-like drip of heat like he so often drew from her. No, a desperate and aching need tore through Cyril like a fucking wildfire, and she sought every bit of contact she could get with Mikael’s body. A haughty, rumbling groan left him when she tangled her legs around his waist and pulled his hips to hers.

“You’re impatient, wrath.”

Mikael was all breathless amusement when he pulled away from her, and Cyril whined at the loss of everything. Of course, she was fucking impatient. It had been weeks upon weeks, upon fucking weeks of him dangling this in front of her, and she wanted—

The prince sat back on his heels and tugged off his shirt in one fluid motion.

Cyril’s mouth went dry.

Seeing Mikael shirtless wasn’t a novelty, but she had never seen him like this before. Her gaze roamed, taking in the lean expanse of his chest and shoulders that she was aching to dig her fingers into. It wasn’t the first time she’d admired the toned V of muscle sweeping in along his hips and the trail of auburn hair disappearing with it below his night pants either, but the view of it had never warmed her so thoroughly before.

The man was a fucking moonlit masterpiece.

Nothing but an unrestrained, masculine sort of pride settled into his features when her eyes bounced back to his. He knew just how much she was enjoying the view. Mikael leaned forward, his hands mapping a torturous path up her thighs and hips and under her shirt.

Roughly, he muttered, “Take this off.”

Cyril didn’t need to be told twice.

She sat up enough to tug her shirt over her head, and Mikael gave her all of a half a second to toss it before he eased her back down. And he dared to give her shit for being impatient.

His fingers were already making quick work of the ties holding her breast-band closed, and Cyril had little control over the way she arched into his touch.

“If any of this is too much…” Mikael said much more softly, his lips and breath a warm ghost on her neck. “If you want to stop, we will, even if it fucking kills me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she breathed, even though she knew there wasn’t a chance in any of the damn hells she would want to stop.

Mikael’s glacial eyes flickered up as the simple, black band of fabric fell away from her chest, and he smiled at Cyril in a way that made her heart hurt. She didn’t want to think about that right now, about happiness and feelings and things that existed outside of the way her body ached.

But his head dipped, and his lips met the swell of her breast, and that thought vanished. Every pore of her body came alive with something hot and saturating under his wandering mouth, under the testing grazes of his teeth.

Cyril didn’t know how to process the sort of intensity and reverence he worshiped her body with. She tangled one hand into his auburn waves and the other in the sheets, fighting to contain her shuddered gasps and half-broken groans. Every damn ounce of aching need and want and merciless heat she’d ever felt for Mikael pooled in her core.

Cyril felt like she was going to fucking combust, and he’d barely touched her.

The prince grazed his lips along the angles of her hip bones, his fingers hooking in her underwear, and he paused. Waiting for her to change her mind. To say no, it was a mistake. That she didn’t want this, didn’t want him.

But Cyril lifted her hips, a silent answer to a question asked in the absence of words. Mikael made quick work of the last scrap of fabric separating all of her from him.

Cyril was certain she should have felt some twinge of embarrassment, some need to preserve her modesty, being laid out in front of him like this. Every damn bit of her on display as his hands spread her legs wide, as his eyes roved her body with a sort of hunger that made it hard to breathe.

But she didn’t feel embarrassed at all.

No, she felt fucking powerful.

Mikael’s tongue grazed along the points of his canines and he shook his head, like he was in disbelief of whatever he saw laid out before him.

“Gods, look at you.” His voice sounded like roughed-up silk as his fingers skimmed up her thighs, his thumbs dragging through the crease of her hips. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Cyr. Every fucking inch of you.”

“I think we both have a good view.” Cyril hadn’t trusted her voice, with how her chest heaved with uneven breath. It was worth it for the flicker of amusement that danced in the haughty darkness of his eyes.

Mikael huffed a shade of a laugh and lowered himself down, mapping the same path up her thighs with the warmth of his mouth. Cyril tangled her fingers in his hair as he kissed up one thigh, then the other.

She bit back a ragged moan when his tongue grazed her core for the first time. The touch was light, testing, but pulled a ripple of tension through her, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. His eyes darted up, assessment written plain on them, but Cyril just sagged back into the bed.

This man was going to kill her with his gods damned mouth.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

“As my lady wishes,” he murmured, and the prince devoured her.

It could have been hours or days, really, that he spent anchored so comfortably between her thighs, with how Cyril lost all sense of time and space and self. All that mattered was Mikael’s mouth and his fingers in her and on her, wringing every ounce of bodily bliss he could from her flesh.

But by the time he’d worked her over the edge for the second or third time and showed no sign of stopping, her legs trembled and waves of pleasure came laced with undercurrents of discomfort.

“Mika, it’s…too much, I can’t…” Cyril whined, her body spent and oversensitive.

Her fingers had never left his hair, and she tugged weakly at him.

The prince looked far too pleased with himself when he finally came up for air, drawing Cyril in for a kiss as he settled in beside her.

And that was…her, that she could taste in that sweet heaviness on his lips. Her cheeks heated and her body ached for more.

“You want to stop?” Mikael’s breath came in uneven bursts as he traced circles across her stomach, her muscles tensing and rippling under his fingers.

“No.” Cyril pulled his mouth back to hers, and Mikael made an appreciative noise. She wanted to taste herself again, steep in that brief surge of confidence that came from it before she asked, “Can I…touch you?”

“So polite,” Mikael murmured with an edge of amusement.

He splayed his hand over hers, where she tethered it to the warmth of his chest and the thrum of his heart, and guided her down to where his cock was hard and straining against the soft cotton of his night pants.

Cyril’s fingers wandered, raking up the full length of him, and Mikael’s entire body shuddered under her touch. The groan that slipped out of him was more intoxicating than any spirit she’d ever put in her body. But she wanted to touch him properly. No more barriers or boundaries between them.

“Take these off.” Cyril tugged on his waistband.

“The lady is demanding too,” he chuckled as he eased away from her and slipped everything off.

Cyril had no short few ideas of what he might feel like in her hand—her mind had run rampant, and often at that—but her mouth ran dry when she finally wrapped her hand around him. So warm, and hard, and…

A tremor of nerves ran through her.

“Mika, I…I don’t think…” She swallowed thickly, looking up at him with wide eyes. Her damn fingers didn’t touch around him. “You’re…”

“You flatter me, wrath.” Mikael settled his hand around hers, guiding her into slow, languid strokes. He brushed his lips against her jaw, adding, “Should I show you how well you’ll take me?”

Heat tore through her entire damn body, and some indignant noise left Cyril.

She tipped her face to catch his lips, and Mikael was already easing himself back overtop of her, nudging her legs apart for him again. He knew what her answer was, what she wanted all this damn time.

But his eyes still met hers, lust-addled and appraising, and he asked, “You’re sure?”

A smile tugged at her lips.

“Positive. But, ah—” She stroked his cock again and Mikael groaned a half-breath of her name, rocking into her touch. “Tell me what you like. I…I want to—”

“Fuck what I like,” Mikael rumbled, the broad strength of his hand ensconcing hers again, guiding himself lower, and lower, and— Oh. He notched himself against her entrance, and Cyril’s breath caught at that first moment of fullness. But Mikael stopped, just barely pressed into her, and she wanted nothing to do with the sort of restraint he was showing. “This is what I want, Cyr, so fucking badly. I want you, I want your body, I want your heart, I want—”

An eager roll of her hips, and Mikael slipped out a guttural groan.

“Fucking hells,” he mumbled as he rocked his own hips once, twice, and his body sank flush to hers.

Cyril couldn’t help the soft gasps and ragged breaths that left her.

The sudden fullness and warmth that seeped through her took on an edge of discomfort, of unfamiliarity, but Cyril fucking loved every second of it. Especially as Mikael nestled his face into the crook of her neck and pulled her close, a slew of vulgar praise rolling off his lips and onto her flesh.

Nothing else mattered.

Every problem she had, every worry about what would happen next, even the crippling weight of her reality—they all just fell away into nothing. It was just her and Mikael and the grounding presence of his touch pulling her away to a place where none of that existed.

Cyril never wanted to leave this bed.

And when Mikael started to move, the pumps of his hips slow and deep, Cyril slipped a breathy moan of his name. She couldn’t be bothered to hold back, not when it felt like Mikael’s body was made just to be inside hers.

“Feels good?” Mikael murmured, his voice thick like honey, as he ghosted his lips over her throat and jaw, and finally her mouth.

Cyril didn’t have words for Mikael.

Good didn’t even scratch the surface of how she felt—how he was making her feel. The bodily pleasure had her head drifting in the damn clouds, but there was so much more than just the physical connection of their bodies. She’d never be able to string together the words to do justice to just how sated her soul felt with him.

So instead, Cyril nodded and hummed her breathy agreement.

In the dim outline of Mikael’s face, a flicker of pride lit up his eyes, and a smirk tugged at his mouth. She only let him bask in it for a moment before she pulled those lips back to hers and kissed him until she couldn’t breathe.

Whatever last fleeting sliver of restraint Mikael had seemed to dissolve into nothing, and he took her hard and fast.

Cyril couldn’t get enough of it.

Every rough snap of his hips drew some broken, lewd noise from her, and she still wanted more. She wanted him to make good on that bygone threat of fucking her until she couldn’t speak. Hells, all she wanted was to never be sure of where she ended and he began.

But it felt like just as soon as Mikael had settled into his punishing pace, he eased back into something far more languid. He braced himself on his forearms, putting mere inches of space between their bodies, and Cyril whined in protest.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said with an almost whispered reverence, and it went right to Cyril’s head. Straight between her legs too.

And when Mikael eased a hand down her body, his fingers sliding over their joining and circling that delicate bundle of nerves that just ached for him, Cyril nearly sobbed. She was so fucking close. All the tension coiled in her core was almost unbearable.

Mikael strung her along the edge of release, though, slowing his pace even more every time her body tensed in anticipation. He wanted to fucking torture her.

“Mika,” she panted, her fingers dug into his back, “Please, I—”

A soft rumble left him before he ghosted his lips across hers.

“Are you going to be a good girl and come for me again?”

And just like that, Cyril came apart.

Heady and blissful release rolled up her spine and set every nerve in her body alight with it. The tide of euphoria that washed over her left her dazed and clinging on to Mikael like he was the only thing tethering her to this plane of existence. As she drifted, her heart thundering and lungs fighting to breathe the same air as him, the steady tempo Mikael set faltered. His thrusts became ragged, desperate things.

“Gods, I—fuck.”

He fell over the edge right behind her.

Some strangled, bitten-off noise left Mikael, and every fiber of his muscle tensed. His hips surged forward once more, burying himself to the hilt, and Cyril had never heard such a guttural, satisfied groan.

As the tension eased from Mikael’s body and he looked at her, his eyes were hooded and heavy. His lips sat parted with ragged breaths, and the insufferable prince laughed.

“Fucking hells, wrath.” He shook his head and slipped his arms under her, settling his weight down. “That was…” He blew out a breath.

Cyril’s eyes slipped shut, and she smiled.

In all his years—in all his encounters—Mikael had never struggled with the itch of a primal urge consuming him like this. Even as the rolling aftershocks of his fucking mind-blowing orgasm trembled through every inch of his body, pulling the sweetest fucking noises from Cyril, he couldn’t wrench himself away from her neck. She smelled like sex and sweat and cinnamon, and it was gods damn intoxicating.

Mine mine mine mine mine—it was all his fucking lust-addled, blood-drained mind would spit out as he grazed his mouth over that soft, delicate spot of flesh in the crook of her neck. All he wanted was to mark her, claim her, make her his. He wanted every person who saw her to know that she was his, that he would protect her, and he would keep her safe from—

Mikael took a slow breath and brushed his nose up Cyril’s neck.

He needed to will some semblance of reason back into himself and calm the fuck down.

“Mika?” Cyril’s soft, breathless voice ghosted his ear.

Her chest still heaved beneath him, and no small amount of pride coursed through him at that. Even her legs were still wrapped around his waist, keeping him buried in her, and he had no complaints about that.

“Mm?”

“Is this…” She fucking laughed, and the pull of the very depths of her muscles had him groaning. “Is this when you…drink my blood?”

Mikael blinked.

“Is this when I…what?” He pushed himself up on his forearms. One look at the flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips of the woman below him did nothing to help how painfully hard he still was. “Drink your…blood?”

A lopsided smile peeled across her lips.

“Back home, they…well they say that moon-fae, that you…” Her nose wrinkled and Mikael wanted to kiss her again, badly. “...Drink blood, and…sacrifice virgins, and—”

“Mm. Guess you’re no good for sacrifice now, are you?” Mikael rocked his hips for emphasis, a half-scandalized squeak leaving Cyril. “No blood drinking, though. We…we mark our mates, our partners…” He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the crook of her neck again. “And the urge to mark, to bite and claim, is…strong, sometimes, after really good sex.”

A lie. Sort of.

Mikael had been treated to some pretty fucking mind-blowing sex in his life, but the urge had never felt like this before. Cyril just didn’t need to know that right now. Not the details of his past exploits nor the knowledge that marking was supposed to be something special between two moon-fae, a sacred sort of act not taken lightly.

“You’re flattering me now.” Cyril, the wicked fucking woman she was, tangled her fingers in his hair and tipped her head back, baring even more of that perfect, snowy flesh to him. “You can, if you want. I think I’d like it… Your teeth…”

This woman was going to be the death of him.

He grazed his teeth along her neck, just to revel in the shudder that rolled through her, before he said, “You never mark someone the first time you sleep with them, wrath. Terribly bad manners.”

Cyril laughed again, and Mikael groaned. He was holding on by a damn thread.

“Do manners matter now?”

“Of course they do.” Cyril’s eyes flared as Mikael hooked his arm under her knee, angling himself deeper than he dared before. “It’s the difference between me telling you I’m going to have you again, and me asking nicely if I can.”

Something wholly bashful settled into Cyril’s face as she said, “I think I like it more if you just tell me.”

Chapter 46

Waking up beside Mikael was something Cyril had done many times in the last month, but it never felt this right.

Every other time, a boundary existed between them that Mikael mustered up some excuse not to cross.

Every other time, clothing had been involved.

Every other time, Cyril hadn’t felt the overwhelming urge to find a creative way to wake him up. But she smothered that trail of thought for now.

The prince looked so peaceful, laid out on his back, one muscular arm draped across his eyes. The other was sprawled out like an open invitation for Cyril to lie right back down. She’d woken with that arm wrapped around her, her back pressed up against his side, and feeling more content than she ever had.

A feat, considering the events that brought her there.

She didn’t dwell on that much, as she eased out of Mikael’s bed and padded through the piles of their discarded clothes. She pulled on the first shirt she found—his, she realized, when it rolled down to her knees—and slipped quietly into the bathroom.

For longer than she cared to admit, Cyril stood on the cool tile and stared at herself in the mirror. Stared at the scabbed and irritated split sitting high on her cheek. The mottled purple and blue bruising that spread up into the hollow of her eye.

Just like that, the crushing weight of reality clawed into her periphery again.

Her hands were unsteady as she found a brush to run through her hair and swept it all up with a hair tie she found on the counter. She hoped it was Mikael’s.

Cyril splashed cool water on her face, careful to pat it dry, and saw to her uncomfortable bladder before she ventured back out into his room.

The sleeping prince hadn’t moved an inch.

But when she settled in beside him again, her back tucked up against his side, Mikaels stirred. He turned and circled his arms around her, pulling her flush to him.

The noise that left him was the unhappiest she’d ever heard.

“Why are you dressed?” he mumbled, his voice husky with sleep.

“I had to get up.”

“So?”

“I’m not—” She scoffed. “I’m not roaming around naked.”

“Why not? I, for one—” His fingers had been skimming the shirt, moving lower and lower. A contemplative noise rumbled in his throat when he finally reached the hem. “Is this mine?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know where mine is.”

“Mm. Acceptable.” Mikael swept her ponytail out of the way and kissed her neck. The shudder that coursed through her was entirely involuntary. “Good morning, wrath.”

“Good morning,” she chuckled.

“How are you feeling?”

A loaded question, but her simple mind went to one place.

“I’m…good.” Her cheeks warmed. “And a little…sore.” And it wasn’t in a way she was mad about, either.

Mikael hummed a rumble of pure masculine approval.

“I’m not surprised.” His voice was still rough in a way that wasn’t fair, and Cyril was sure he was doing it on purpose. The warmth of his hand slipped under the hem of her borrowed shirt, dragging the fabric up as he brushed his fingers across her stomach. With just a hint of amusement, he added, “I take it last night was to your liking?”

“Mika.” Cyril meant to chide him, truly, but those fingers continued north and his name tumbled out as a soft groan when he skimmed the underside of her breasts. She arched into his touch. “Of course it was.”

“Good.”

His lips grazed her neck again and Cyril was at a very serious risk of turning molten in his hands. She reached back, carding her fingers through his hair as, breathlessly, she asked, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Wrath, you have no idea,” he said almost reverently. “Are you too sore to go again, or…?”

He trailed off, urging her top leg forward and pressing his hips in behind hers, and—oh. The full, hard length of him eased between her thighs and every muscle in her body went slack.

Gods. She was weak for this man.

“I’ll gladly take care of us both in other ways if you are…” he added.

Cyril didn’t give two hells if she was sore or not. She wanted to feel him inside her again and the blissful euphoria that came with it. She canted her hips back for good measure, and Mikael groaned.

“Please,” Cyril murmured.

“That’s a dangerous word, wrath.” His voice was a low, haughty rumble as he rocked himself through the slick heat already building between her thighs. She slipped a breathy, needy moan of his name when his fingers slid down too. “Please what?”

“Please, Mika, I—” He sank a finger into her, followed by a second, and she whined.

“Tell me what you want, Cyr.”

“You, I want—” It was like he didn’t want her to speak, the smug arse. “Just fuck me again, please.”

Cyril won with that.

Mikael inhaled sharply, and was already pushing into her when he muttered something about her having a filthy mouth.

She didn’t care.

She was pleasantly sore, and so damn full.

Between the insistent touch of his fingers, and whatever in the hells kind of bliss was coming from the slow pumps of his hips at this angle…Cyril came undone before she knew it.

Mikael didn’t wait for the aftershocks of her release to settle before he eased Cyril onto her stomach and chased his end.

The noises Mikael made were a special, addictive sort of torture. All ragged, full-bodied groans laced with profane declarations, and all because of the pleasure he found with her body. Cyril would be a liar if she said the entire notion didn’t do unreasonable things to her confidence.

Another current of pleasure rippled through her when Mikael finally shuddered and fell over the edge too, with a husky rumble of her name.

She made a petulant little noise of protest when he eased out of her and settled back on his side. The smile on his face was everything to her. Euphoria was back in full swing and Cyril felt like she was floating on a damn cloud.

She pressed her face down into the pillows and let out a happy sigh. How long her eyes ended up shut for, she did not know, but she gave a start when Mikael carded his fingers through her hair.

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss her temple. “Come have a bath?”

Cyril blinked at him.

“A bath, together?”

Amusement flickered in those sleepy, glacial eyes of his.

“Yes, together. Or is that where you’re drawing the line?” He raised a single, angular brow. “Lady Cyril Rhodea will ask me to fuck her, but sharing a bath is off-limits?”

Her cheeks burned.

“That’s not what I—ugh.” She pressed her face back into the pillows. “I’ve never done this, okay? I don’t know what’s…not weird.”

Cyril laughed a little at herself.

“Then come have a bath with me. I’ll show you how not weird it is.”

He pressed another kiss to her temple and tossed his side of the covers back. Every proud, naked inch of him climbed out of bed and sauntered towards the bathroom.

It was then Cyril noticed that Reykr’s Prince Commander had something that looked suspiciously like the outline of a heart tattooed on his otherwise damn perfect backside.

She shook her head, watching him with appreciation the entire way.

“You don’t have to be shy with me, wrath…”

Mikael had his head tipped at Cyril in that predatory sort of way of his, his arms splayed out across the back ledge of the tub. He was nothing but wet, gleaming muscle laid out on display for her, the water lapping at his stomach.

A view she had thoroughly enjoyed until he opened his damned mouth and suggested she strip for him. She stood frozen on the first step into the water, still very much dressed in the prince’s shirt.

“Last night, I saw–”

“I know exactly what you saw, thank you,” Cyril hissed.

The extent of what Mikael saw of her last night was something she was well aware of. Especially after he’d hauled her on top of him to show her exactly what he liked. Just the thought of it had her cheeks burning.

“The water is lovely, wrath,” he goaded.

Cyril groaned. “Just turn around! Please, Mika.”

Mikael rolled his eyes, but he turned to face the wall. He took a washcloth and soap from the shelf inlaid into the wall and busied himself with scrubbing down his chest and shoulders. Cyril may have stalled for a moment to appreciate the moving musculature of his back.

“You know,” he said, “I’ll have you sauntering about naked before you know it.”

Smug, insufferable arse.

Cyril laughed dryly. “Keep dreaming.”

His shirt landed in a pile on the floor before Cyril sank down the last few steps into the water. The blissful heat of it started seeping into her aching, tense body.

Cyril dipped beneath the surface, soaking through her hair, before she waded over to the prince. She skimmed a hand up his back, through the suds that rolled back over his shoulders.

“Thank you for your discretion,” she chuckled.

It was then Cyril learned that bathing with the prince involved very little actual bathing.

Mikael turned, taking the arms she slung across her chest for a hint of modesty, and eased them up around his neck. He walked her slowly back against the wall in the shallower part of the basin. Every firm inch of him—some parts much, much firmer than others—pressed up against her, and he looked down at her with that same sort of rapt interest she’d caught in his eyes so many times the night before.

“You’re insatiable,” she murmured.

The lips he hovered against hers pulled back into a grin.

“Entirely your doing, wrath. And—” Mikael took a ragged breath as Cyril eased her hand between them, wrapping her fingers around his cock. “—that is not helping.”

“No? I was just thinking about a rather enjoyable afternoon in the glen that I never got to repay you for…” Cyril stood up on her toes to capture the lips that he’d insisted on teasing her with. She worked her hand in slow, steady strokes. “Unless you don’t want me to…?”

“You don’t owe me anything, ever.” Mikael’s voice was rough as his hand settled over hers, squeezing and urging her movements faster. “But if you feel inclined to indulge me out of the kindness of that strange, sweet little heart of yours…I won’t say no.”

She grinned up at him. “Show me what you like.”

And show her Mikael did.

He guided her pace and touch until his breath came in ragged, broken pants and he abandoned his hold on Cyril’s hand to brace himself against the moonstone wall behind her.

“Do not stop,” he groaned, and Cyril had never felt so damn full of herself. Well, maybe she did the night before when she was on top of him and the same words came tumbling out of his mouth, even though the prince had done most of the work himself then. “Cyr, I—fucking hells.”

Mikael exhaled sharply through his nose and every cord of muscle in Cyril’s view tensed. The warmth of his release pulsed over her fingers as she stroked him through his quiet groans and shaky breaths.

When the tension finally seemed to slip from his muscles again, Mikael tipped her face up and claimed her mouth with a languid, sated kiss.

The pride that swelled up in her chest threatened to swallow her whole.

“I love seeing you smile like this,” he murmured when he finally took a half step back in the water, and, gods, she must have had a shit-eating grin on her face with how her cheeks ached.

Mikael eased her hand off of him with a shaky breath and glanced down between their bodies. A flicker of satisfaction danced in his eyes. Maybe a little amusement, too.

“I, uh—sorry about that.”

He went to pull her hand into the water, but she tugged it back and gave in to her itching curiosity.

Mikael's eyes flared, and he made a quiet noise as she ran her tongue along her fingers, through the traces of his spend. Heady, salty, a little bitter—Cyril didn’t hate it at all. Just when she was about to draw another finger into her mouth, Mikael grabbed her wrist.

“Good gods,” he grumbled, “If you keep that up we aren’t going to make it out of here.”

She let him pull her hand into the water this time.

“Is that…a bad thing?”

“Considering I’ve been able to hear your stomach growling since you fell asleep last night? Yes.” Every trace of heat left Mikael’s face and his gaze turned appraising. “When was the last time you ate?”

Cyril blinked.

Mikael suddenly sounded an awful lot like someone she didn’t want to think about right now. She didn’t have an immediate answer for him either.

“I…” She swallowed thickly. “The day before yesterday, I think?”

“The day before—Cyril.” Mikael shook his head at her, running a hand through his damp auburn waves. “Let’s get dressed and see if we can catch lunch, then we’ll come back and you can have a proper bath if you want. Or…” He notched his fingers under her chin and fixed her with a wolfish grin. “We can come back and occupy ourselves in other ways.”

“Let’s start with food,” Cyril chuckled, because she was now acutely aware of just how empty her stomach was.

Mikael nodded his agreement and took the carved-in steps out of the bath, every proud, naked inch of him on display again until he wrapped a towel low on his hips. That was definitely the outline of a heart tattooed on his backside and a question for another day.

He held out a towel for Cyril as she stood there, waist-deep in the water, with her arms wrapped around her chest. He made an obnoxious show of turning his head away from her.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Cyril sighed as she ripped the towel from his hands and wrapped it around herself hastily. She skirted past him and back out into his bedroom to search for her clothes. The number of different directions each piece had ended up in was almost impressive.

“I think pain in the ass is one of my middle names.”

Cyril snorted. She believed that.

She had most of her clothes tucked in her arms, save for the underwear she still hadn’t located, when Mikael cleared his throat. He was standing by a half-open wardrobe, a glass vial in one hand and pants in the other.

“Cyr, uh—” A hint of a grimace crept onto his face. “You don’t…take a tonic, by any chance?”

“A tonic?” She stilled. “No, I…I didn’t think…I mean, I didn’t know we were going to…”

Oh, fucking fuck.

She was an idiot.

A complete fucking idiot.

Although fae weren't known for their abundant fertility, Cyril wasn't entirely fae and she still didn’t know the implication of that. But if there were a single damn thing she didn’t need to entertain the idea of…

“Don’t worry, I take one.” Mikael’s grimace softened into a smile. Her heart still pounded like a drum in her chest. “I think we’ll be fine, but you should too, to be safe. We can go down to the infirmary after and they’ll sort you out. Maybe Wren can look at your eye too.”

Her…oh.

Cyril touched her face.

Of course. The fucking black eye she was sporting, that she had definitely forgotten about, and wanted to keep forgetting about. It was easier to not think about anything else that existed outside of this little bubble of happiness she had in that moment.

Cyril just nodded and went back into the bathroom to get dressed.

Chapter 47

It was a miracle Cyril and Mikael made it down to the dining room with how little the prince seemed to be interested in keeping his hands off of her.

Just at the tail end of lunch, too, if the casual way Lars, Runa, and Astor were sitting back and chatting was any indicator. The smell of savory, fresh baked pastry hung faintly in the air in the dining room and had Cyril’s mouth watering as soon as they crossed the threshold.

“Afternoon, you two. Come to be fed and watered?” Runa smiled at them—no, she smirked—and tipped her head, and… Oh gods.

She knew.

Lars and Astor exchanged a curious, amused glance with each other.

They all knew.

Cyril felt a flush creep up her chest.

“You know the drill,” Mikael said nonchalantly as he tugged Cyril along, their fingers still tightly twined.

He pulled out a chair for her, and Cyril contemplated if it might be better to just slip under the table and avoid eye contact with anyone. She sat though, in the chair to the left of where Lars sat at the head of the table, Runa and Astor opposite her. The crown prince smiled warmly at her like he always did, but he looked…tired. Like maybe he’d had a rough few days too.

Mikael settled in beside her.

“Your eye…” Runa said with far less humor than she just addressed them with.

Cyril touched her cheek. “I’m… It’s alright.”

“I’m taking her down to the infirmary after.” Mikael, for reasons unbeknownst to Cyril, had taken it upon himself to fill her plate. “See if Wren can get it healed up for her, or if they’ve got something for the bruise.”

His mother nodded in approval, mentioning something about some salve or another, but Cyril didn’t quite catch it. Her attention snagged on the mountain of food the damn prince piled on her plate.

“Mika,” she said quietly, touching his arm. “That’s too much.”

He blinked down at her plate.

“Shit. Sorry, wrath,” he chuckled, swapping his empty one with hers. “Different appetites.”

She stopped his overeager serving well in advance that time.

The other three picked back up their quiet conversation, leaving Cyril and Mikael to eat in peace. And gods, she was starving. It took everything in her to not shovel back the meat pie and greens like an animal.

Cyril had just set down her cutlery and reached for her glass when she caught a flicker of tension passing through Astor, Runa, and Lars. Their eyes were all fixed on the door. Mikael must have noticed just before her because he was standing by the time she turned.

The little bubble of happiness she’d existed in all morning burst abruptly.

Dion was standing in the doorway.

Her heart sank.

“I just want to talk to Cyril,” he said slowly, his hands raised. “Alone, if—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mikael laughed bitterly, and Dion did not like that.

He stepped forward, moving to push aside the wall that Mikael had become between them. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Like hells it doesn’t!” Mikael planted his hand on Dion’s chest and shoved him back. “You laid your fucking hands on—”

Cyril had to look away.

Just the sound of Dion’s voice, that brief glimpse of the anger in his face, stirred up the sort of panic in her she couldn’t get a handle on. Her heart was pounding, and nausea churned in her stomach. She struggled to swallow down the bile that burned her throat, and her fucking cheek ached.

Cyril tried to find something, anything, on the opposite wall to focus on as she saw Lars move in her periphery and Runa stood.

It was Astor’s eyes she found looking across the table at her. They were darker blue than Mikael’s, more like Lars’ eyes than Runa's. He had a soft, sad sort of expression on his face and quietly he said, “It’s alright.”

“Don’t fucking touch—” Dion.

She held Astor’s gaze, her breath sawing out of her.

“Mikael, sit.” Lars, booming. The prince swore, and the chair beside her creaked. She didn’t look. “And you, out. Do not cause a scene, Rhodea.”

“Oh, I’m the one causing a scene?” The anger in Dion’s voice crested. Cyril chewed her lip so hard she tasted blood, Astor mouthed “Breathe” at her. She tried. “So, what, those two can do whatever the fuck they want? Throw drinks, shove people around, but suddenly I’m the problem? I’m the one causing—”

Runa’s hand slamming down on the table drew a quiet whimper from Cyril. Dishes and silverware clattered, and the room fell silent.

“You are over a hundred fucking years older than them, Dion”—Cyril flinched as the queen waved her hand aggressively between Dion and the table—“and you assaulted her, your own gods damned family, under my roof. You are a monster. Get out of my sight.”

The door slammed shut, and Lars did not return to the table.

A suffocating sort of quiet took hold of the room.

Mikael slipped his arm around Cyril, tugging her as close as the chairs would allow, and he kissed her temple. It did nothing to ease the way her heart or her mind fucking raced.

Runa sat back down, and Astor just looked surprised.

Cyril looked slowly from Mikael to Astor, and then to Runa. The queen was the first to open her mouth.

“Cyril—”

“I’m sorry.” Cyril’s voice was a hoarse, uneasy thing, but it was all she could think to say. Mikael brushed his hand down her arm and said her name softly.

All the tension slipped right out of Runa’s face.

“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I know…” Runa sighed. “I know you weren’t ready to talk yesterday, but I think we need to have an important conversation now.”

Cyril still didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to face the reality that she knew Runa was going to lie out in front of her. But options weren’t something she had anymore.

So, Cyril nodded.

The queen stood and worked her way around the table, extending a hand to Cyril. With a smile that spoke of so much sadness, Runa said, “Let’s go chat, just the two of us. I’m sure Mika has some work to keep himself busy.”

Mikael had paced in the residential hall for over an hour. From one end, straight through to the other, he couldn’t find it in him to settle or be anywhere else.

Cyril was still inside his parent’s suite, talking to his mother about what, he didn't know. He was so fucking worked up that he took one look at the stack of papers on his desk and turned right out of the barracks.

It hadn’t helped that during the short trip to and from his office, half a dozen damn guards asked if Lady Cyril was alright after catching a glimpse of her the night before. He lied and said she was but, gods, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

If only for Cyril’s sake, Mikael needed to calm down. But that was a task that was proving to be nearly impossible. His heart still beat like a drum in his fucking chest and he… He wanted to kill Dion.

There was no question about that anymore. Maybe that’s why he came back here, hoping they’d cross paths. Even though it was a foolish hope to think that he was nearby anymore.

A door in the hall creaked, but it wasn’t the one Mikael had watched like a hawk. His father came down from the main residence’s doors in lengthy strides.

Lars ran a hand through his hair, and he looked…frustrated. A sentiment Mikael was sure every member of the Kallan family felt now. His father inclined his head towards the seating alcove near the end of the hall and Mikael fell in step with him.

“Cyril is still with your mother?” Lars asked a bit roughly.

Confirmation then that things hadn’t gone well with Dion. Not that he thought they would.

“They’ve been in there for-fucking-ever.” Mikael nodded as he sighed and sank down on a sofa.

The last time he’d spent any real time here was when they found that poor maid’s body, months ago now, when Cyril was a stranger to him. An off-putting one at that, too. To end up back here, under these circumstances…

His father settled beside him, bracing his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Exhausted as Mikael had ever seen him. “Dion’s gone to Brynnhold indefinitely. He knows he isn’t welcome here.”

Mikael just nodded slowly.

One relief, at least, if only for Cyril. The look of fear he saw on her face last night wasn’t something he was sure he could handle seeing again.

“I’ll kill him if he touches her again,” Mikael said. Forward wasn’t something he was usually fond of being with his father, with how little civil conversing they did, but no part of this was usual anymore.

It was Lars’ turn to nod as he tossed him a sidelong glance.

“I think a few people share that sentiment. I thought you were going to kill each other earlier, truthfully.”

Mikael scoffed. If it wasn’t for how badly it would’ve fucked up Cyril, it might’ve been for the best.

“He threatened me, you know,” Mikael said, staring at the tapestry that hung opposite them on the wall. Its rolling flower fields felt entirely off putting.

“He…” Lars stared at him. “When?”

“Just before Bron died,” Mikael sighed. “He didn’t want me anywhere near his sweet little niece, because obviously I’m the danger.”

Lars was silent for a long minute, shaking his head.

“Dion has never been an…easy man to deal with. His temper and arrogance, and his vices—” His father laughed, bitterly. “They’ve always been problematic, but never like this. I think everything has finally caught up with him.”

“Am I supposed to feel bad for him?” Mikael could feel that tenuous hold he had on his anger slipping again. “That fucking waste of air has had a hard life, so that means he gets a free fucking pass on tearing Cyril down into nothing? He fucking hit her—”

“I was there, Mikael. I am well aware of what happened.” Lars loosed a slow breath. “His behavior is inexcusable, but you have to forgive me for trying to wrap my head around what series of events caused my friend to become such a monster.”

Despite what his father said, Mikael knew he was looking for an excuse.

A reason for why this happened that was anything but Dion being a fucking monster. Some tangible thing he could blame everything on that would separate the actions from the person. Separate the deplorable behavior from his dear friend.

Mikael knew what his thoughts on the matter were, but he needed to calm down. Cyril couldn’t see him angry and worked up like this, not when she came out of that room. She needed calm and—

“Your mother is offering Cyril sanctuary.”

Mikael blinked.

“She’s what?”

His father wore a sad smile as his attention turned to the end of the hall, where one of the double doors to their suite pulled open. “She’s offering Cyril refuge and safe haven. A way out of her life, if she wants it. I’m sure your mother will want to explain it all to you too.”

Cyril and his mother stepped out, and Mikael’s feet had him halfway there before he realized it, his father trailing behind. Cyril’s shoulders shook, her quiet sobs echoing down the hall as Runa pulled her into an embrace.

Not a happy conversation then.

“...You take your time to decide, all right? There is no rush.”

Runa stepped back from Cyril and took her face in her hands, sweeping her thumbs across her cheeks.

That usual rosy pink undertone of Cyril’s skin was gone, replaced with something ashen and cold. Her eyes were glassy, the brightness in them winked out. She looked like she was in agony, and Mikael’s heart felt like it was being torn apart.

“She would like to go lie down,” his mother said to him, and another quiet sob left Cyril when she looked at Mikael. “And I would appreciate it if you came back to speak with me afterward.”

Cyril reached for him with a shaking hand and tucked herself into his arms. The urge to hide her away somewhere safe—somewhere that no one could see her, touch her, or make her cry ever again—sank its claws into his spine.

Runa’s eyes met his, and they were weighed down with pain. The sadness, laden thick in her voice, was something wholly unfamiliar to him, the calm and soothing current of a being that his mother was.

“Of course.” His eyes drifted down to Cyril, to the hastily braided mess of black hair tucked against his chest. He rubbed her back. “You want to go to your room, or...?”

“Yours, please,” Cyril whispered.

As if she thought he would want to dictate where she could or couldn’t go to rest her damn head. He would have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her to fucking Helia if she asked him to.

“Come on.”

Cyril didn’t say another word as he led her the short distance back down the hall. She walked on legs that seemed unsteady, a blood-stained sleeve pressed to her face as she fought to get a handle on her tears.

Mikael didn’t think he had it in him to leave her.

There was no way in any of the hells it was healthy for her to be alone.

“Do you want me to stay? I can talk to my mother later.” Mikael asked as they came to a stop in front of his door. He tried to cup her face in his hands, tried to get her to look at him for even a moment, but she bristled and stepped closer to the door.

“No, you can go, I—” It took an inordinate amount of effort for her to swallow.

Her eyes didn’t leave the floor. She looked like utter hell, with her scabbed-over cheek and the purple bruising that filled the hollow of her eye. It was easy to overlook when she was flushed and smiling earlier, but the contrast now to her gaunt skin was impossible to ignore.

“I need a few minutes to myself…if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” Mikael would not push her on this, not when he couldn’t even fathom how she felt. He nudged open the door and motioned her in. “There are comfortable clothes in the dresser at the end there, if you want something else to wear.”

Cyril nodded absently and wandered in. He waited until she was halfway across the room to close the door and jog back to his parents’ suite.

Chapter 48

Mikael slipped through the unlocked door and followed the sound of voices down the corridor into the sitting room his mother always preferred to spend her time in. He’d always hated it there. The regality in its blue and silver floral wallpapers and plush, cream-colored furniture made him uncomfortable.

His parents stood at the fireplace, in front of the network of polished steel flowers and vines that made up its decorative screen. His mother’s head rested against his father’s shoulder. He hadn’t expected to see tears in her eyes when she turned around.

“What in the hells happened?” he asked.

Mikael didn’t bother with greetings or niceties. They were certainly past the point of that today. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The narrowed glance Lars shot him said his father thought otherwise.

Runa sighed and wiped at her face with one long sleeve of her robe.

“My reasons should be obvious, but I do not want Cyril going back to Helia,” she said, sitting down on the sofa. Lars settled in beside her, and Mikael took a chair opposite them.

“That makes sense.”

“Your father and I, we—” His parents exchanged a glance, and Lars nodded. “We’ve offered Cyril sanctuary, here in Reykr, should she want it. We agreed on it weeks ago, truthfully, but with everything that has happened… There was never a good time for me to broach the subject with her, not with the grief she was navigating.”

Runa let out a slow breath and wiped at her face again. Seeing his mother lose her composure like this was not something he witnessed often in his life.

“And what does sanctuary mean, exactly?” Mikael asked.

“Formally?” his father said. “We would issue her refugee papers, based on the grounds of serious risk to her life in Helia. After that, it would take a few months, but we’d be able to get Cyril her citizenship. She is part moon-fae, after all, and since your mother, well…”

Lars’ eyes slid over to Runa.

Her smile was a sad, tight thing.

“I’m one of her guardians.”

Mikael blinked. “You are?”

“I am.” Runa nodded. “It was what Malia wanted, and Hector and Dion saw that her wishes were honored. Obviously, Dion had precedence, given he is her blood, but in…” She blew out a shaky breath. “In the event that they were gone, and Dion could not fulfill his duties, her care would fall under my responsibility.”

“That’s very touching, but—” Mikael ignored the sharp look his father cut him. “Why does it matter who her guardian is? She’s an adult.”

It bothered him even when Cyril talked about it, but he just added it to the long list of things he realized he didn’t understand about the fae of the south. Things he wasn’t overly interested in understanding, either.

“It matters because highborn women in Southern Carinae don’t have the same rights they do here, Mikael.” Runa’s expression softened into something empathetic. “There they get passed from the care of their families to the care of their spouse, and because Cyril is not married, it means Dion is still responsible for her under their laws.”

Mikael just shook his head.

That Dion, the Lord of Helia, wouldn’t even fight for his damn niece to have rights…

“Safe to say Dion is no longer fit to carry out his duties as her guardian,” his father muttered, and Mikael couldn’t agree more. That man should have never been responsible for someone’s care or upbringing. “But that helps our case with getting her citizenship if she accepts our offer.”

Mikael wasn’t sure why she wouldn’t accept their offer, given everything, but one thing still made little sense to him…

“...And your offer upset her?”

“She was angry at first.” Runa huffed a laugh tinged with something bitter. “Not at me, or us, but Dion. Because I was another thing he kept from her, and did not give her a choice of. And then reality caught up with her a bit, of what she’s already lost, and what she would still stand to lose in exchange for her freedom.”

Mikael felt like his questions were never-ending. He sighed and sank back in his chair. “What does she even have left to lose? Dion? I’d hardly call that a loss.”

His father made a noise that had him inclined to believe Lars agreed.

Runa did not look impressed with either of them.

“Her home, Mikael. Helia is her home. Everything she has ever known is there. Not to mention we know Dion would strip her of her title, the lands that would be hers one day, any money she has. She would start over completely. But I did tell her we would take care of everything for her. Whether she wants to live here or in the city, if she wants to work or not, we will see that she doesn’t want for anything.”

Generosity was never something his parents had a short supply of for those who truly needed it, and Mikael knew that well, but he had never witnessed them invested so personally. His father, especially, given his role, was a purveyor of kind neutrality. This was the furthest Mikael had ever seen him tip the scales.

“Can I ask what happened last night?”

Another damn question, but Mikael knew the likelihood of him getting any sort of answer out of Cyril was next to zero. Truly, he wanted to ask what wild fucking chain of events led to Dion thinking he had any right to touch her, but his mother looked like she was hanging on by a thread.

His parents both spoke at once, but Lars motioned for Runa to continue.

“He stripped her of any association she had with the guild and, in light of that decision, he had all of her research and findings from the archives destroyed…”

Mikael was certain his heart dropped right out of his body.

He couldn’t fathom how many hours Cyril had spent in the archives, pouring over texts and tomes, writing pages upon pages of notes until her hand cramped. All in the name of trying to make herself useful, to be of some sort of value to her uncle and his guild.

And the fucking bastard took that from her.

“He did what?”

Runa just nodded, her eyes tired and heavy.

“He cited her…behavior as his justification. He tried to take all her freedom too, saying it was a matter of her safety. Then they—” His mother blew out a shaky breath, and he watched her lose hold of that frayed strand of composure she clung onto. Her shoulders shook and a quiet sob left her. “They went at it, and that’s when he…when he…”

She didn’t need to say anything else.

Even Lars closed his eyes, his body sagging with a sigh.

“I tried for years to convince him to bring her here,” Runa said shakily through her tears, “to let us see to her education and upbringing. But Dion thought he knew better, thought she needed to be with him, that he would take better care of her.” She scoffed and shook her head, dabbing her sleeve to her face. “I will never forgive myself for how I failed her, for not keeping her safe. But I will be damned if I do not give Cyril her wings.”

Mikael knew now that his mother would move mountains for Cyril if this entire display said anything. But parsing the absolute deluge of information that was just dumped on him felt impossible when all he could think of was the condition he left Cyril alone in.

“You know I’ll help in any way I can,” he said, and the faintest glimmer of a smile tugged at his mother’s features. “But I should see if she needs anything. I don’t think she should be alone for long…”

Mikael stood, and his parents did as well.

His mother came around the small tea table and hugged him, saying, “Cyril is going to need time and patience, and both in healthy measures. Her entire life has been spent at the mercy of others—having things taken away from her, her every move dictated. Once these dark clouds of her grief clear, she will need help to navigate her freedom, if she chooses it.”

“She can have whatever time she needs. I’m not going anywhere.” Mikael half shrugged as his mother leaned back and smiled at him, her silvery blue eyes still glossy and red.

It was the truth, though.

He would stick it out for however long she needed. It would be tantamount to cruelty to leave her on her own now, and the thought of not being around her made him wholly uneasy. Whatever wild fucking implication that had, he would process it later.

“Good.” She patted his chest and stepped away, but he caught the amusement that crept into her face just before she said, “I thought that might be the case, considering how thoroughly invested the two of you are now.”

Mikael blinked. Did she mean…

He looked from his mother, over to where his father had leaned back against the sideboard that housed all the crystals and stones his mother liked to keep for good measure.

“You two reek of each other,” Lars chuckled, “And there is no mistaking that for anything else. I’m just surprised it took this long.”

“The scent of you two was almost indecent at lunch,” Runa added, less than helpfully. Mikael wasn't usually one to find himself embarrassed, but this conversation? He could do with being no part of it. “And that bruise I saw on her throat, Mikael? Am I mistaken in thinking you almost made a very hasty decision?”

Yeah, he would not be part of this discussion anymore.

Cyril’s well-being and her future? He could handle that.

His mother dishing out thoughts on their intimate dealings? Not a fucking chance.

“How you are mistaken, Mother, is thinking any of this is your business.”

He headed out of the sitting room and heard his father mumble something in agreement with him. They’d agreed on more in the last day than they probably had in ten years, and it was unsettling. His mother, of course, followed him out.

“Mikael, you both better be taking a tonic!” she called after him, but Mikael waved her off and kept on down the hallway.

He had Cyril to take care of.

Pools of the thinning, late afternoon sun greeted Mikael when he pushed open the door to his room. Cyril’s head lifted from where she was curled up on her side on the bed.

“It’s just me,” he said softly, and her head sank back down.

Mikael toed off his boots and walked over. Sitting on the bench at the foot of his bed was a folded pile of clothes that looked awfully like what she had on earlier.

“You found something to wear?” he asked.

“I took one of your shirts.” Cyril’s eyes tracked him for a moment as he rounded the bed. She tugged the blanket up around her face and her heavy eyes slipped shut. “I hope that’s okay.”

Patience, he reminded himself.

“Of course it is.” Mikael brushed a section of hair back from her face, sweeping it behind the delicate point of her ear. She’d taken the time to wrangle it out of the braid she wove it into earlier, and run a brush through it, from the looks of things. “Did you not want the curtains closed, or…?”

“Couldn’t be bothered,” she sighed into the blankets.

Her apathy was palpable.

Mikael worked his way around the four windows in silence, pulling the heavy drapery shut on each until nothing but a thin stream of light trickled in between the navy blue panels.

“Can I join you?” he asked because this was the sort of territory he wanted to make zero assumptions in. He hoped she would say yes, that she would entertain the need he felt to be close to her and take care of her.

He didn’t expect her to whisper, “Please.”

Mikael’s heart ached as he eased under the blankets behind her and wrapped every fiber of his being around her little, broken frame. She settled back against him with a quiet noise that sounded almost content, and some deep-seated part of him breathed the smallest sigh of relief.

“Are you alright, Cyr?”

Even though he knew the likely answer, he felt like he had to ask.

She was calmer now than she’d been an hour ago. Maybe she’d had an epiphany while she sat in here alone. Maybe she realized that this dark and lingering night could give way to a dawn where she had choices, where she had freedom and—

“No.”

Mikael pressed his lips to her shoulder and said, “I know.”

He thought that would be the end of it, that heavy silence would settle in. But Cyril shifted in his arms and quietly added, “I understand why he did it.”

Every muscle in Mikael’s body went tense.

“What?”

Was she insinuating that there was justification to what Dion did, that—

“My father. What he did.” She sighed and gripped his arms. Her fingers were so fucking cold. “He wasn’t a coward, he just…he lost everything…and…I understand now.”

Ice plunged through Mikael’s veins.

He was sure he’d never heard more unsettling words spoken.

At one point, all he wanted was for Cyril to understand her father wasn’t a coward for taking his own life. He was just a man who had experienced unimaginable tragedy. But Mikael never wanted her to understand in a way that the events of her own life made it seem justifiable.

He tightened his arms around her, if that were even possible, and said, “You should get some rest, Cyr.”

He didn’t know what the fuck else to say.

A quiet hum left Cyril, and it took some time, but she settled. Her breathing slowed to a soft and shallow rhythm, and the desperate grip she held on his arms went slack.

Mikael did not get any rest.

He laid there with Cyril for hours, watching as those thin streams of daylight drifted the rest of the way across the room and vanished, bathing them in darkness. After her frightening declaration, he was wary to leave her for even a few minutes, but his eyes snagged on the clock on his bedside table and he eased himself away from her.

It was hours past dinner now, and Cyril needed to eat at some point. Even if she refused to take care of herself, Mikael would be damned if he didn’t do his part. The same song and dance they’d done since Bron’s death.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hungry either, and he knew the kitchens were not a fan of visitors too late in the evenings.

So Mikael worked himself into some semblance of presentable and wandered down through the quiet and heavily guarded halls. Both were things, he supposed, that stemmed from the tragedy that unfolded the day before in the archives.

He had a twinge of guilt for the work that he should be doing, the paperwork, and the organizing of manpower. But the fading wisp of a woman sleeping up in his bed took precedence over everything. He knew Ari could handle things on his own.

Thankfully, no one batted an eyelash when he slipped into the kitchens. He loaded a plate with odds and ends for the both of them, snagged two mugs of tea, and left as quickly as he came.

Upstairs, when he nudged open the door, Cyril was sitting up against the headboard. Her knees were drawn tight to her chest and one of the table lamps was lit.

“Where did you go?” she asked, and he recognized the shakiness in her voice immediately. Her following sniffle was only further confirmation. “I woke up, and you were gone, and I didn’t know…”

Patience. Patience. Patience.

“Just to the kitchens.”

Mikael held up the plate as he pushed the door shut with his foot.

His quarters weren’t exactly a place built for entertaining of this variety, but he slid the stack of logbooks over on the low table by the fire and cleared a spot off for them on the sofa. A proper cleaning could happen another day.

“Come eat something.”

Cyril sank into the pillows and blankets. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve eaten half a meal in two days. I highly doubt that.” Mikael held back on the urge to mention she certainly must have worked up an appetite. Humor didn’t seem like a wise choice. “Come and eat a bit.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Cyr, please,” he sighed, but Cyril just shook her head.

“I’m not hungry. I don’t—” Her voice cracked, and Mikael gave up his fight. It wasn’t worth it at all.

“Okay, okay. That’s fine.” Mikael ran a hand through his hair and took a slow breath. He settled on the sofa and managed a couple of bites of food, his own appetite suddenly absent. “I brought tea if you want that. Before it gets cold?”

A single offer and he wouldn’t push her any further.

To his surprise, fabric rustled softly and Cyril’s bare feet padded across the floor. The sofa didn’t even dip when she settled down on the cushion beside him, a mug clasped between her hands.

With her boney shoulders curled in, and her frame drowning in one of his shirts, the woman that sat beside him now was a shell of the one who once had no problem knocking him flat on his ass.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

Hollowness hung in her eyes as she stared over at the fire, quiet and unmoving. Minutes passed, and she never took a sip of her tea.

“It’ll be okay, you know,” Mikael finally said, turning to face her. “It’ll take some time, but—”

Cyril’s eyes slid over to him.

“Please don’t say that.” Her words were tense and spoken with slow purpose. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay when you still have a home and your family, and your job and friends. When you still have your purpose, and a future ahead of you.”

Mikael, for possibly the first time in his life, had fucked up by simply existing.

“Cyr, I didn’t mean—”

“I have nothing left, Mika. It’s all gone. My home, and my family. My purpose.” Cyril’s voice wavered, and she unfurled from herself, a sheet of black hair slipping forward as she set her mug on the table. She blew out a slow and shaky breath, her shoulders shook on the inhale. “I just want to go home, but I can’t… It’s all gone.”

She didn’t fight Mikael when he pulled her over and got his arms around her.

“Maybe it won’t be okay. Maybe everything you had before is gone,” he said softly. “But we’ll take care of you here, Cyr. We’ll help you build a new home if you’ll let us, and my family will treat you like their own, whether you like it or not.” That, at least, drew a muted noise from her. He’d consider it a laugh. “And purpose? We will figure that out.”

“We?” she said.

The implication loaded in the single word should have terrified Mikael. We. Not just him or her as solitary people, but them.

It didn’t terrify him at all, though.

“We,” he confirmed, and for a long while, Cyril said nothing.

Her arms snaked their way around Mikael’s neck, though, and she nestled herself in. She was exactly where she belonged. Where, for the time being, he could keep her safe and shielded from whatever harsh reality awaited her next.

That was enough to leave him content for now.

“Do you want to get some sleep?” he asked, tracing idle circles on her back.

Cyril made a quiet, hesitant noise before she said, “No...I’m hungry.”

Mikael laughed.

Chapter 49

Two weeks passed and Cyril still hadn’t found it in herself to give Runa an answer.

The queen stressed Cyril needed to take her time in deciding if she wanted to renounce everything she had in Helia—which wasn’t much at this point—and become a ward of their family. But time wasn’t helping at all, because Cyril wasn’t any closer to knowing what she wanted to do than she was on that awful fucking day.

It hadn’t helped that the days sort of blended into one another. A normal thing, she supposed, for someone who spent most of their time sleeping.

Being awake meant treading dangerously close to having to process reality, and that wasn’t something she was fond of. It also meant having to find things to occupy her time, and that proved to be challenging.

After the weeks Mikael spent shirking his duties just to hold Cyril and all her broken pieces together, his backlog of work neared on offensive. It kept him tied up most days from breakfast until dinner, and Cyril didn’t have it in her to bother him often.

The archives weren’t somewhere she dared step foot in again either, even though the guilt gnawed at her. But the place that once felt so safe and sacred held nothing for Cyril anymore. There was no purpose in her learning anything new now.

The only place she made it to with any regularity was the stables, to take Attie out for a ride every other day. She only lasted an hour or two out in the warmth and sunshine before the weight of reality would settle on her shoulders again.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

Emptiness.

They all worked through her on some sickening loop, and she never knew which one would hit her first when she woke up.

The other reason she didn’t opt to venture far from Mikael’s room?

Fear.

Cyril was terrified of running into Dion, of what he might say or do, of the explosive confrontation she knew awaited them. She did not know where he’d gone to live out his exile, or if he was even in Reykr anymore. If Mikael knew, he said nothing, which was probably for the best. They avoided talking about most things that happened with her now-estranged family.

When she ran into Rendal and Tyriel a week ago, down in one of the service halls, they said nothing about Dion, and she didn’t dare ask. They just took turns hugging her, and said they loved her, that they would always love her no matter the bullshit that happened.

It felt like a goodbye she wasn’t ready for.

Cyril broke down after they left, just a heaped pile of rattling sobs on the floor on the way to the kitchens. She never found out who went to get Mikael. But the prince was there, picking up every broken and jagged piece of her like he’d done so many times now, and carrying her back to his room. Their room, he liked to call it, even though she still firmly maintained that she had her own. She just didn’t sleep there anymore.

Every night since the one she refused to remember the start of, she stayed in Mikael’s room. It was safe to say sharing a bed with him this time around was far more therapeutic than when he stayed with her after Bron’s death, upholding that chivalrous boundary he’d insisted on.

The sex was, well…Cyril didn’t have a point of comparison.

But it took her mind somewhere else, where she was content and carefree, if only for a little while. And Mikael never voiced any complaints about it. She figured that meant it was pretty damn good.

At night, after they’d had a few drinks with dinner, and a few more at the barracks, their joinings felt rough and carnal in the most cathartic way, driven purely by a need for release. Sometimes repeatedly. It was the mornings that were soft, sensual, and a little indulgent. Mikael usually left her ready to sleep for another few hours by the time he begrudgingly went to get ready for his duties.

And that toe-curling threat Mikael made on the very first night he brought her to the barracks? The one involving a desk and not being able to speak?

He’d made good on that threat.

Multiple times.

But that wasn’t why she was sitting in his office today, a few hours past noon and only an hour out of bed.

Well, she certainly hoped that wasn’t why he sent for someone to get her.

Kaia and Ari were here too, and all three of them looked like they’d been put through the wringer repeatedly. A sentiment she appreciated.

Mikael sighed from where he sat on the edge of his desk, scrubbing his hands over his face as he said, “Cyr, I know you haven’t wanted to know anything about, well…anything.”

She tensed in her seat.

“It’s not about Dion. He…he’s in the city, and I don’t think he’ll be leaving anytime soon.”

That wasn’t reassuring at all.

“Did…something happen?” Cyril looked from Mikael to Kaia to Ari. There wasn’t a lick of warmth or humor in any of their faces. Cyril hadn’t wanted to know about anything, but something wasn’t right, and none of them seemed to want to be the ones responsible for delivering the news.

“Mika…” she said.

“Two more bodies, in Brynnhold.”

A shaky breath slipped out of Cyril, and she whispered, “Two?”

Mikael’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded.

“At the temple near the harbor, someone found them this morning. A priestess and a midwife. It’s…I mean, it’s fucked up beyond belief. They helped destitute women, ones that came stowed on ships from the mortal lands wanting better lives for their unborn children.”

“That’s awful…” Cyril said quietly.

More good people, more senseless deaths.

She was certain she should have felt something, anything, but her heart didn’t feel like it even beat enough for herself anymore.

“It is. And the temple, it’s…” Mikael rubbed his hands over his face again and blew out a slow breath. “None of that is for you to worry about, other than to please be mindful. We—”

“We need your help,” Kaia cut in, giving Cyril a rueful smile.

Mikael stared at Kaia and shook his head before he looked back at Cyril.

“Not in the city or anything like that, so don’t worry,” Mikael said, because he must have known what sort of tension was already creeping its way back into Cyril. “We need help here. Most of the King's Guard is being dispatched to the city on top of the royal contingents because it’s a fucking mess. But there just isn’t enough space at the city station, so everyone will be rotating through here. So…” His smile was half-assed at best. He looked as drained as she felt. “I need help here. Servicing weapons, keeping supplies stocked, directing traffic, and the like. I know it’s not glamorous, but—”

Not glamorous.

Cyril was certain he’d said those same words to her in some fever dream of a different life.

“Of course I can help,” she said. “Back home, I used to…”

It stung, just saying that, but a little sigh of relief swept through the room.

Gods, Cyril could do those kinds of tasks with her damn eyes closed. It felt like an eternity ago now, but she was useful once, playing her part in running a thriving, bustling place.

“I know.” Mikael nodded. The softness in his eyes carried words she was glad he didn’t say.

Kaia didn’t let her linger on that for long. She tapped Cyril’s leg with her foot, wearing the most pleading grin as she said, “You, uh, have any plans for the rest of the afternoon? We have so many travel packs to put together.”

“No plans, no.” Cyril forced a smile, and it felt tight, foreign. “I’m all yours.”

“Fuckin’ right you are.” Kaia grinned. “I knew we could count on you.”

“She means thank you,” Ari sighed and started steering Kaia out the door. “We very much appreciate the help. Everything is set up downstairs, so come join us whenever.”

Cyril went to follow them out, but only made it a few steps before Mikael hooked her around the waist and hauled her back. He tipped her chin up and chuckled when Kaia made the quiet gagging noise she seemed fond of making whenever Mikael got affectionate with Cyril.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“No.” Cyril winced. “I…I haven’t been up long. But it’s fine, I don’t need—”

“I’ll go fix her up something,” Ari called out from the doorway. “Just head to the assembly room with Kaia, and I’ll bring it down to you.”

Cyril turned to thank him, but only caught his back as he disappeared down the hall. Kaia stood in the doorway, watching the two of them with a raised brow.

“Thank you,” Cyril said as she turned back to face Mikael, and he tipped his head curiously. As if he didn’t understand why she would thank him.

“Thank me? Gods, no, thank you.” He clasped her face and kissed her forehead, then her lips. Kaia gagged again from the door. “You are a remarkably useful person to have around, I hope you know. And…” He leaned in, brushing his lips to her ear, and he whispered, “I’ll probably be stuck in here all day if you want to come by when you’re done. Just you.”

For as tired as his eyes seemed, just a hint of mischief flickered in them.

“See you then, Commander.” She smiled at him, probably more freely than she had in a while, and followed Kaia down the hall.

“You two are disgusting,” Kaia chuckled to her.

That haughty solo visit to Mikael’s office never ended up happening. Midnight had long passed when they finished the last of the packs to send out with the guard at first light, and Cyril only had a foggy memory of actually leaving the barracks afterwards.

The next morning though, she woke up fully dressed and curled up on top of Mikael’s bedding. The prince was sprawled out on his stomach beside her, still in his uniform.

For the first time in weeks, Cyril got out of bed before Mikael even stirred.

As she padded over to Mikael’s wardrobe, where more and more of her things seemed to live now, the first traces of morning light painted the room’s dark surfaces in a warm glow.

Despite the way her back and feet both ached, Cyril found herself smiling.

She couldn’t wait to go back to the barracks and feel that sliver of purpose again.

Chapter 50

Day four of being the honorary barracks mother, and Cyril wasn’t sure if guards or rogues were worse at following the most basic of instructions.

“No! No no no. Not there! Just— Oh fucking hells, just give them here. I’ll deal with them,” Cyril groaned as she pried an armful of freshly laundered uniforms from a bewildered trainee and dumped them on a table in the mess hall.

Her office, as Mikael liked to call it.

“Those”—she waved wildly towards crates of dirty uniforms the trainee almost dumped them into—“are dirty, filthy, to go to the palace. Clean? Here.” She pointed at the three tables that became a makeshift folding area for the dozens upon dozens of uniforms that came back from the laundress every day.

Cyril had no idea why they changed their uniforms so often, but she had vastly underestimated how many guards were in rotation with the royal service.

“Should I, uh, get more?” The poor doe-eyed man just blinked at Cyril.

Apparently, he’d been part of the recruits in the most recent round of basic training. But as a moon-fae man with short blonde hair and honey-brown eyes, the same as a half-dozen others in that group, Cyril didn’t remember him.

She pretended, though.

“Yes.” Cyril plastered on a smile. “You, back and forth, get everything clean from the laundress and put it on these tables. I will fold and put it away.”

“Right. Okay.” He nodded, looking like he mostly understood, she hoped. “Thank you, Miss Cyril.”

Miss, because he insisted on a title, and Lady sure as fuck wasn’t going to be it.

Cyril waited until he cleared the mess hall doors before she sunk her face into the pile of fresh laundry, nearly as tall as she was on the table, and she groaned.

She had grossly underestimated the physical toll running the barracks like this was going to take.

Her feet throbbed in her boots. Her neck had a wicked kink in it. Her hands were so damn dry and cracked from cleaning and organizing and touching so many damn rough things they bled in some spots.

“You can fold while sitting down, you know.”

Cyril swore and straightened up. She leveled an unimpressed stare over her shoulder at Mikael, leaning insufferably in the doorframe.

He had tea though, and something wrapped in parchment in his other hand.

“You can also sit to eat lunch, which I was told you didn’t bother doing today.” He sighed. “We talked about this…”

Gods, had they ever, and she didn’t want to talk about it again.

Either the prince himself or one of any number of the guards were all over her about eating, multiple times a day at that. Did she eat? Did she eat enough? What did she have to eat? Was she drinking enough water?

It was exhausting.

“I missed a single meal, Mika,” she groaned. “And it was Gunner’s fault. No one else would throw darts with him.”

Her excuse was pretty pathetic, but it was the truth. Of all the guards, Gunner was the only one trying to still uphold some semblance of normal.

Mikael’s displeasure was palpable as he strode over to her and slid a chair out with his foot, jerking his chin at it. “Sit. Eat. I’ll fold.”

Cyril’s brows climbed, and she laughed.

“How much laundry have you done in your life, seriously?”

Mikael set down the tea and—ooh, he’d brought her a pastry.

“Enough, thank you. Now sit and eat, please.” The insufferable arse gripped her shoulders and steered Cyril to the chair. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep standing up.”

Gods, she wanted to argue with him on principle. But he wasn’t wrong in the least. Cyril complied, even though she wasn’t confident getting back up was something she’d manage.

“I’m just not used to this anymore,” she grumbled.

Just like how Mikael was evidently not used to ever doing much folding based on the haphazard way he was dealing with the stack of pants. She’d save that to tease him with another day.

“I know. Now shut up and eat.”

Cyril glared at him before she tore into the icing-covered and apple-filled pastry. It could have been her hunger talking, but it was absolutely delicious. The watery excuse for tea was definitely Kaia’s doing, but Cyril downed it all anyway.

Then she watched Mikael fold—poorly.

She didn’t have enough energy to correct him, or even give him a hard time.

He made it around halfway through the pile when Cyril saw another guard come into the mess hall. And it wasn’t her trainee, which raised all sorts of concerns. She didn’t even want to think where he ended up with another armful of laundry.

“Yes?” Cyril said, because this one wasn’t great with his words either.

“Miss Cyril.” He nodded at her and stiffened up when Mikael turned around. “Commander, His Majesty sent for you.”

“Why?” Mikael sighed and grabbed another pair of pants to fold. “I swear to the gods if this is about resourcing again…”

The trainee cleared his throat. “The crown prince has taken ill. He collapsed in a council session apparently, and they’ve brought him to the infirmary.”

Mikael went still.

Something that looked an awful lot like fear flickered through his eyes.

“Just go,” Cyril said as she took the half-folded pants from him. “I’ve got this under control. Go.”

Mikael grabbed them back and tossed them on the table.

“Please,” he said softly, and there was never a way in any of the hells she’d be able to tell him no. Just that single word, spoken with that sort of unease, made her chest tight.

Cyril took his hand and let him lead her towards the door.

“You,” he said to the guard standing still as a fencepost by the door, “tell Kaia where we’ve gone, but no one else.”

Just the sight of the infirmary’s double doors set every part of Cyril’s being on edge. It was a blessing Mikael didn’t even think twice when she told him to go in without her, that she would wait in the hall.

Weeks ago now, when he’d tried to bring her down to have her eye looked at—and for a supply of contraceptive tonics—things hadn’t gone well.

In the wake of a wave of panic so terrorizing it made her sick, Cyril had opted to let the bruising heal on its own. Mikael shouldered the brunt of the awkward conversation with one of the healer’s aides about tonics, which she now took daily.

She wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready to see the inside of those walls again. But Mikael had far more pressing things to worry about now than Cyril’s fear of that room.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her either.

She now sat exactly where Tyr and Ren sat on the day she tried so hard not to think about. The same spot where she laid eyes on them moments before her world unraveled, waiting now to find out if Mikael’s own life faced the same fate.

Time in that hallway drifted by at an agonizing pace.

Murmurs and muffled voices came in waves from the door just a few feet away, but Cyril couldn’t pick up on the details of what was being said. Mostly Runa, she could tell, with another unfamiliar female voice and occasional top-ups of what could have been Lars or Mikael, she wasn’t sure.

Her eyes had slipped shut for long enough that when the hinges of the door squealed, she jolted upright.

“Cyr? I—Ah.” Mikael looked down and gave her a lopsided, exhausted smile. “There you are.”

Cyril went to haul her ass off the ground, but Mikael’s back met the wall and he slid down beside her, legs splayed out in front of him. Cyril offered him her hand, and he laced his fingers tightly with hers.

“Is he…?” There were too many ways for Cyril to end that question.

“Lucid, sort of.” Mikael nodded absently. She couldn’t imagine what the inside of his head felt like right now. “It comes and goes.”

“Do they know what’s wrong?”

“Something with his blood. An infection, I think? I didn’t entirely understand, but…”

“…He’s going to be alright?”

“Wren thinks so, but it’ll be a slow recovery. He’s ascended and hasn’t been able to fight it off on his own, so it’s something severe.” The prince freed his hair from its knot and raked his free hand through. “If his half-lucid ramblings are to be believed, he hasn’t been feeling well for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Cyril blinked. “And he didn’t tell anyone?”

Mikael nodded. “Apparently he didn’t want to worry anyone, with everything going on, so Reyna arranged for him to be treated in the city by healers from her village.” He cast Cyril a sidelong glance. “The same ones who have been treating her.”

Her eyes widened. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” Mikael huffed a bitter laugh. “Turns out I’m less of an idiot than everyone likes to assume. All these trips back home? Treatment. Because our healers here aren’t trustworthy.”

Cyril just shook her head.

The Forn’s renowned and beloved healers were nothing but a farce, acting in smoke and mirrors, and fear. It only took a single afternoon in the archives for Cyril to figure out that much. They were more worried about the state of those damned cosmic scales than they were about proper medicine.

It just never felt like Cyril’s place, to surface facts that Runa surely knew about her people. To weigh Mikael down with things that weren’t important. Every bit of knowledge she ever pulled from the archives proved to be useless, and why wouldn’t that have been any different?

But now? Maybe Cyril should have said something if it meant there was a sliver of a chance of sparing the family slowly becoming her own from this stress. If it meant she could have prevented the unease that she could see strung through every fiber of Mikael.

Maybe she should have told Mikael about the Forn’s beliefs on balances and scales and their archaic practices.

Maybe she should have told Runa about Mikael’s suspicions with Reyna’s health, and been a voice for him like he’d done endlessly for her.

Gods, maybe all three of them should have talked together about beliefs and farces, about scales and cleansing, about purists and the Forns.

Maybe she should have…

Cyril’s entire body tensed.

“Mika…?” she said quietly.

“Hm?” Mikael shifted in her periphery, but Cyril couldn’t pull her eyes away from the sterile, white wall opposite them. “What is it?”

“I…”

Cyril cleared her throat.

If she put any of this into words, there would be no going back.

If Mikael thought she was out of her mind, or overstepping her bounds, she had no course of recovery.

But she had to trust him.

Had to trust that he was the one person she could voice anything to.

So Cyril looked up at him, at those weary blue eyes, and asked, “Did Astor say how long Reyna has been sick for?”

Mikael’s brows pulled together.

“Many months, I think.” He sighed. “Astor was spotty on that, but it sounded like it’s been a really long time.”

Cyril nodded, slowly.

“And when…” Gods. The words just didn’t want to form. “Mika, promise me you won’t think of me any differently for asking this?”

His head tipped, and he squeezed her hand.

“Of course I won’t. What is it?”

She swallowed down the lump in her throat.

“When did the murders start?” she said hoarsely.

“The murders?” Mikael blinked, and Cyril watched as something wholly uncomfortable crept into his body. “Cyril, what do you mean…”

His narrowed eyes and tense jaw made Cyril want to curl in on herself and disappear, but she couldn’t fold, not now. She drew on every fleeting strand of courage and said, “I think the timing might not be a coincidence, Mika.”

The disbelief Mikael stared at her with was sickening.

He shook his head slowly, his lips parted, but the infirmary doors creaked open before he could put whatever was in his mind into words. Mikael kept staring straight through her, but the sight of Runa hooked every ounce of Cyril’s attention.

Never, in all of Cyril’s months in Reykr, had the queen ever looked so normal. Her sweeping mane of gorgeous, copper waves? Tied up, and rather haphazardly at that. Her clothes? No robes, or embroidery, or exquisitely crafted brocade in sight. Just a pale gray tunic and dark, loose pants.

A woman thrown from her element and frazzled.

Runa’s attention fell to Mikael and Cyril. Her whole body heaved with a sigh.

“Gods, you two, I’m sorry. We can’t catch a damn break…” Runa’s tired eyes turned scrutinizing in a heartbeat. “My boy, you look pale. Maybe you should go get some rest. I know it’s easier said than—”

“Can we talk to you?” Mikael’s voice was hoarse, but he finally pulled his eyes away from Cyril and looked up at his mother. “Privately.”

Cyril took a slow breath.

This conversation was going to happen.

Runa glanced between the two of them before she nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”

Chapter 51

How many small offices and sitting rooms this damn palace had, Cyril couldn’t even fathom. But after a couple of twists and turns down from the infirmary doors, Runa led them into a room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in Cyril’s lifetime.

The queen willed an orb of faelight into existence, and none of them risked the worn wicker furniture. Mikael scrubbed his hands over his face from where he leaned against the wall. Cyril stood in the center of the room, her sweating palms clasped tightly together.

“I shouldn’t leave Astor for long,” Runa said, her eyes darting toward the door she’d just closed. A worried mother was breaking through her calm regality. “But what in the hells has the two of you looking like you saw something crawl out of the lake?”

“All you,” Mikael said, waving a hand at Cyril.

The fucking arse.

Runa turned all of her attention on Cyril, and her tongue suddenly felt like lead in her mouth. Her lips parted, but she had no words.

“Oh, sweetheart. Out with it, please. Whatever it—” Runa inhaled sharply and her eyes snapped back to her son. She hissed, “Mikael, did you get her—”

“Absolutely not.” Mikael threw his hands up in defense, shaking his head.

“How radical are the purists in the Forns?” Cyril asked, the words just tumbling out of her far too quickly.

Runa’s dry laugh had an undercurrent of relief to it.

“Gods. They’re about as bad as they come. Why?”

Cyril’s heart felt like it was about to beat right out of her fucking chest. But she looked at Mikael, and his single nod was all she needed.

“Let's just say…” She swallowed thickly. “If someone of great value to them fell ill, like a…princess. Would they resort to desperate measures to try and bring back balance? Would they deem anything necessary to tip the scales back, to cleanse whatever wrong they deem responsible?”

The next few seconds felt like some of the longest in Cyril’s life, but she saw the exact moment the terrifying realization skittered through Runa’s body.

The queen’s scrutinizing eyes went wide, and she breathed, “Good gods…”

Cyril could only nod.

“Where is Reyna right now?” Mikael asked quietly.

“I-I…” Runa blew out a shaky breath. “We don’t know. Astor was confused, thought she was here at first, then he said she was at their house in the city, but no one could find her.”

“Fucking hells,” Mikael sighed. “She’s gone crawling back to the Forn’s already. We’ll never track her down.”

“Can’t we send someone there for her?” Cyril asked. “I mean, her husband is lying in there—”

Runa shook her head.

“Not that simple, my dear. The Forn’s are heavily warded, and the only way in is by a boat across the harbor. And even then, we will be turned away at the docks. They do not want outsiders in their lands.”

“Outsiders in their lands?” Cyril scoffed. She had little control over how her voice raised as she bit out, “Who gives a fuck about what they want? They are killing innocent people in the name of their bullshit beliefs! They fucking killed B—”

Runa stepped forward and grabbed the hand Cyril started waving in the air.

“Lower your voice now,” Runa whispered harshly. “If there is any chance that we are wrong, these sorts of accusations would spell disaster. There are eyes and ears loyal to the Forn’s all over the damn palace, and we cannot risk anything right now.”

Cyril took a slow, shaky breath.

“So what do we do?” she asked, and Runa turned her attention to Mikael.

“I hate to ask any more of you…”

“Our resources are already stretched so thin.” He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes before he raked his hands through his hair. “I’ll have to see if some of the boys working in the city can pull a few days of double duty, see if they can get a pulse on anything from the docks.”

Runa reached out to rub his arm. “Discretion, please, until we have something more than a bad feeling. We can’t afford to cause any sort of panic right now.”

“Of course,” Mikael sighed as he nodded.

“Your father is going to need your help too, you know, while Astor recovers…”

Whatever else Runa said to Mikael, something or other about lords and dinners, Cyril didn’t quite catch.

She couldn’t get Reyna’s face out of her mind. Her soft voice, her kind smile.

Bron was dead because of the purist princess, and Cyril wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to forgive herself for that. Cyril had shared meals with this woman. Held conversations with her, if only briefly. How many times had Cyril looked her right in the eyes and not thought twice about the quiet way Reyna observed everything around her?

Maybe Cyril was just desperate for someone to blame. Maybe she was drawing wildly out-of-place connections. But she was confident Reyna destroyed everything she ever loved and ripped the one pillar of strength and stability from her life.

A quiet noise left Mikael that sounded awfully like defeat, and Cyril blinked over at the prince and his mother.

“Thank you, my boy.” Runa cupped his cheek and gave him a soft, warm smile. “I should go back now, but be safe, both of you, please. And keep me apprised should you hear anything at all. I will do the same.”

The door barely closed behind her when Mikael turned to Cyril and sighed, “What in the actual fuck...”

What an understatement.

Cyril wasn’t even entirely sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Yeah.” Cyril just nodded.

All the tension slipped from Mikael’s face and he stepped over, brushing his thumb over Cyril’s cheek.

“We’ll figure it out, wrath,” he said softly.

“I know.” Cyril blew out a shaky breath. Even though she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see any of it, she asked, “Can I see the records for the murders? I…just want to check something.”

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, the most comforting thing she’d seen since they left the barracks.

“Of course you can,” he said, taking her hand. “Lead the way.”

Two haphazardly stacked piles of folders sat on the worn and marred surface of Mikael’s desk, and Cyril just stared at them.

She felt sick.

Sick that no one had listened to Runa. That no one had listened to her. That no one connected these dots or asked these questions, or did fucking anything.

She knew from grumblings of rogues at the estate that there were always little bits of complacency that surfaced in these types of incidents, things that were overlooked or had a blind eye turned to them. But this was egregious.

There was an implication buried in there that Cyril wasn’t sure she was ready to accept yet.

“Find what you were looking for?”

Mikael’s voice came from behind her suddenly and she stiffened. She hadn’t heard the door open back up after he left to deal with some guards.

It really was for the best that Dion cut her loose from the guild. She was a piss-poor excuse for a rogue.

“Just…confirmation, I guess.”

Really, that was all that she got. No light in the dark, so to speak. Just the sad confirmation that maybe, just maybe, not all of these people would have died if someone just fucking listened.

“Too confidential for this lowly man to know about, or…?” Mikael flashed her a wry grin as he tipped Cyril’s chin up and kissed her. Just a brief, soft thing. He settled back against the edge of his desk after, eyes drifting over the two piles.

It was remarkable how well he could smooth over the stress she knew roiled just beneath his surface.

“You remember when I helped with training?” she asked.

Mikael raised a brow at her. “Fondly, yes.”

Cyril should have smiled, but she didn’t.

“When I went to the gardens with your mother that week, she taught me about Reykr’s history with the purists, and where she and Reyna came from. All because I mentioned that scroll that…Tobias helped me translate, and how Dion shut me down.”

“Right…”

“Your father and the general shut her down too. Your mother said when the first murders happened, and the runes came up, she tried to give some guidance, but they just told her not to worry about it.”

“Of course they did.” Mikael sighed and shook his head. His vacant stare across the room told her just how much else he probably wanted to say. She knew he held opinions about both men. “I knew she put you up to something…”

Cyril shook her head. “She only gave me information and encouragement, Mika. Thought maybe the two of us might be stronger together. But Dion was pissed with me for the implication of what I was looking into, and then he, well…”

He destroyed so much more than just her research, but Cyril just waved her hand vaguely and slid further down into her chair. Mikael would understand.

“And you wanted the records for…”

“Right.” Gods, the fatigue was seeping into her very bones. Mikael’s half smile was empathetic at least. “So we know the purists believe in balance and cleansing, and all that bullshit, yeah?”

Mikael nodded, and Cyril pointed a finger toward the stack of files on the left.

“The barmaid, the carpenter, Rika, and Tobias. All of mixed blood in some capacity. Sun, moon, nymph, mortal, you name it. What some purists might call filth.”

Just like that damn woman at the state dinner.

Her finger drifted to the pile on the right. “The two merchants, and that poor priestess and midwife. All moon-fae, but they were just knee-deep in filth. Business dealings, providing refuge, delivering babies, and the like.”

Visible tension pulled through Mikael’s body, his knuckles blanching as he gripped the edge of his desk, though he obviously was making some effort to conceal it in his face.

“So all these people suffered and died just because Reyna got sick? Because her people thought some imaginary fucking balance was thrown off?” The words rolled off of Mikael’s tongue like they tasted foul.

Cyril just nodded, her lips drawn into a tight line.

That was the simplest way to put it.

He pinched his brow. “I need a drink.”

“That makes two of us.” Cyril stood up and stepped into Mikael’s space. His arms were around her before she’d even settled her cheek against his chest, drawing her flush to him. “We need to make sure someone answers for all of it, however long it takes. I don’t think I’ll be leaving Reykr anytime soon, or, well…ever really.”

Mikael stilled.

“Wait. Did you…” His words were just a breath of disbelief as leaned back, but Cyril moved with him. The damn prince loved eye contact, but she just wanted him to hold her right now. “Did you accept my parents’ offer?”

“Not yet. But I will, once things have quieted down a bit.” She grinned against the soft fabric of the fitted base layers he wore beneath his uniform. “I don’t want to leave.”

Mikael. Reykr. The palace. His parents. The guards. All the staff.

She didn’t want to leave any of it, and something about the utter mayhem of the last few days had solidified that for her. Even with their newest revelation, Reykr felt like home in a way she wasn’t sure Helia ever could again.

A quiet noise left him that sounded remarkably emotional, and it tugged on her heart like all fucking hell. Tension slipped from his body, his fingers skimming her nape, and she felt his lips brush the top of her head.

“You don’t know how happy that makes me, wrath.” His voice was thick, and Cyril blinked.

“Mika, are—” She tried to ease away from him, but Mikael held her firm. “Are you crying?”

“Absolutely not.” A chuckle rumbled through him, but she heard him sniffle too. The fucking softie. “I’ve never done such a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah. Prince of Darkness. I get it.” Cyril smoothed her hand over his chest, lingering over the steady thrum of his heart—something that had become one of her favorite things in the world to feel and listen to.

Mikael let her step back from him this time, his hands settling loosely at her hips. There may, possibly, have been a hint of sheen in his glacial eyes. Some sort of relief tinged with happiness tugged at the rest of his features though, and that was a welcome distraction.

“I’m exhausted.” He reached to tuck a chunk of hair behind her ear. Sometime in the last few hours, her braid had come to pieces. His hand lingered, fingers skimming her cheek, and Cyril leaned into it. “Can we go to bed?”

She groaned, “I still have uniforms to fold.”

And gods, bed sounded like the best damn thing he’d ever suggested. Sleep had become a scarce resource these last few days, and she knew today’s developments would only make it worse.

At this rate, she was going to have to drag a blanket and some pillows down to the barracks.

“Tomorrow, wrath. Rest first.” Mikael straightened up and gave the piles of folders another glance. “You’re done with these for now?”

Regrettably, she was. There was nothing else to glean from any file or report that they didn’t already know now.

Cyril nodded, and Mikael started to stack everything into a neat pile.

“I meant to ask you though…Did they not consider Bron to be—” Nope. She couldn’t say it. The words just caught in her throat. “I noticed there wasn’t a file for him.”

Mikael cast her a cautious glance. He set the folders to the side of his desk.

“He has a file. Same as the others, I…” He sighed. Softly, he said, “It has details of everything, Cyr. The…condition he was in, what Wren thinks happened to him. I didn’t think you’d want to see that.”

Cyril shook her head.

She didn’t need to read any of that. Not now. Maybe never.

“No, that’s okay.” The lump in her throat fucking hurt to swallow.

A handwritten description of the condition of his body was the last thing she needed when she could still see it so vividly in her mind. The gaping wound in his throat, that mottled bruising on his face, the—

Cyril took a slow breath.

“I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t forgotten about, because…”

Because that was when everything fell apart.

That was when Cyril lost track of herself, and she stopped asking questions.

That was when the days blended into weeks, and months just slipped by.

Mikael clasped her face in his hands, his smile a soft and sad thing. She reached up and tucked a piece of his own wavy, auburn hair behind his ear.

“Never. He was treated like one of our own.” Cyril could accept that.

She murmured a quiet “Thank you” as he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Let’s go get some rest, yeah? And maybe…” There was that trace of that heady little glint in his eyes as he pulled back, that she’d barely seen in days. “Maybe we take a bath?”

Cyril knew precisely what that meant because it happened every damn time he convinced her to join him—which was often—and it certainly wasn't bathing.

She stared at him.

“Everything that’s happened today, and you’re thinking about sex?” she said, and a wry smile tugged at his face.

“A happy end to a fucking awful day? Absolutely I am.” Mikael chuckled as he leaned in, ghosting his lips across hers. “I think we could both use a little distraction. A few, maybe.”

“I’m so tired, Mika,” she sighed.

Cyril wasn’t entirely confident in her abilities to even make it back to their room, let alone any other sort of activity.

“I know you are.” His hands splayed over her shoulders with that firm and guiding touch she struggled not to go slack under, and Mikael steered her towards the door. A step from the threshold he leaned down, lips skimming her ear, and he said, “Which is why I will do all the work, Lady Cyril. You can just lie back and enjoy yourself.”

Cyril snorted. “Lie back in the bath?”

“Something like that.” He grinned, those damn double canines gleaming.

Chapter 52

That ever-growing pile of laundered uniforms never saw its end.

Every time Cyril had a free hour or two between packs and supplies and organizing, she’d get down to the last half a dozen pants and jackets before someone would come and drop off a new pile.

It became a progressively later and later, later Cyril problem.

Just like now, when she decided to give her damn hands a break and take a walk back to the palace proper for a change of scenery.

Maybe to be a little nosey too.

A hand-holding and back-rubbing dinner—as Mikael less than enthusiastically called it—had been underway for a few hours now. The reluctant prince was filling in for his stable, but still wholly unwell, older brother.

Cyril got the impression that these events were not something Mikael spent much—or any—time at, and probably for good reason. Prickly, Runa had referred to him as once, and Cyril couldn’t agree more.

Truthfully, she was relieved that this was the type of event she didn’t receive an invitation to. Running the barracks left her nearly dead on her feet and her patience had run remarkably thin with, well…idiots. A wandering hand from a certain crooked-nose councilor may have spelled disaster.

But the dinner meant the barracks were quiet.

Busy still, with bodies coming and going, but not with the sort of people who would stay and chat, or tease her and help pass the time.

She blamed Mikael for getting nothing but polite hello’s and thank you’s as the mostly green guards came and went with their supplies. The poor trainees were terrified of him and the commander persona he wore when he barked orders at them. Apparently, that made her guilty by association.

It was also his fault, she decided, that any of the King's Guard worth their merit—namely, the ones that liked to come and pass the time with her—were assigned out on discreet overtime to scour the city for leads, or stuck working security detail for the dinner.

A show of solidarity and reassurance, it was supposed to be, that required the best of their best to be on display. But that didn’t stop Kaia, Ari, and Gunner from groveling about it when she talked to them the day before.

They played their part well though, all cleaned up in their dark blue and black dress uniforms, stationed along the hall outside the ballroom’s main doors.

Kaia spotted Cyril first as she came down the hall to the state ballroom.

The pained smile and sagging shoulders she greeted Cyril with spoke to how thrilling their assignment was.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Kaia chuckled as she ran a hand through the shaggy-cut, white hair on the top of her head. Her other hand stayed firmly planted on the hilt of her sword, sheathed at her hip.

Cyril learned that was the easiest way to tell the ascended and non-ascended guards a part—the size of the weapons they carried.

Ari and Gunner—who waved at Cyril from their posts down the hall—usually carried a variety of knives with them, but never anything larger than a short sword. They were both ascended, and for many years at that. Ari being a wind-aspected shifter, and Gunner? A fire wielder, much to Cyril’s dismay.

But Kaia and Cyril were cut from the same cloth of fucking nothing.

So Kaia leaned towards big and beefy blades, as she put it, to give herself some peace of mind. Many of the other guards held similar beliefs.

Cyril offered Kaia a smile before she let her attention drift to the double doors beside her. Just the faintest droning rumble of masculine chatter drifted through the ornate wooden panels—it sounded fucking boring.

“Has he come up for air yet?” she asked.

Kaia’s hazel eyes followed hers, and she shook her head.

“Not yet, the poor bastard. And talk about piss poor timing, with the shit from the city.”

“What shit from the city?” Cyril blinked.

Not that they’d talked much that morning when Cyril was half-conscious in bed and Mikael less than gracefully stumbled about the room in the dark trying to get ready. She barely had both eyes open when she’d helped with the finishing touches of his finery, and then the prince was gone.

“Did he not tell you what we found out this afternoon?”

“No…I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

“Oh, well then,” Kaia scoffed and leaned back against a pillar of moonstone running between the wallpapered panels of the hall, her arms crossed in front of her. “You know how Byron, Nik, and Silas headed out last night to go check out some of those warehouses, right?”

That much, Cyril knew. She just didn’t know every single what and why of the operation, because she’d fallen asleep while Mikael was explaining it all. It had something to do with a bit of information they gleaned from Astor, from his “treatments” in the city. Still nothing about Reyna’s whereabouts, but it was something.

“Yeah, Mika mentioned that.” Cyril tipped her head. Kaia made it seem like… Her eyes widened. “Did they find something?”

The brief flicker of hope that swelled up in her banked and died as soon as Kaia shook her head.

“No. Well…maybe?” Her features pinched. “They haven’t come back. Didn’t show up for their shifts at the station today.”

Cyril’s chest tightened up. “What?”

“I know, I know. It’s fucked up.” Kaia picked at a piece of lint that certainly didn’t exist from the front of her immaculate uniform jacket. “Long story short, none of us are allowed to go look until this”—she waved a hand back at the doors—“bullshit is all done. Which who fucking knows how long that’ll be with all these useless twats groveling away to His Majesty about their safety and their stupid businesses.”

“What about the city guard? Can’t they send a guard or two to look, or…?”

“General Ezra doesn’t want them involved, since this wasn’t exactly an official operation. Doesn’t want to cause unnecessary panic.”

Kaia’s shoulders rose and fell in defeat.

The staunch bureaucracy that had surfaced in recent days drove Cyril fucking nuts.

This damn need everyone felt to keep the masses calm, to keep everything hush-hush and work on the sidelines. And this was coming from a woman who spent her entire life around people who made their living in the shadows.

Cyril opened her mouth, about to speak a little too freely on exactly what she thought of the general and his decisions, but movement at the other end of the hall snagged her and Kaia’s attention.

One of the wooden doors eased open—Mikael.

He turned to Ari, but the captain pointed towards Cyril and smiled. Mikael spun on his heels and a measure of relief sagged through his cleaned-up form.

Something about the cut of that immaculately tailored jacket—black with deep blue panels and trim, with its stamped silver buttons and sash in Reykr’s colors—had Cyril just smiling like an idiot at him as he walked over.

She knew he despised his full dress regalia, but he cleaned up so nicely.

Mikael said he looked like a preening bird—a peacock, specifically, though Cyril had never seen one. But she shut him up pretty damn quick with a quiet mention of just how handsome she thought he looked as she pinned on his medals and badges that morning. It was an act that felt far more intimate than anything they’d shared in the flesh yet.

Mikael clasped Cyril’s face in his hands and kissed her so deeply that Kaia coughed quietly by the door. Cyril had to wrench herself away from him. The mingling scents of cologne that clung to him was the last thing she wanted a nose full of.

Desperation was plain on Mikael’s face as he said, “Please tell me you’ve thought up some otherworldly fucking excuse to get me the hell out of here. I don’t think I’m going to leave with my soul fully intact. These men…”

“Mika, if three missing guards aren’t enough to get you out…” Cyril raised her brow at him.

His chest heaved with a sigh and shot Kaia a pointed glare.

“I was going to tell you, once this ridiculous shit was over. I’ll have to go with the others, see if we can figure out what the fuck happened, but I don’t think it’s good, Cyr.”

That much was obvious. Going missing on a lead never ended well.

“That could be hours from now, Mika, let me go and—”

Mikael’s entire body recoiled from her as if she had just uttered the foulest words…

“Absolutely not.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you mad?”

Cyril stiffened.

That tone hit a little too close to fucking home.

They weren’t doing things like that. Not now, not ever.

“Am I mad?” she bit out.

“That’s dangerous, Cyr.” There was a challenge in his eyes as he shook his head at her. “And if you thought for a second I’d be okay with you going into fucking abandoned buildings on your own, with—”

“If you would have let me finish,” Cyril spoke slowly, trying to rein herself in. Trying to cool that spark she was certain had been extinguished weeks ago. Kaia just watched them with wide eyes. “Let me go and look. I’ll find a roof and camp out. No one will see me. No going inside anywhere on my own.”

“Cyr…”

“Please, Mika. Let me be useful.”

A careful choice of words, and she hit her mark—Mikael's eyes softened.

“If I see anything fucking weird, I’ll go to the city guard and wait for you, okay? And I’ll go armed too, just to be safe. But let me see if I can get some information for you.”

Mikael took a step away from her, scrubbing his thumb and forefinger across his brow as he paced. She knew she had him. It was just a matter of how difficult he would make it for her.

Slowly, he turned back and said, “For the record, I do not like any bit of this, okay?”

From over his shoulder, Kaia gave her an encouraging grin.

There was nothing but conflict in Mikael’s eyes as he notched his fingers under Cyril’s chin and sighed. “Be back at the city station by midnight, regardless of if you see anything or not, okay? We’ll meet you there and figure out a plan.”

The grin that crept across Cyril’s face was something she had little control over.

“Okay.” She nodded, and her heart rate started climbing. “Midnight.”

Mikael leaned down, brushing his lips against hers. “Be safe, please,” he murmured, so only she could hear. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

Just over halfway to Brynnhold, a rumble of thunder shook the very ground beneath Cyril and Attie. Moments later, the skies opened up and drenched them both. Water and mud flew up in all directions as Attie’s hooves tore into the pathway, but Cyril couldn’t wipe the damn shit-eating grin off her face.

It didn’t matter she was soaked through to the bone, or that her next couple of hours of rooftop recon were now going to take place in a torrential downpour.

Mikael trusted her.

He put aside his instincts and his worries, and he put his faith in her ability.

It was such a wild fucking feeling.

Faelock had nothing on the buzz of excitement that coursed through her body.

Her hands were unsteady things for the few whirlwind minutes she spent digging her reinforced leather jacket from her old room—really just a glorified closet now—and strapping a few blades to her thighs and into the sheathes in her boots.

After she tossed a cowl over her head, she took off running for the stables and never looked back.

Cyril’s first bit of proper rogue work in her entire damn life, and it was happening in fucking Reykr. Not that she was a rogue anymore, or had ever really been, but still…

Just months ago, if someone said that it wouldn’t be Dion assigning her out for work for the first time, Cyril would have been skeptical. If they said that it would be the Prince Commander of the fucking moon-fae kingdom—who she also was sharing a bed with—leaning on her in a time of need, Cyril would have told them to get their head checked.

It was frightening how much could change in a matter of months.

The few guards working at and taking shelter in the city gate didn’t bat an eyelash when Cyril asked if she could leave Attie in their modest stables for a couple of hours while she ran an errand in the city. They just waved her on with a smile, and Cyril slipped into the streets.

The map Kaia drew of the warehouses the guards went to check was crude at best, and a soaked piece of parchment now, but Brynnhold’s streets were well marked enough that Cyril managed.

Despite the sheets of rain falling from the night sky, the path Cyril walked through the shopping and tavern district still buzzed with evening activity. Bodies moved in all directions, some laughing and shrieking in the rain. Others clung desperately to buildings to spare themselves a soaked walk to and from wherever their night took them.

Slowly though, as she wove and wound her way through the cobblestone and puddles, those crowds grew thinner, quieter.

The bobbing faelights and warm street lamps became scarce as the stone townhomes and shops gave way to cold, industrial buildings.

All she could hear now was the rain, and she slipped herself into the growing shadows.

Climbing up the drainpipe on a building Kaia had marked as a promising vantage point proved to be…trying.

By the time she hauled herself up onto the tin roof, she had lost her grip three fucking times and tore a hole through the palm of the leather gloves Tyr and Ren bought for her two birthdays ago. The entirely debatable integrity of the half-rusted metal roof had her crawling across its slick surface on her hands and knees, praying she wasn’t a wrong move away from a two-story fall.

When Cyril reached the far edge of the roof, she eased down flat on her stomach between two ridges on the corrugated surface.

A sigh of relief left her.

The view was perfect.

The three warehouses that became a point of interest—based on something she really wished she listened to Mikael about now—all spilled out onto a dead-end courtyard. Mostly overgrown and poorly cordoned off by a half-rotted fence.

Unremarkable at first glance, except for how out of place all these abandoned and run-down buildings looked in a place as overflowing with life as Brynnhold. Later she’d have to ask Mikael why this section of the city was so neglected, left to be reclaimed by the environment.

Cyril adjusted the soaked black fabric of her cowl until she was nothing but a flicker of gold in the dark, and she waited. The steady pelt of rain on metal became nothing more than humming white noise as her eyes made a slow, appraising sweep of the desolate complex.

Her uncles always said camp-outs could be grueling, soul-sucking things, but Cyril was certain they must have felt otherwise on their first assignment. The prospect of a couple of hours up here, even with the chill of the rain seeping into her bones, might have been the most enthralling thing Cyril had ever done.

She would just need to spend a few days in front of a fire when she got back to the palace.

Dozens of cracked and clouded window panes sat tucked into the crumbling stone walls of each building. But Cyril couldn’t see a damn thing through any of them. The handful of doors facing into the courtyard weren’t much more useful, either. Nearly every man door had wooden boards nailed across the frame. The massive, sliding steel doors set into the front of each building were all pulled shut too.

Cyril’s excitement sputtered.

Not that she thought a couple of hours spent lying on a roof in the pouring fucking rain would amount to any earth-shattering developments, but, gods…she’d thought she might see something.

But that overgrown courtyard, with its network of vines and shrubs left to run rampant over the cobblestone paths, spoke to zero signs of life in recent years, let alone recent days. No trampled bushes, no walkways cleared, no—

The teeth-clenching sound of metal grinding on metal had Cyril’s entire body going stiff.

Her eyes darted from building to building, to—holy shit.

Whatever Cyril thought she might glimpse, it wasn’t people.

Six, specifically, walking in well-spaced pairs of two, exited from the warehouse furthest to the right of the complex. Cloaked and hooded, and of wildly varying heights, Cyril didn’t stand a chance of catching faces, especially not with the way the rain still fell.

Each pair walked tight to the building, sheltered by a modest roof overhang, and slipped around the back, away from the dim light of the single street lamp at the courtyard’s mouth. That shrill, grating sound of metal on metal rang out again as the final pair pulled the warehouse door closed before slipping around back too.

Cyril was climbing back down the drainpipe before she could give her actions a second thought.

Mikael had been fairly clear in his ask to not do something stupid, but this was, well…time was of the essence. If there was even a chance these people had anything to do with Byron, Silas, and Nik’s disappearance, waiting to act would be tantamount to a death sentence.

The wooded area beyond the warehouses flashed four times with bright white light when Cyril was halfway across the roadway and, for the first time in months, she felt that sickening ripple of energy pulse through her.

It had to be a group of phasers or shifters, for the magic to be that fucking strong.

At least it meant she had some privacy to work in.

Cyril swallowed down that simmering nausea as she climbed the half-rotted fence posts and got her back up against the outer wall of the warehouse. That first second of respite from the rain was a fucking godsend. She waited for a few slow breaths, listening and watching for any lingering movement before featherlight steps carried her to the sliding door.

After leaning her entire body weight into the damn handle, her feet anchored into the overgrown ground below, the door creaked open enough for Cyril to slip into the building.

The smell of dust and rot hanging in the air overwhelmed her senses, even through the damp fabric of her cowl still wrapped around her mouth and nose. Nothing but collapsed crates and rusted machinery stretched inside for as far as she could see, from one tired stone wall to the other.

Well, those and a path in the dust and debris-covered floor that looked remarkably well-traveled, shaped by footprints and sweeps of fabric.

Cyril followed it to the far end of the warehouse.

The path ended at a steel staircase leading up to a second-floor gallery missing all of its floorboards, and one hell of a well-used floor hatch.

And caught in the rivets framing the metal door of the hatch?

A torn piece of black and blue fabric.

Cyril breathed a quiet curse.

A rational part of her brain told her she needed to stop now.

That she needed to walk her impulsive, stubborn arse right out of this warehouse as quietly and quickly as possible, and haul herself back to the city station. That she needed to wait for Mika and Kaia, and Ari and Gunner.

But Rhodea blood flowed through her veins, and that meant rational thoughts came second to action.

Every part of the rusted metal groaned in displeasure as she hauled open the hatch and let its door settle at the base of the stairs. Cyril tugged off her cowl, pushing damp and clinging strands of hair from her face, and wedged the fabric into the hinges.

A single deep breath and she descended the haphazardly repaired steps into the dimness of the cellar below on uneasy legs.

The dust and rot-laden air gave way to something damp and heavy with a sharp, iron tang, and all Cyril could hear was the rushing of her heartbeat in her ears.

A warm, flickering firelight poured out from an entry halfway down the hall.

Cyril eased her way to it, her back pressed up against the opposite wall. She fought to school her breath into something more even, something more controlled, reciting those damn counts Bron drilled into her in her mind.

A count of five in, a count of five out.

A count of five in, a count of five out.

A count of five—

Cyril stepped into the room.

Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the ragged noise that came out of her.

Chapter 53

Mikael wasn’t a man who often found himself with regrets, but he barely lasted an hour after Cyril left before he was slipping back out into the hall. He didn’t even care Kaia seemed to have abandoned her post when he found Ari and Gunner pacing for their patrols outside the ballroom.

They looked at him expectantly, like they were just waiting for this to happen.

“Go find Cyril. I—” He drew his lips into a tight line. “I made an error in my judgment and…I fucked up. She should not be alone out there.”

Gunner nodded, ready as always, but Ari gave the ballroom doors an uneasy glance and said, “Should we find someone to—”

“There are forty men in that fucking room, mostly fae, and at least half are magic wielders of some variety. If they can’t take care of themselves, there is no hope for any of us.” Mikael pointed down the hall. “Go. Find Cyril, and wait for me at the city station. I’ll get out of here as soon as I can and meet you there.”

Gunner took off running down the hall without another word, leaving the captain to scramble after him, swearing.

Mikael took a slow, deep breath before he stepped back into the ballroom.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake.

Chapter 54

Hell wouldn’t even begin to describe what Cyril walked into. The blood…it was everywhere.

The other murders were nothing compared to this.

The thick tang of blood and death and decay hung so fucking heavy in the air, it was all Cyril could smell, all she could taste. Her breath sawed in ragged, shaky bursts behind her hand.

Every fiber of Cyril’s being screamed at her to run, to get as fucking far away as she could, but her body wouldn’t move.

Even with canvas bags shrouding their heads, there was no doubt in Cyril’s mind who the three maimed bodies chained to the far wall belonged to, their wrists manacled up high above their heads.

The emblem of the guard was embossed into their leather boots, the toes of which barely skimmed the dirt and gravel floor.

The bits of blue and black uniform, saturated in blood and left in shreds.

A single patch of Reykr’s birds in flight left clinging to threads caught between the pulled-apart ribs of a gaping chest.

All bits of confirmation that she did not need.

Fear had her muscles locked, and she couldn’t pull her eyes away.

Not from the bodies, or the runes painted over the walls, or the massive five-pointed star hewn from blood in front of the bodies chained to the wall. At each point, it looked like—

Gravel crunched behind her, and Cyril didn’t have time to react.

Something cold wrapped around her throat and ripped her backward.

A torrent of pain shot down her spine as she met the stone wall and everything went dark.

Chapter 55

“Ithink now is an appropriate time for me to ask what the fuck is going on?” Lars spoke with a harsh whisper and forced smile as he leaned into Mikael's space.

Mikael tensed.

He hadn’t realized the trio of lords that had come up to their table to talk his father’s ear off had already left. He grabbed his wine glass, the dry red clinging to the sides, and cast a sidelong glance at his father. “What do you—”

“You’ve disappeared twice already, and you’ve got this look in your eyes like a lamb that’s about to go to fucking slaughter.” Lars’ voice was low, but his displeasure was palpable. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Mikael shot back his wine.

“Cyril is in Brynnhold, by herself, trying to gather intel on our missing guards, and I—” He clenched his teeth. “I’m fucking worried.”

Lars’ eyes flared.

“You sent Cyril, alone, to—”

“I did not send her anywhere.” Mikael ground out. His father would assume he made poor decisions in spades. “I didn’t want her to go, but she found out about Ezra’s bullshit fucking decree about our resourcing, and she insisted on going.”

Surely he didn’t need to explain that nothing he or anyone else could have said would have stopped Cyril from going.

His father scrubbed his fingers across his brow, cursing quietly.

“Go,” Lars said, and Mikael blinked. “Get out of that fucking chair, get your ass to Brynnhold, and find her.”

Mikael moved faster than he was sure he ever had before.

Chapter 56

Consciousness was something Cyril wanted no part of.

The searing throb radiating from the back of her head was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. It was a sickening sort of pounding that crested to an unbearable degree every time she tried to open her eyes.

Did she…fall?

The rooftop had been slick, sure, but…her boots were built for grip.

It didn’t make sense…

Her shoulders screamed too, like when Bron used to have her hang from the apple trees behind the estate for far too damn long.

And her hands were numb and…up?

Cyril fought to swallow down the sickly, metallic tang of blood in her mouth and willed one eye to open, just a crack.

Blood-soaked floor greeted her.

The toes of her boots barely skimmed the floor, and she…she hadn’t fallen.

No—the cellar.

She found the cellar, and… Oh gods.

No.

Cyril shifted against the stone wall at her back, her aching wrists tethered high above her head. She willed her other eye open just a crack, and a quiet, shuddering breath left her.

All four blades strapped to her thighs were missing, the carefully crafted sheaths left empty and half-torn off her legs. That snug comfort of her reinforced leather jacket was gone too, the front of her white blouse stained with smears and droplets of blood.

Cyril wasn’t alone either.

The warm, flickering light of the wall torches had her sensitive eyes watering, the finer details of her vision a blurry mess. But a small frame cloaked in black kneeled in the center of the room, speaking in a rhythmic cadence Cyril just couldn’t grasp.

Not that the dull ringing in her ears helped.

Beside the huddled figure were a set of boots and legs and—

Cyril had to squeeze her eyes shut as a tremor set into her vision and her stomach lurched up her throat. She needed to breathe, needed to think. She needed to assess and figure out what the fuck she was going to do.

“It wakes,” said a guttural, rattling voice.

Her eyes slid open, and every screaming, aching muscle in Cyril’s body tensed.

Whatever stalked towards her with preternatural fluidity, it wasn’t mortal, or fae, or anything she had ever seen before. Sunken-in eyes built of nothing but abyssal black sized her up from head to toe as thin, pallid lips peeled back into a jagged grin.

Cyril sank back against the rough stone wall, trying to gain every breath of space she could as the creature extended a hand tipped with gleaming, black claws towards her. She fought against her shackles, pulling so hard her wrists burned, but the chains gave no quarter.

She had nowhere to go.

“Nononono,” she breathed, hoarse and ragged, as those claws scraped over the surface of her throat. They wrapped and squeezed slowly, restricting her air.

Cyril kicked her legs up wildly, trying to wedge a knee up in between herself and a body that felt like it was hewn from stone.

The creature didn’t even flinch.

“Oh, it fights,” it rumbled with a wicked shriek of a cackle. Its face skimmed along hers, blowing warm puffs of putrid air from slitted nostrils until its empty eyes leveled with hers. “I like it when it fights.”

The fingers wound tighter around her throat, and Cyril thrashed.

There was no fucking way she was dying here.

She kicked her legs up again, fighting against the oxygen-deprived pounding of her head, against the darkness pressing on at the edge of her vision.

But it wasn’t any good.

Another claw-tipped hand caught her thigh and punctured, shredding fabric and flesh and muscle in one fluid movement.

Cyril couldn’t even scream at the pain that lit her body on fire. At the pain that ignited in her chest and burned as badly as it did in her leg. The creature said something in a hitched, goading tone, but her pounding heart was the only clear sound, and the darkness moved in quickly.

Her vision flickered, the pain and panic sputtering and dancing.

She couldn’t breathe, and this…this was it.

What a pathetic end.

The pain in her chest cracked and splintered, and an inferno tore through her. She never thought death would be such a spectacle. That it would feel like such a consuming, painful—

Cyril’s knees hit the ground, and her chest heaved at the first whisper of air.

Damp and rank, fucking godsent air, that she took down in violent gulps.

She was…no longer chained.

And her leg—oh gods.

Cyril couldn’t look at it, at the torn flesh and muscle, exposed and bleeding freely.

It ached, so fucking bad, but it bore her weight and she staggered upright as the creature whipped around, snarling.

“Filthy sun-fae bitch,” it seethed in its rattling echo of a voice, and it charged.

Cyril didn’t have time to parse what happened. She didn’t have time to even consider why the hells her body felt like it was fucking buzzing, like it was full of more life than it ever had been.

She had to fucking move.

Cyril lunged forward against the pain and swept in low. She said a quiet prayer to whatever old god still deigned to listen as she reached down into her boot and—

Thank fuck.

She freed a blade from the concealed sheath in the leather and swung it back towards the creature’s knees as she slid under its reach. Blood-soaked dirt and gravel flew up in every direction around her.

The ground shook with a thud as a blood-curdling shriek rang out.

Cyril hit her mark.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, spitting out blood and debris and whatever the fuck else was in her mouth. Cyril pushed herself up onto her elbows and knees, but claws tore into her ankle and ripped her back across the room.

“Let me go!” Cyril roared as she twisted and writhed, trying to wrench herself free from its grip. Its claws were fucking merciless as they hooked into her boots and through her flesh.

It tossed her onto her back with enough force to send Cyril’s vision spinning and another torrent of pain down her spine. Her blade clattered from her hand as the creature pinned her with its crushing weight. It felt like a plate of lead landed on her hips, boring her down into the earth, but Cyril kept writhing and wrenching and pounding her palm against its chest.

“I like it when it fights,” the creature rumbled, its serpentine face hovering above hers. It snaked a hand back up her neck as it cackled, “But now it dies.”

Her next movements were a blur.

Cyril slammed her forehead up into its face, its razor-edged teeth tearing into her skin. As the creature grunted and sputtered, it reared back, giving Cyril the precious inch of the quarter she needed to reach her blade. It took all of her might to plunge it into the side of the creature’s neck.

She went to rip the blade forward, to slit the fucking thing’s damn throat just like Bron taught her to do, but thick, black blood poured out from the wound. Cyril lost her grip on the slick handle as the creature rolled off her with a wet, gurgling shriek.

Cyril staggered up to her feet, the gaping wound in her leg nothing more than a dull ache now, and she freed the blade from her other boot.

That fucking blonde woman was still chanting, muttering words Cyril couldn’t process, oblivious to the world around her as the runes painted around the room pulsed with life.

Cyril would deal with her after—she had more pressing issues.

The creature on the ground writhed and grunted, trying to pull the blade free from its neck. Cyril dropped her weight down onto it and something like pain surged in her periphery as its claws tore into her side.

She plunged her blade into the other side of its throat, gripped both handles with every last bit of her fleeting energy, and ripped them across in opposite directions.

A final, gurgling breath left the creature before it went limp.

One more to go.

Getting to her feet this time took a concerted effort. Her chest burned as every breath sawed in and out of her lungs. She staggered forward a step, both blades clutched in her hands, but the woman splayed her arm towards Cyril and a blast of force blew her back against the wall.

The impact rattled her bones.

“Fucking hells,” Cyril groaned. She coughed and wiped at the blood trickling down the corner of her mouth.

Of course, this one wouldn’t be easy.

She pushed off the stone and made it a few steps forward before that energy rippled again, sending her crashing back against the stone wall and straight down to her knees. The blooming pain in her side was making it hard to breathe.

“Stop this!” Cyril pleaded, trying to pull herself up the wall, a single blade still left in her grip. “You are killing innocent people. People who—”

“What about our people?!” The woman’s seething voice carried a frighteningly familiar lilt to it as she stood, her milky green gaze fixed on Cyril. “Our people are suffering, our people are dying, our women cannot bear children! You and your filthy people have come here and tainted our lands.”

The runes on the ground pulsed, and the air became impossibly thick, too dense to breathe. That deep-seated pain in Cyril’s chest cracked and splintered again, heat pouring through every fiber of her being.

Darkness shuttered her senses and her body hummed again with that strange surge of life that pulled her pain away with it.

“You have upset our balance, and it is my obligation to restore it. I will not allow you to—”

Cyril’s hand curled itself around the woman’s throat almost of its own volition, gripping and pulling her head back as she pressed her blade to her throat. Cyril shot a glance back over her shoulder, at the wall she had just clung hopelessly to.

A dozen feet away.

Did she just…

No.

There was no fucking way…

“You filthy bitch,” the woman growled as she clawed at Cyril’s arm, her free hand flying back to the gaping wound in Cyril’s thigh.

Another ripple of force tore through the air, and the snaps that reverberated up through Cyril’s leg and into her body sent a surge of bile clawing up her throat. Darkness clawed at the edge of her vision as she fought for breath.

She couldn’t waste another second.

In a jagged line from left to right, Cyril ripped her blade across the woman’s throat, and an arc of blood sprayed out in its wake. A burst of desperate, gurgling noises came spitting out of her before she went slack in Cyril’s arms.

The air in the cellar thinned, and the room dimmed as the runes lost their glow of life.

Cyril collapsed to the floor as a torrent of searing pain surged through her.

She barely had time to shove the woman’s body away before her stomach turned itself inside out, tears rolling down her cheeks as she heaved and retched.

The pain crested in frightening degrees as Cyril tried to pull herself back against the wall.

Away from the bodies and the blood.

Away from the terrifying reality of what had just happened.

Away from her own fucking vomit.

Her back hit wood and Cyril clutched at her side, at the gaping hole that soaked her shirt a burgundy red.

The gaping hole that continued to soak her shirt, no matter the pressure she put.

Cyril let her head drift back and stifled down a sob with a slow, shaky breath.

This was it.

Chapter 57

Cyril was going to die here, afraid and alone, and freezing, in this filthy pit of a cellar.

Just another abrupt dead end of the Rhodea family tree.

And, truthfully? The thought of Dion finding her here like this, broken and bled out to the whims of her stupidity, hurt more than she ever thought possible.

Even after everything, she didn’t want that for him.

But by the time Mikael and the others realized she hadn’t made it to their rendezvous spot… Those were hours she just didn’t have.

Whatever happened to her body down here, whatever surge of blinding adrenaline pushed her beyond limits she could not comprehend, it drained her completely. That usual thrum of life beneath her skin, the dull buzz of fae strength that always simmered through her being? It was gone, and the quiet it left was deafening.

The damp, decay-laced air filling every crumbling corner of the cellar sat heavy in Cyril’s lungs, and every breath she struggled to draw sent an ache of pain through her side. She tried to grip the gaping wound, to put some kind of pressure on it, but her fingers were stiff and her body was shaking and it had become just too hard to care.

Every little shift of her body sent more blood weeping out of her wounds, little rushes of warmth before the painful cold set back in. Even if she tried to move again, she’d never make it up the stairs with her leg mangled like it was.

Cyril’s head settled against the rotted wooden post that provided her only means of support, and she swallowed down the bitter, metallic taste in her mouth.

This…

This was it.

The bloody massacre painted on every surface of the room slipped from focus as a dark haze settled in the edges of her vision, her eyes drifting of their own free will. The flames in the sconces flickered a bit more dimly now, too.

If luck deigned to toss her a favor for once, death would come on swift wings.

Or, in the more likely case, the hours Cyril had left would be lonely and cold, and full of thoughts that would bring her no comfort.

Cyril wanted to go home.

She missed her cobbled-together family.

She missed the great hall, and her bed, and the apple trees.

She missed…Dion, more than she ever thought she could, or should.

Would he even bring her ashes back to Helia, and lay her to rest with her parents?

And Attie? Fuck. The poor horse.

Would she think Cyril just up and abandoned her, after every ride and adventure they’d taken in these abysmal months?

Gods, how long until Mi—

Thump. Thump.

Cyril huffed a sad mockery of a laugh.

Death would see fit to play one last act of cruelty on her. Fool her ears into thinking someone would really pull her out of this fucking hellhole.

Thump. Thump.

Bang.

Her eyes drifted shut, hand dropping from her side to the gritty, blood-soaked stone below. This fool’s hope of her mind was not something she’d let herself entertain.

Cyril was so…tired.

Icy pinpricks clawed up her fingers and arms, and her legs felt like nothing but dead weight. She was ready for this to be over, ready to yield, ready to find out if there was anything after.

Thump. Thump.

“Cyril?!”

Cyril’s eyes flew open.

No. No, there was no fucking way that—

“Cyril?” The echoing voice—no, voices—sounded like they were getting closer. Like she could almost hear the scrape of boots on crumbled stones. “Cyril? Are you down here?”

That voice. It was so familiar.

A choked, broken noise left her lips. It was cruel of death to play her like this, but the footsteps and commotion kept getting louder.

Closer.

The cellar flooded with a blistering light that had Cyril groaning in discomfort, winking out a moment later

“Cyril? Oh, thank the fucking gods.” That voice carried so much relief. “Are you—oh fuck. Fuck.”

Her eyes drifted up, and she sobbed.

Gunner.

“Gods fucking dammit—Ari?!” he shouted back out the door. “She’s down here.”

He dropped to his knees beside Cyril and started prodding her—lifting her arms, shifting her leg, tugging her blouse around through all the dirt and gore. She could only grit her teeth through the pain.

“Shit, Cyril. How long have you been here?”

“I-I…don’t—” Cyril hissed through her teeth.

Gunner started tearing away at her already ragged pants, bearing the full length of the wound on her thigh, and it sent bolts of fucking agony up her leg.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said, possibly more to himself than anything else. “I-I’m sorry Cyril, this is going to really fucking hurt, okay? But we need to close this up, stop the bleeding.”

Cyril groaned. Everything already really fucking hurt.

Gunner cast her an appraising glance, a flicker of empathy in his eyes before he tugged off his leather gloves. He stacked them together and held them up to Cyril’s mouth. “Bite down on these, okay?”

Cyril obliged, even as the sour taste of bile climbed up her throat.

A quiet curse and an “I’m sorry, Cyril” was all the warning Gunner gave her before his hands touched her wound and a blast of flame rolled off of them.

A ragged cry left her lungs as skin and blood and gods knows what else sizzled, and the acrid smell of her burning flesh filled the air. The searing, aching pain radiated straight down to her bones.

Gunner apologized over and over as he lifted his hands, but the burning wouldn’t fucking stop.

She had little control over the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she sobbed quietly, the gloves between her teeth dropping to the floor.

“I know, I know. Fuck. We’re almost done, alright? Just one more.” Gunner eased up the side of her blouse, the warmth of his fingers almost painful against her skin, but Cyril pushed at him with every bit of her fleeting might.

“No more,” she whispered harshly. “I can’t…”

Gunner didn’t move away from her.

“Please Cyril,” he sighed, “I know it’s bad, I know—oh thank fuck, there you are.”

Hurried footsteps crunching on gravel came to an abrupt stop.

Cyril tilted her head towards the doorway and, through the tears half-clouding her vision, there stood Ari.

The horror on his face was unmistakable.

The blood, the bodies. Their massacred men.

Ari looked at them suddenly, as if he only just processed the words Gunner said. “What—what can I do?”

“Just hold her steady while I cauterize her side.” Gunner tugged up her blouse again and Cyril whined. She didn’t have any strength left to fight him. “Then fly as fast as you fucking can for Wren. She’s been bleeding out down here for gods fucking knows how long.”

Ari was already moving before Gunner even finished, kneeling at her other side and easing Cyril towards him. He took one of her battered and bloody hands in his, splaying his other across her shoulders.

It felt infinitely worse the second time around.

The captain’s chest dampened her ragged, raw cries as the flames seared her skin again. Desperate for something to tether herself to, Cyril’s fingers grappled with Ari’s uniform, but she was already being pulled away from him and leaned back against the wall.

“Just get Wren,” Gunner said to Ari, “and I’ll keep her comfortable.”

Cyril’s eyes slipped shut as the sound of the captain’s heavy footsteps trailed out of the cellar. She wasn’t sure if she was going to pass out or puke, but Gunner just wouldn’t give her a fucking break.

He tipped her head back, pressing something smooth and cold to her lips as he said, “Now I need you to drink this for me, Cyril. It’s not much, but it’ll help your pain a bit, maybe stop some of the bleeding.”

The sharp, pine-like scent that filled her nose was something she wanted little to do with, but Gunner squeezed her jaw open and tipped it back into her mouth. For a moment, its sharp taste broke through the metallic tang of stale copper, making the coughing and sputtering it took to get it down worth it.

Coolness slid down her throat, and Cyril’s searing pain ebbed almost immediately, settling into a dull sort of ache that pulsed throughout her. Pressing her palms into the ground, she tried to shift, but she couldn’t move her damn body.

She was tired, so tired, and just wanted to lie down.

Preferably somewhere that wasn’t stone soaked in blood and gore and gods only know what else.

“Cyril. Look at me.” Two hands, warm and broad, gripped her face. Gunner’s pale green gaze sat level with hers when she fought to open her own eyes. “I need you to stay awake, okay? Just for a little while longer.”

“I’m so tired,” she rasped.

“I know, I know. And that's going to get worse before it gets better, okay?” He pushed her hair back from her face, a futile attempt with the blood-crusted mess it was. “So why don’t you tell me about Helia?”

“Why?” Cyril sighed—Gunner and his damn questions.

Most nights at the barracks he had at least a half-dozen ready for her, even more if Mikael was still working, and she was sure he’d already asked her about Helia more than once.

“I’ve never been there, and I don’t know much about it,” he said. “Where in Helia did you grow up?”

“The guild.”

“Right, of course you did. Remind me, was the guild house in a city, or—?”

Cyril shook her head. “The country.”

“Okay. And is it just one big house, or lots of little buildings?”

For longer than Cyril could keep track of, Gunner asked her questions about her home. The lands. The people. The food. The women even.

And for each thoughtful question, Cyril fought to muster up a meager answer.

More shakes and nods of her head than words as they went on, and Cyril couldn’t fight the pulling undertow of exhaustion anymore. Gunner squeezed her hands, even pinched her and patted her cheeks, when she struggled to answer him.

She was cold again, unbearably so, and even the jacket he wrapped around her did nothing to stave off the tremor that set into her limbs.

“Just a bit longer, okay?” he said when she made a quiet noise of discomfort.

Those same words had come out of his mouth so many times now that Cyril was certain no one was coming for them.

Gunner was rubbing some warmth into her hands when the building above them boomed and shuttered. She could only watch, helpless, as he eased away from her. His hand came to rest on the blades strapped across his chest, and he turned his ear to the door.

The booming echo settled into the sound of footsteps—dozens, or hundreds, maybe—and then came the sounds that made Cyril’s chest ache as she held back a sob.

“Gunner?! Cyril?!” A brief, agonizing pause. “Where the fuck is she?”

It was Mikael.

He came for them, came for her.

Gunner sagged with relief and stuck his head out into the hall, shouting something up the stairs that she was too distraught to make out.

That raucous commotion that traveled above them moved closer and closer, becoming so loud her ears rang until the sound flooded into the hallway outside. She could hear Mika’s voice commanding, directing, issuing orders.

It was then that a glimmer of stark reality clawed into the back of her mind.

Five people were dead in this room.

Three tragic, senseless deaths. Another two by her own hand.

And now Mika was going to see it all. See his men, slaughtered and—

“Mika… H-he can’t—” A vicious cough rattled her lungs and the tang of copper filled her mouth. “Don’t let him…”

It was too late.

Mika’s lean frame, still dressed in the black and blue of his finery, filled the doorway. There was not a trace of color left in his skin.

Cyril sobbed his name.

Chapter 58

The crushing weight of responsibility almost brought Mikael to his knees.

His eyes struggled to process the condition of his men's bodies strung against the back wall of the blood-soaked cellar.

These men weren’t just killed. Someone butchered them. Slaughtered them.

And every bit of it was his fault, all because he was a subservient fucking fool.

And Cyril… Gods.

The sound of her weak sobs hooked every ounce of his attention.

Some deep-seated, primal part of his brain stirred to consciousness. His body hummed with a consuming itch for retribution, to inflict unspeakable acts of violence on whatever, whoever left her like this.

But it was him, wasn’t it?

He did this to her.

Mikael was supposed to protect her, this firecracker of a woman who had shaken his entire existence. But all he did was thrust her right into harm's way. Left her to fend for herself, all because of his princely duties. He’d been a fool to think she wouldn’t do something reckless.

Blood and gore caked every damn inch of her, and the way she looked up at him with eyes so afraid, so broken… It would haunt him until the day he met his end.

No one who entered that cellar, who saw even a glimpse of the horror within it, would leave the same as they came in. But Mikael wasn’t confident Cyril was going to make it out of here at all.

He knew things were dire.

Ari told him as much when he’d intercepted Mikael’s party on his way back to the palace to get a healer.

To actually see her like this, though? Mikael had no words.

Cyril struggled to keep her eyes open as her chest rose and fell erratically. She kept making these quiet, half-sobbed noises of discomfort. The undertow of what was really happening hit him hard.

The lake of blood she was sitting in was her own, and death beckoned.

Gunner stopped Mikael as he moved towards her, shaking his head. “It’s not good, boss. Be careful with her. I don’t know how long…”

Mikael brushed him off.

“Cyr, look at me,” he said gently as he kneeled beside her, taking her face in his hands. Her skin felt like ice. That perfect, snarky brow of hers knit, and she turned to his touch, but her eyes didn’t open. “Cyril, please.”

She struggled to swallow before she whispered, “I’m tired, Mika.”

“I know you are, Cyr.” Mikael pressed his lips to her blood-splattered forehead. “You just need to stay awake a bit longer, okay? Wren is almost here.”

Gunner gave Mikael a wary look.

But she had to be here soon.

Ari had flown to grab Wren because not only was she the most capable healer in the damn kingdom, but she could shift as well. And if they flew back…

It had to be soon.

Mikael couldn’t accept any other option.

Another one of those wet, rattling coughs left Cyril, but didn’t stop this time.

She coughed over and over, gasping in between each fit, and Mikael didn’t know what the fuck to do to help her. She kept trying to raise her hand as blood sputtered out over her graying lips, but his own body refused to move.

“Help me sit her up a bit more,” Gunner said as he dropped to Cyril’s other side, easing a hand under her arm. She slouched towards Mikael, towards the brutal wound he could see on her side. “I…I think her lung collapsed, and…the internal bleeding…”

Even Gunner’s voice wavered.

Cyril was drowning in her own blood.

Mikael got his hand under her other arm, helping to ease her upright, and her coughing settled to more of an uneven, gurgling breath. Her eyes fluttered open as she tried to clear her throat, but they slipped back shut before Mikael caught them.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, her voice thick and laden with fluid.

Mikael couldn’t handle this.

No bit of training ever prepared him to sit here and watch someone he…someone he loved die. Not like this.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. Useless was not something he was ever comfortable feeling, but he had no way of making this better.

He picked her hand up out of the puddle of blood they all sat in and threaded her cold, stiff fingers with his.

Gunner had started easing the already half-undone jacket off of her and he rubbed her arm, squeezed her shoulder. “You didn’t finish answering my questions, Cyril,” he said, voice wholly uneven. Cyril just made a soft noise. “In Helia do you…do you get snow? In the winter?”

Her head tipped with a nod, and she made a noise that sounded like an agreement.

“Do you get a lot?”

She swallowed with difficulty and whispered, “No.”

Gunner kept rubbing her arm, and Mikael realized what he had been doing.

Talking to someone, when they were in great amounts of pain or under duress, was part of the most basic training they received as guards. It helped to keep the person tethered, distracted from whatever ravaged their body, while you waited for help, or…

Mikael didn’t want to think about the or.

He just kept squeezing her hand and bending her fingers, running his nails over her palm, trying to stir any sort of reaction.

“We get a lot of snow here in the winter, you’ll see,” Gunner said, with too much confidence. “It’s beautiful on the solstice, though, when everything is powdery white and you’ve got a mug of hot wine. Do you do that too, in Helia?”

Cyril nodded again but didn’t muster up any noises.

Gunner kept asking her questions—about the winter solstice, and gifts, and food—but they didn’t get another coherent answer from her. Not as her movements stilled and her hand went slack in Mikael’s.

Eventually, Gunner looked at Mikael and nodded in resignation, standing up.

“I'll keep an eye out for everyone. Give you some privacy.”

Privacy for what? Saying goodbye? Mikael refused to do that.

Even as he kept pressing his fingers to her throat, searching for a pulse and terrified of what he might not find, he refused to accept the darkness staring him down.

By the time noises echoed through the building again and Wren swept into the cellar, Cyril was completely unresponsive.

Chapter 59

“Good gods,” Wren breathed.

The blood, the bodies, the carnage—Mikael hoped Ari had warned her.

The healer pressed her hand to her chest, muttering something quietly before she dropped to Cyril’s side. Wren was in her damn nightclothes still, the pastel pinks a grotesque contrast to the pooling blood she settled into without a second thought.

“Move, Your Highness. Let me see her, let me see—”

She shooed Mikael’s hands away from the protective hold they had settled in around Cyril’s body. Against every one of his frantically screaming instincts, he rested her back against the wall.

Wren skimmed her long, scarred fingers from Cyril’s head, right down to her toes. She uttered quiet curses and tsked noises of disappointment as faint pulses of energy radiated from her hands. Assessing the scale of her injuries, as he’d seen healers do before.

“You poor, sweet girl. What happened to you…” Wren murmured, entirely to herself.

She looked at Cyril with a sort of sadness he rarely saw on the woman’s face. Wren had been in charge of the infirmary for…well, far longer than Mikael’s own life. He was sure she’d seen everything.

Mikael watched with bated breath as Wren tugged up Cyril’s tattered blouse and settled her hands over the charred and weeping flesh of her side. The faintest traces of soft, blue light emanated from around her fingers.

Even though Mikael knew that mending of this magnitude could not be rushed, it still felt like Wren didn’t move from that spot for an eternity.

But when Cyril started to stir, just a shift of her weight and a soft, whimpering noise, Mikael’s vision blurred.

“Shh. Shh. I know it doesn’t feel good,” Wren said, her attention entirely fixed on her hands. “But it won’t be long, okay?”

Cyril whimpered again, and Mikael had never been more conflicted by a noise. The notion of her being in any amount of pain brought him near agony, but noise meant life. It meant what was so dangerously close to being snuffed out was stirring again. And he needed that more than anything.

“She’ll be alright, Your Highness.” Wren still hadn’t looked up from the unseen work happening beneath her hands, but Mikael could see a sad sort of smile on her face. “Maybe not the same as she was, but she’ll recover.”

“Thank you, I…” Mikael’s voice broke.

None of them would be the same as they were before, would they?

Not after this.

Wren nodded. “I cannot mend everything at once. She just won’t tolerate”—a quiet sob left Cyril, and she shifted uncomfortably, a muscle flickering in her jaw—“that much, not with the extent of her injuries. I’ll have her organs in good working order, and knit the bone in her leg back together. She won’t have any gaping wounds, either, I’ll make sure of that. But her head—”

Mikael had been following along slowly, fixated on the brief flickers of gold as Cyril’s eyes fluttered open and closed.

“Did you—bone? Her leg?” He blinked at Wren.

That…no.

No, that wasn’t possible.

“Her femur is broken. Badly too.” They both glanced at the cauterized mess of flesh on her thigh. “It almost feels like force magic, but I…” Her eyes drifted toward the bodies strewn on the floor behind them. She shook her head. “I don’t know for certain.”

“Cyr, she’s…” Mikael blew out a slow breath. “She’s part nymph.”

Wren blinked at him before she stared back at her hands, shaking her head.

“Gods, of course she is. Malia…I forgot. Definitely force magic, then. There’s no other way. The poor girl, I can’t even imagine—” Wren’s dark brows climbed and her entire expression softened. “Hi, sweet thing, it’s alright. We’re almost done.”

Tears tracked through the crusted blood on her cheeks, but Cyril’s eyes were half open and drifting between Wren and Mikael. Her hand lifted from the thickening blood on the floor, her fingers flexing towards him.

Mikael took it without a second thought, pressing it to his face and kissing her palm, gore be damned.

The corner of her mouth quirked and her eyes fell back shut.

“Just going to get these bones started on healing and we’ll be done for now. But I have instructions for you, Your Highness.” Breathless, Wren sat back on her heels and started pulling her magic down through Cyril’s leg.

“Of course, anything.”

“Take her straight back to the palace, get her out of these filthy clothes and into a bath. I’ll send for some salve and bandages to dress her wounds once she’s clean. None of them should be open still, but they are raw beneath the surface and have much healing to do. Get some fluids in her and put her to bed.” That soft blue glow dimmed from the room and Wren let out a ragged breath. “Her body is so drained that it’s refusing to heal on its own right now. So I will come and see her tomorrow and do a bit more work if she still isn’t recovering by then. She needs rest though, and lots of it, alright?”

“Of course.” Mikael nodded. Wren could have asked him to do literally anything for Cyril, to aid her recovery, and he would have done it without question. “Is there anything else before…?”

He looked to Cyril as she groaned softly and shifted against the wall, but Wren just smiled and stood, saying, “Take her home now, Your Highness.”

Mikael didn’t need to be told twice.

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Wren,” he said, easing a hand behind Cyril’s back. “She’s…”

Everything.

His entire fucking world.

But Mikael’s voice wavered, and he had to focus on breathing.

“No need for thanks, Mikael. I can tell how special she is to you.”

Wren didn’t know the half of it.

Just like Mikael had never truly known what precious cargo felt like until he was cradling Cyril’s half-conscious body in his arms and carrying her out of that fucking hellhole.

A tense, heavy silence swept through the commotion of the guards swarming the warehouse’s main floor as Mikael crested the steps up from the basement. Wren followed just a step behind, and with a flash of light and a beat of wings, she was gone.

Gunner pushed straight through to the front of the crowd and asked, “She’s…alright…?”

Mikael nodded, and it felt like the entire building released a collective sigh of relief for the woman who had become their barracks mother.

He motioned for Gunner to follow him outside.

“Can I…” Gunner swore and blew out a shaky breath. “Is there anything I can do? Here, the palace? Should I ride with you? I can—”

Mikael just shook his head.

“Stay for the sweep, please. Make sure any weapons found down there are brought to the barracks. I need to make sure she gets any of hers back.”

Mikael knew how many things of hers came from Bronson, birthday and solstice gifts and the like, and he didn’t think that was a blow she’d be able to handle. He had a feeling the times they were about to face would be trying enough on their own.

“Of course, I’ll— Oh, oh gods, alright.” Gunner looked downright terrified as Mikael eased Cyril into his arms and she groaned in discomfort. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Those protesting, unhappy noises continued as Mikael mounted his horse and Gunner helped to haul Cyril up in front of him. Not an ideal mode of transportation by any stretch of the imagination, but with a horse lead tied around them and his arm across her chest, holding her firm to him, Mikael was ready to get the fuck out of Brynnhold.

Gunner patted his arm and walked the few steps back to the group gathered just outside the warehouse door.

“Get her home safe, boss,” he said, splaying his hand over his heart.

Salutes went up as Mikael nudged his horse into motion and rode like hell.

Chapter 60

The steel and sandstone pillars of the palace gates were still at least a hundred feet away, a flurry of night-shrouded activity happening behind them, when a white-haired, uniformed body came barreling down the path.

“Mikael, what the fuck?!”

Kaia always was remarkable at sprinting.

“Is she—oh gods. She isn’t…? Nononono.” Kaia came to a stumbling stop beside Mikael’s horse. “She’s okay?”

Her wide hazel eyes darted between him and Cyril’s limp body, but Mikael didn’t stop riding. He honed all of his focus on getting Cyril inside the walls that he could see now, on getting her warm and clean and dry as soon as possible.

It killed him to jostle her battered body around on horseback, but options weren’t plentiful. What was he going to do? Carry her to some shady inn for the night and then haul her back in the daylight, when she was conscious and far too aware of the scale of her injuries?

That would have been unfathomably cruel after all she endured.

“She’ll be okay,” Mikael said, his voice far more uneasy than he wanted.

His words were something he didn’t entirely believe yet, despite Wren’s reassurances. Healing magic of the scale Wren administered—bringing someone back from the brink of fucking death—came with no shortage of side effects, and Cyril was in store for a brutal recovery.

“Come with me to the doors. I’ll need help to get her down.”

“Of course, I…” Kaia kept pace, jogging alongside his horse, but the look of disbelief never left her face.

There was a tinge of guilt in her eyes too, the same as Mikael was sure sat in his own—that they did this to her. That they were the ones that gave her everything she needed to nearly get herself killed.

“Mika, what…” Her attention lingered on Cyril and she shook her head—an act of composure, he knew. “What happened to her…?”

“She found something she shouldn’t have. Nearly bled out.”

It came out so cold, so callous, but that was all he knew.

And truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to know the finer details of what happened for her to sustain injuries that grievous.

“…but who attacked her? Do we know…are they still…?”

Kaia was not usually a woman who struggled with her words.

“She killed two people. I…that’s all I know. A contingent is there cleaning up…everything.”

Kaia nodded and didn’t say another word as they crested through the gates and cleared the last stretch of the road. Right past the slew of gawking and wide-eyed guards and officials scattered through the courtyard.

The hopes he had of getting Cyril upstairs with any privacy were gone.

At the base of the stairs, he tipped her head back, choosing to ignore the shocked breath Kaia sucked in as she took in Cyril’s bloody and battered face. A ring of black bruises had already bloomed around her throat.

“Cyr?” Mikael said softly, “We need to get you down, and Kaia is going to help. Then we’ll go upstairs and clean you up, okay?”

He hadn’t expected a response, but Cyril nodded. Her tongue darted out to wet her chapped and blood-crusted lips.

“Mika, I…”

Mikael stilled.

Cyril’s voice was just a rough rasp of noise, and the whine that came out of her was heart-rending. She hadn’t made a sound the entire damn ride. Had barely even moved against him as he rode faster than he was sure he ever had.

It was all catching up with her now.

She shifted, tensing, and made another quiet noise. “Everything hurts…”

“I know, I know.” Mikael didn’t waste any time, untying the lead wrapped around them and easing her uninjured leg up and over his horse’s neck. Something that sounded like a protest left Cyril when he turned her to the side in front of him, readying to slide her down into—

Tears streaked down Kaia’s face as she looked up at Cyril.

“Not now, Gatlin, please,” Mikael said quietly.

Kaia gave her cheeks a rough wipe, her chest heaving with a shaky breath.

“Sorry, gods, I…” She cleared her throat, extending her hands up. “Give her here.”

Lowering Cyril down felt like moving a cracked piece of glass. Mikael’s movements were slow and measured, and he waited until Kaia had her hands tucked up under Cyril’s arms to let her take the brunt of her weight.

Not that there was much to her anymore, not with all the weeks she spent not eating, sleeping, or really living. Her body didn’t go into this with a fighting chance.

Kaia took a step back from his horse, and Cyril’s body slumped against her. The cry of pain that left her had Mikael gritting his teeth.

A slow, deep breath, and he dismounted his horse onto unsteady legs.

“You’re okay,” he heard Kaia say over and over, her voice quiet and thick with emotion. Her eyes met his, and she just shook her head.

“What else can I—” They both grimaced at Cyril’s sob as Mikael eased her away from Kaia, sweeping an arm behind her knees and one at her back. “What can I do? For you, for her?”

Mikael inclined his head up the steps.

“Doors, please, then deal with the horse, if you don’t mind. Someone needs to go back and find Attie too. I don’t know where she left her…”

Kaia nodded and took a few steps ahead of him before she hesitated.

“I should warn you…everyone is still here, from the dinner. Ari tried to keep it quiet when he notified your father and the general, but it turned into fucking mayhem. They were all too afraid to leave, not knowing if there was some kind of…imminent risk.”

Mikael scoffed. The men in that room were a bunch of fucking cowards, his father and the general included.

“Well, you can tell them to pull their heads out of their asses, because she took care of the issue for them.”

Mikael looked down at the battered and broken woman tucked in his arms, her hand clutching at his blood-soaked jacket. His chest fucking ached.

“Oh, I will, gladly.” A smile tugged at Kaia’s lips as she set her hands on the palace doors.

The wood groaned as the enchantment pulled them open. Beyond the threshold, the humming activity pouring out from the atrium fell silent. Dozens of bodies turned slowly, and shock spread across their faces like a wave.

In only a whisper, Kaia wished him good luck before she strode toward a group of lords and councilors, waving her arms in the air.

“Alright!” she shouted, “Gentlemen, if you’ll gather ‘round…”

Mikael locked eyes with his father.

On the far side of the atrium, near a seating alcove flanking the main staircase, Lars stood with a handful of advisors who looked like they still hadn’t clued in. Beside him, Dion sat on a cream-colored bench, hunched over with his head held in his hands.

Mikael wasn’t sure when the fuck the disgraced Rogue Master made it back to the palace, but Dion paled when Lars nudged him and jerked his chin towards Mikael and Cyril. Mikael didn’t feel an ounce of empathy for the man though. How fucking convenient for her well-being to be a thing of importance to him now.

Against his better instinct, Mikael came to a stop at the base of the stairs. He waited as his father peeled away from the group of advisors, a thunderstruck-looking Dion trailing behind him.

Cyril shifted in his arms, making a quiet noise of discomfort as she gripped the front of his jacket. Her eyes fluttered, her eyebrows knit, and then she was gone again. The damn woman was burning through any bit of energy her body tried to muster up.

“Is she…”

Dion's voice, filled with unease, pulled his attention from Cyril. Wary and hoarse, it was unfitting of the callous man Mikael knew he was.

The sheen in Dion’s dark and tired gold eyes was unmistakable.

“Wren couldn’t mend everything at once, but she’ll recover,” Mikael said flatly. Truthfully, that was more than Mikael felt Dion deserved to know. But in the presence of his father? He’d pull out a measure of diplomacy.

“Alright.” Dion nodded slowly. He eased back a step, like he couldn’t bear to be that close to her fragile form. Coward. Discomfort sat clearly on his face too, when he looked Mikael in the eyes and said, “Thank you.”

Mikael didn’t treat him to a response.

The last time Dion deigned to give Mikael that much of his attention, he was threatening him just a few feet from where they now stood.

He left Dion to stand there in silence as he started up the stairs, his father following up behind him.

“What can I do?” Lars asked, but Mikael didn’t feel like speaking with him either. Not when he had a part to play in this fucking disaster too. Lars couldn't be bothered to do anything except bend over and take whatever bullshit General Ezra fed to him.

“Is my mother upstairs?”

“Yes, she is. Do you want her?

“I’ll need her help.”

If there was only one other person in the entire fucking kingdom who could help with the vulnerable task of cleaning up Cyril, it was his mother. He couldn’t trust anyone else, not now.

“Of course.” Lars nodded. “I’ll send her to you.”

He sprinted up the steps past Mikael, disappearing beyond the residential wing doors.

Chapter 61

Mikael was certain his mother’s legs were going to give way when her eyes locked on Cyril. He had her somewhat settled on the plush little vanity stool in her bathroom, propped between the wall and counter, when Runa eased through the half-open door.

Dressed in her simple, dark base layers, she swore softly.

“Mika, no…” his mother murmured as she walked over. She brushed the back of her hand down Cyril’s cheek and frowned. “What can I do?”

“I just need help, I…” From where he was crouched at Cyril’s feet, his hands splayed over her knees, Mikael sighed. Quietly, he added, “I don’t know what to do.”

And he didn’t mean in the literal sense—Cyril needed to be cleaned up and put to bed. That much was simple.

But Mikael had taken one look at her in the light—at the torn blouse he forgot was fucking white, with how saturated in blood it was, and the bruises forming around her wrists that he knew could only mean one thing—and the gravity of what happened had his entire body in a fucking chokehold.

“Let’s clean up her face first, alright?” Runa gave Mikael a soft, sad smile. “One thing at a time.”

Mikael hadn’t even seen her move, but his mother had already dug out a cloth from gods know where and was at the sink, holding her hand underneath the stream of water.

She made everything seem so easy.

Like he wasn’t looking up at the half-lucid woman who was more important to him than fucking breathing. Like it hadn’t even been hours since he sat with her in a pool of her own blood, not knowing if she was going to fucking die.

“Do you want to, or—?”

Runa held the wet cloth towards him, but Mikael shook his head.

He was terrified of hurting her more than he already had.

Mikael pried himself away from Cyril and gave his mother room to work.

She touched Cyril’s chin and eased her head back against the wall. Cyril’s features pinched in some sort of displeasure as his mother started dabbing and wiping at the blood that caked her entire face.

“Cyril, sweetheart?” Runa said, in that same gentle cadence she spoke to Cyril when they found her after Bron’s death. The last time that his mother had to clean her up after she was abandoned and left to fend for herself.

Cyril made a quiet noise.

Runa swept the cloth up to her forehead and patted a clean sliver of it down the side of her face—she was assessing as much as she was cleaning.

The damn cloth was burgundy already and barely half her face was clear.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Cyril sighed.

Her voice made every fiber of his being ache with guilt.

“I bet you are. You can rest as soon as we’re done getting you cleaned up.”

Runa folded the cloth over on itself and glanced towards Mikael, quietly saying, “My boy, can you find some scissors? We'll just cut her out of her clothes since they’re already ruined, and then I can take care of her hair.”

“Her hair?” Mikael blinked at his mother and looked between her and Cyril. “I can wash it myself. I’ll take her into the bath and—”

“A chunk of her hair is missing, Mikael.”

For emphasis, his mother swept a piece in front of her shoulder that was significantly shorter than the rest. He hadn’t even realized…he just thought her braid had come apart and—

“Mika,” his mother hissed, waving the cloth towards the door. “Can you please go look for scissors? Check the desk.”

“Scissors, right. Gods, sorry, I—”

Mikael shook his head and blew out a shaky breath.

Rooting through anyone’s belongings was not something he enjoyed, especially not Cyril’s, but normalcy was out the fucking window. He slipped out into her room, pulled open the singular drawer of her desk, and sagged with a bit of relief as the silver handles slid into sight.

When he stepped back into the bathroom, his mother was already kneeling on the floor, untying Cyril’s boots.

And Cyril?

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked right fucking at him, and she smiled.

Well, maybe smile was a strong word—the corner of her mouth quirked.

But she could have been grinning for all he cared.

“Mika,” she said quietly, and his legs felt fucking weak.

Even his mother looked between the two of them with a shade of surprise on her face as she tossed the frayed strands of Cyril’s laces on the floor and worked off her boots.

“Hey, wrath.” He skimmed his knuckles down the side of her face, skirting past a nasty fucking bruise blooming across the swell of her cheek.

It was a blessing she lost the battle she waged to keep her eyes open because Mikael realized how fucking filthy he was in contrast to the now clean, snow-white skin of her face. Blood and dirt and gods only know what else caked every damn part of him, and her bathroom was looking as bad as one of the murder scenes.

Mikael set the scissors on the counter and took another washcloth to his face and neck, giving his hands a hasty scrub afterward.

“You’ll go in with her?” his mother asked as Mikael was halfway through unbuttoning his jacket and dumping all the odds and ends of his finery on the counter. He hadn’t even bothered to change when his father granted him leave from that fucking dinner. It was straight to the barracks, then the stables.

Mikael nodded before he pulled off his undershirt and worked his boots off. He’d at least do his mother the decency of keeping his pants on.

“How do you want to…?”

He looked at Runa, who tilted her head from side to side at Cyril, thinking.

“You hold her up and keep her steady.” She motioned for Mikael to come and take the spot she stood in. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

When he was capable of stringing more than a few words together, he’d have to thank his mother for making this all remarkably easy for him.

Cyril, mercifully, didn’t put up much of a fight as he hauled her upright from the stool, just slipping a petulant sort of groan as her body weight settled against him. She mumbled something after too, but coherency wasn’t something she had any grasp on.

His mother lifted Cyril’s braid and sighed—nearly half of it had been cut during whatever the fuck happened to her in that cellar, right around her shoulders.

He sincerely hoped Cyril meant it every time she said her hair drove her crazy.

“When she’s feeling up to it, I’ll have someone come and fix it properly for her. But for now”—Runa grimaced as she started working the scissors through the other half of the braid—“this will have to do.”

Runa tossed the remnants of the braid onto the counter and started dismantling Cyril’s clothes.

She ran the scissors up the back of her ruined blouse and pushed the two halves over Cyril’s shoulders and down her arms, hanging limp at her sides. The blood-soaked silk hit the floor beside them, and her simple, black breast band followed a second later.

His mother tsked quietly, shaking her head.

“What is it?” Mikael asked, peering down at Cyril’s back—mottled in purple and filthy, as he knew it would be.

“The bruising, Mika,” Runa said with a breath of disbelief. “That Wren couldn’t mend it all… I knew things were dire, but…”

She shook her head again and sank to her knees in silence.

Mikael was thankful for that silence too.

The condition he found Cyril in was a subject he did not feel like broaching at the moment. Maybe never, truthfully. Just the mention of it had a tight, aching feeling crawling up his spine that he fought to ignore.

Runa cut the last of Cyril’s destroyed pants free from her legs, sweeping them, her underclothes and shirt, and Mikael’s dirty clothes into her arms.

“She’s all yours now.” His mother glanced between him and Cyril and a sad smile formed on her face. “I’ll find you both some clean clothes and be back soon.”

Mikael had nothing other than base instinct guiding him as he gathered Cyril up into his arms and carried her over to the bath. She stirred as he eased down a single step at a time into the gently steaming water, pressing her face into his bare chest.

A single act that quelled the simmering thing inside of him that wanted to scream.

“What’re you…”

Her hoarse and grumbled words gave way to a hearty groan when Mikael sank them both into the warmth of the water. Even for the size of the bath, the water tinged crimson in an instant. Streaks of blood eddied away from the both of them as he walked over to the seating ledge on the far end of the basin.

“I’m giving you a bath because you’re filthy.”

“Oh.” She smiled—a fucking proper, dimple-forming smile—and her hand traveled up, splaying across the crook of his neck. Her fingers dug in weakly, and Mikael was glad they were already sitting. “Thank you.”

“Of course, wrath. Anything for you.”

Cyril just hummed.

It brought Mikael no small amount of displeasure to pry that soothing press of her flesh away from him, to dip her head back in the water and run his fingers through her blood-crusted hair. He focused on the sheet of black silk it became in the darkening water, desperate to keep his eyes and his mind away from the bruises around her neck.

They were going to drive him fucking mental.

Mikael tucked her back against his chest, to wash away the other reminders of the day he couldn’t have fathomed when she was nothing but sleepy smiles that morning.

He worked his fingers in feather-light sweeps up her arms and legs, across the thinning muscles of her back and stomach, rubbing away the more persistent smudges of blood and dirt and gore. He tried to not let his touch linger on the expanses of fresh, uneven scars on her thigh and waist.

When he was done, Mikael tipped Cyril’s face up and he kissed her.

Just a soft, affectionate touch, fueled by the selfish urge to soothe his soul a bit. But her eyes tracked him, half-hooded with rings of glimmering gold peeking out, and another smile tugged at her lips. A weapon that she wielded so damn effortlessly.

When she shifted, nestling her face into the crook of his neck, Mikael let out a shaky breath.

“You scared me today, wrath,” he said, because the silence felt suffocating.

“Why?” Her voice was so small, so tired.

“I thought I was going to lose you, and I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

That was the frightening truth he’d come face-to-face with inside that cellar.

Cyril had been in his life for only months now, but he couldn’t imagine the possibility of it without her. She was everything to him, and the prospect of a future where she wasn’t the first thing he saw in the morning, or the last thing at night, wasn’t something he could come to terms with.

Cyril made a quiet, contemplative noise, but he didn’t get anything else out of her. And that was alright, because it wasn’t the time to pour out his undying feelings, not when he couldn’t fathom where to even begin.

So he held her instead. Kept every inch of her frame tucked safely against him, exactly where she belonged, until his mother’s voice carried through the bathroom door.

“Mika? Can I come in?”

The water in the basin was filthy and murky crimson, but he would’ve sat in here for another hour if it meant he got to keep holding Cyril. The filtration would catch up, eventually.

Runa knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he called out.

Mikael gathered Cyril up and started moving towards the submerged steps—he wasn’t looking forward to any bit of what was to come.

“These are for you,” his mother said as she nudged open the door and set a pile of clothing on the bathroom counter. She grabbed a plush, white towel from one of the side racks and held it open at the top of the steps. “I’ll take her out there and get her dressed and into bed while you get cleaned up and dried off.”

She glanced at the sopping wet pants that were now weighing him down as he climbed up the steps.

Point taken.

Mikael tried to ignore the whimper that left Cyril when he eased her down onto her feet, her body swaying uneasily as his mother wrapped a towel around her and tucked it in on itself. Those whimpers continued, rolling into protesting whines as Runa pulled Cyril’s arm across her shoulders, bearing the brunt of her weight, and started leading her out of the bathroom in slow steps. Every pained noise she made felt like a physical blow.

Mikael waited until his mother made it through the door with her to peel off his wet clothes and give himself the hastiest wash down of his life.

By the time Mikael was clean and dressed, his mother had worked a miracle.

Not only was Cyril propped up in bed against a nest of pillows, but she was dressed in a dark tunic and shorts, and his mother was wrapping a bandage around her thigh. The room was warm and dimly lit, and a crate of what looked like medical supplies sat at his mother’s feet.

“It’s frightening how fast you—”

Mikael stilled when he got close enough to see Cyril’s face.

Her eyes glistened with tears and she coughed quietly into the sleeve she had pressed to her face. Miserable wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how she looked.

“Compliments later.” Runa's voice was clipped as she kept working the roll of bandage around Cyril’s thigh. The scent hit him then, of pungent medicinal ointment—like mint and clove, and something unpleasantly bitter. “She’s in a bit of pain, but the tonic the infirmary sent up for her should take effect soon.”

His mother kept talking, something or other about the properties of the ointment compound, but Cyril had every bit of his attention hooked. The waves of pain that crested in her face. The tears that just rolled down her cheeks.

His list of failures today was ever-growing.

He should have just carried her out here, wet clothes be damned.

Runa finished wrapping her thigh, and Cyril pulled away from her faster than Mikael thought she’d be able to. She shifted somewhat awkwardly onto her side, giving Mikael and his mother her back.

Cyril’s voice wavered as she said, “I’m tired.”

“I know you are, sweetheart.” His mother sighed. “We’re almost done, I just need to—”

“Let her sleep.” Mikael squeezed his mother’s shoulder.

He knew she meant well. She always did.

But everything was catching up with Cyril now.

Truthfully, he was shocked that she had any grasp on consciousness right now, let alone enough to be talking and moving, albeit sparingly.

The sidelong glance his mother cast him was begrudging at best, but her shoulders dropped and she stood. She pulled the covers up around Cyril, tucking her in with a sort of reverence that made Mikael have to turn away for a moment.

There was no doubt about whether she considered Cyril one of her own or not.

Runa didn’t let Mikael dwell on the aching sentimentality for long, though. She inclined her head towards the sofa by the fire and said, “Talk with me for a moment, before you join her?”

Mikael looked wistfully at the empty space in the bed beside Cyril that the fatigue and stress of the day had him desperate to crawl into. All he wanted now was to hold Cyril, if she’d let him, and feel her beating heart and breathing body against his. Have that steady reminder she was alive, and home, and at his side be what lulled him to sleep.

It would have to wait though.

He dropped onto the sofa and raked a hand through his damp hair, waiting as his mother gathered up all the supplies from the infirmary and set them off on Cyril’s desk.

“I don’t mean to corner you,” Runa said as she sat beside him, in that regal way of hers with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap, “but will you explain to me what in the hells happened today? I was given very little to go on before pandemonium broke out here.”

She deserved an explanation more than anyone else, but Mikael did not feel like putting into words the series of fucked up events that had brought them to this moment.

Thankfully with his mother, words weren’t a necessity.

Runa tipped her head as he reached for her hands.

“You’ll show me?” she asked.

Mikael nodded, pulling the warmth of her palms to his temples.

Unlike with Cyril, there was no pageantry or preamble when his mother slipped into his mind, not with how many times she had done it by this point in his life. She always said that his darkness called to hers, as scant of a thread of it as he held.

Just a sharp sting of cold up the length of his spine, and she was in.

After that, it was easy to let his memories flow.

He started with Kaia, bearing the alarming news of their missing guards.

The infuriating conversation about resources with the general and his father.

That godsforsaken dinner and the moment he fucked up in the most immeasurable way—his conversation with Cyril.

Things became decidedly less easy after that.

“Cyril is gravely wounded. She was attacked, at one of the warehouses, and—”

Mikael didn’t think his heart could pound faster than it had when Ari first uttered those words. When his avian form dropped from the sky in a flash of light, intercepting Mikael on his ride into Brynnhold, he knew it wasn’t good. But nothing could have prepared him to hear those words.

Reliving it felt a thousand times worse.

Breathing became a laborious thing, with how fucking tight his chest felt. But the memories didn’t stop, and not because he was letting them flow.

No, his mother was pulling them.

Because once a skilled vefari was in your head, once they grabbed onto that thread of your subconscious mind, they didn’t leave until they wanted to.

Mikael didn’t want to see that cellar again.

He didn’t want to see Cyril sitting in a pool of her own blood, kneeling fucking helplessly at her side as death worked its greedy claws into her.

He didn’t want to see the bodies again—of his men, or that woman, or that fucking creature—or smell the blood and the decay.

But he did.

Because his mother wanted to—needed to see it all, he told himself, to stave off the nausea that rolled through him. Easier said than done though, as a tremor set in to his already sweating hands.

“Mother, that’s enough,” Mikael ground out, his voice hoarse, but she kept going. Through Cyril’s heart-rending plea to go home, through him holding her near lifeless body, through Wren arriving and— “Enough.”

He couldn’t take it anymore, he couldn’t fucking breathe.

His mother left his mind with such urgency that a cold, piercing pain shot through the backs of his eyes.

“Mikael, I…” Runa was breathless as she stared at him. Her own pale blue eyes were wide, her lips parted for more words that never came.

Mikael lost the grip he had been holding for hours.

He choked back the sob that climbed its way up his throat and buried his face in his hands as his senses betrayed him in the worst fucking way. He could still hear those wet, rattling breaths she took. He could smell that sickening, copper tang of blood—her blood—and feel its slickness in the tears that fell onto his hands.

Mikael’s shoulders shook, and he cried. More than he was certain he ever had.

He cried because he failed Cyril. His people, his court, and everything he ever trusted in his damn life? They all fucking failed her.

He cried because there had been a genuine possibility that he would never see her smile again, or hear her laugh, or have her give him shit for one of the dozen reasons she found in a day. He would never see her flush and stammer when he teased her again, or see fire ignite in the addictive, sun-spun gold of her eyes.

And that? It was a reality he wasn’t sure he could have handled.

“Oh, my boy. It’s alright,” his mother murmured.

Her words and the hand she rubbed across his back brought him no comfort.

He huffed a bitter laugh and straightened up, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Things are so fucking far from alright.” Mikael glanced over the back of the sofa, to where Cyril was nothing but a lump beneath the blankets on her bed. “I can’t fathom how scared she must have been, how much she fucking suffered, I—” He shook his head. “She nearly died because our court is run by cowards who are too fucking worried about disturbing the peace. My men died because those same fucking cowards won’t listen to a goddamned thing anyone else says. Things are not alright.”

Runa’s eyebrows pulled together, and she frowned.

“Mikael, she survived. Against all odds, and that is remarkable. It would be wise to not forget that so quickly.” His mother studied him for a long moment before she stood. “Go be with her. You both need each other more than anything else right now. We’ll figure out the rest.”

Mikael should have thanked his mother for her help, but he didn’t even have it in him to say goodbye to her when she kissed his cheek and made her way to the door.

It took everything just to haul himself off the sofa and have his uneasy legs carry him over to Cyril’s bed. She didn’t stir at all when he eased in beside her.

He swept her hair back from her face, tucking it behind the delicate point of her ear. Sleep schooled her usually striking features into something deceptively serene, like she hadn’t just spent the night fighting for her life.

Her nose wrinkled at his touch, a quiet noise leaving her, and Mikael loosed a shaky breath.

She survived. She survived. She survived.

Chapter 62

Cyril wasn’t sure if it was every nerve in her body being alight with discomfort, or the intense smell of rain that pulled her to consciousness.

Whatever it was, she wanted no part in any of it.

Her eyes burned something fucking fierce as she fought to will them open, a lovely accompaniment to the aching muscles she was becoming all too aware of.

“Mika?” she rasped as she tried to blink away the gritty blur in her eyes.

It had to be him, sitting in a chair beside the bed, with his face resting on his propped-up fist.

No answer.

Cyril blinked again, the dim room gradually coming into focus in agonizingly slow waves. The pale linens, the feminine wallpaper, the—this was her room.

Why in the hells…

“Mika?” she repeated, her voice little more than a scratchy whisper. She pushed up onto her elbows, despite the screaming protest of her arms.

That got his attention.

Mikael straightened up, his dark circle-framed eyes going eyes wide for just a moment before all of his features softened.

“Hey, wrath.” His voice was ragged, but his smile warmed something in the very foundation of her being.

She tried to push herself up on trembling arms, and he was there in an instant, easing her up and stuffing pillows behind her back.

The sudden verticality made her head throb.

“Is the window open?” Her neck hurt too much to bother looking for herself.

Mikael blinked at her and shook his head. “Do you want me to open it?”

“No, I—” The entire room felt like it shifted, and Cyril squeezed her eyes shut. “I smell rain…”

Not like a summer shower, either.

No, it smelled like a storm, like the very cusp of a torrential downpour.

The mattress dipped beside her and Mikael took one of her hands from her lap, threading his fingers with hers.

“Cyr, you, uh…” Mikael cleared his throat, and Cyril braved opening her eyes again. The uneasy look on his face was unsettling as all hells. “You had a head injury, like a really, really bad one. Amongst…other things.”

Her confusion must have been clear, because Mikael added softly, “You don't remember, do you? Being attacked?”

Attacked?

Her breathing became a little uneven.

She searched Mikael’s face for some sort of reassurance, but she only found worry there, in the tension in his jaw and the tight, sad smile he offered her.

Awareness crept its way up her spine.

Awareness that her mind fought to keep at bay, but it was there, clawing its way out.

Glimmers of blood and bodies, of pain and fear, and—

Oh gods.

“Do you remember?”

Mikael’s knuckles brushed along her cheek and Cyril tried to swallow down the phantom taste of copper in her mouth, but her throat felt like it was full of shards of glass.

“The warehouse?”

Mikael nodded.

“I…” Fuck, her mind felt like broken glass too. Fragmented glimmers of memories strewn about that hurt like hells to piece back together. “What happened?”

“Well, you went into the warehouse on your own…” Mikael said slowly.

Fuck. She did, didn’t she?

She could remember the untrustworthy roof and that damn drainpipe. The endless rain too.

“And I’m not exactly sure what transpired after that, but Gunner and Ari found you in pretty fucking rough shape.”

Cyril wanted to laugh, because she still felt in pretty fucking rough shape, but a fit of coughs took hold of her lungs instead. Mikael had a glass of water in front of her before she’d even realized he moved.

It felt like the best damn thing she’d ever drank.

“Who attacked me?” she asked after Mikael had taken the glass and settled back down on the edge of her bed.

He hesitated.

“One of Reyna’s sisters. And…” Mikael looked so fucking conflicted. “Well, it looks like a lesser demon did most of the damage.”

Cyril’s eyes narrowed.

Her childhood was filled with tales of lesser demons, most of which ended in her being eaten by one if she didn't behave or finish her meals. But she learned quickly as an adult what a crock of shit that was.

“A lesser demon, here?”

“I know,” Mikael sighed. “Carinae is supposed to be too rife with environmental magic for them to survive, so they don’t stray far from the mortal lands. Not usually, at least.” He shrugged. “For every answer we got, a half dozen more questions popped up. But you don’t need to worry about any of that right now. You have a lot of recovering to do.”

She had so many questions, so many things that weren’t adding up in her mind. But the heavy undertow of whatever the fuck happened to her was already tugging at her body, muddying her thoughts.

Cyril couldn’t argue with him.

And truthfully, only one thing mattered right now. He was sitting right in front of her and she just wanted him closer. Cyril extended her sore and bruised hands towards Mikael and he took them with a smile so genuine she felt the corners of her own mouth lift.

Despite her lack of full lucidity, she could tell something was bothering him. His smile couldn't hide the tension causing the crease between his eyebrows, or the way his glacial eyes carefully studied her face.

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him to get out with it or lie down with her, but Mikael said, “I almost lost you, Cyr. And I…” He blew out a shaky breath. “I realized that I’ve never—”

Mikael closed his eyes and swore as a set of knocks came from her bedroom door. He looked back at her with resignation and muttered something about privacy as he hauled himself off her bed.

Cyril heard Runa before she saw her.

“Sorry for intruding! I heard voices and thought I should check in.” The queen rounded an unimpressed Mikael, squeezing his arm. She grinned when her eyes landed on Cyril. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Like I got trampled…”

Runa laughed, a sound that did nothing to help Cyril’s now-pounding head.

“All things considered, Cyril, that is remarkably good.” Runa settled into the spot Mikael had just occupied on the edge of Cyril’s bed, giving her calf a gentle squeeze. “When Wren came by again yesterday to do more work on your leg, she said the progress on your injuries was promising, and you should feel substantially better every day.”

Cyril blinked.

“Yesterday? When did…”

“You’ve been out for a good day and a half,” Mikael clarified, coming to rest on his forearms against the back of the armchair at her bedside. That addressed half of her confusion at least.

“...And my leg?”

It ached something fierce, but so did the rest of her damn body.

A hesitant glance bounced between Mikael and his mother before he fumbled out, “Broken, badly.”

Runa glared at him before adding, “Wren knit everything back together though. She said it’ll be uncomfortable for a bit, but you should…”

Cyril didn’t even catch half of it, too busy staring down at the outline of her legs beneath the plush duvet.

Broken.

Another thing that should not have been in the realm of possibility.

Maybe her mind was doing her a favor by not remembering that.

“...Cyril?”

She blinked at Runa. “Sorry. What?”

“It would be good to get up and move around, even a bit.” The queen smiled at her in that warm, motherly way of hers. “Maybe just a trip to the bathroom and back? I’ll help you.”

Cyril definitely had needs that needed tending to, like the aching bladder she had paid little heed to in the grand scheme of things that ached.

“I would appreciate that,” she said quietly, and Runa was already up and helping to pull back Cyril’s duvet.

But Mikael was there too, and things felt suddenly crowded.

“I can take her,” he said, trying to sidestep his mother, but she swatted at him and shooed him away.

“Sometimes, Mikael”—Runa helped Cyril to turn and ease her legs off the side of the bed—“it’s a little more dignifying to have another woman help you with these sorts of things.”

Cyril realized then that she was not wearing clothes that belonged to her. Nevermind the mottled bruises and pinkish-red scars that peppered her bare legs and the bandage wrapped around her thigh, she had expected those.

But the shirt and shorts were softer than anything she had, and they were…blue? A dark, midnight blue, she was certain she owned nothing of the like.

She ran her fingers along the neatly stitched hem of the shorts.

“Whose clothes are these?” Cyril asked, cutting right through the bickering that continued between the two people who both blocked her path to the bathroom she needed to use with increasing urgency.

“Ah, those are mine. I didn’t want to go rifling through your things while Mikael got you cleaned up. Not quite a perfect fit, with how much wider and shorter I am than you, but…” Runa shrugged. “Good enough for our purposes. Now let’s get you up.”

Mikael gave her a tight smile as he settled on the foot of her bed. Apparently he accepted defeat in the battle over who would take Cyril to the bathroom like she was a gods damned child.

She didn’t have it in her to care at this point.

Cyril planted her hands on the edge of the mattress, took a slow, grounding breath, and anchored her feet onto the floor. She dug her toes into the plush carpet that lined either side of her bed and didn’t even try to stem the slew of hoarse profanities that left her lips as she pushed herself upright.

Truthfully, if Runa hadn’t been there to catch her around the waist, Cyril would have dropped right back to the mattress, likely wet herself, and tried to pretend the day never happened. But Runa held her steady as every fiber of muscle and joint in her body screamed in protest.

“Now give me this”—Runa pulled Cyril’s arm across her shoulder, tucking herself like a brace against Cyril’s side—“and we’ll go slowly.”

Cyril didn’t even need to look to know Mikael was already up and within arm’s reach as Runa nudged her into those first few uneasy steps. That steadying, reassuring presence of his permeated the air around her and, while it certainly didn’t make walking any easier, it gave her the confidence she wouldn’t take out Runa if her legs gave way.

Her feet had just grazed the cool, moonstone tile of the bathroom floor when Runa snipped, “Privacy, Mika.” and closed the door behind them.

Runa ushered her a few more steps across the room before she started easing her grip on Cyril. “Do you need me to help you?”

“No, no, I—” Cyril cleared her throat. “I can handle the rest.”

She wasn’t entirely confident in that statement, but Runa nodded and let Cyril step away from her. She used the counter as a guardrail, sliding her hands along the cool stone surface as she half-shuffled, half-limped her way across.

Cyril swayed and froze in front of the mirror.

She had a black eye that made the one Dion gave her look like it was done with love. A scabbed-over split had taken up shop in the center of her bottom lip too, and her throat—gods.

She didn’t want to let her eyes hover too long on the bruising that wrapped around it, to let any bit of what caused that work its way into her mind. But she leaned forward, her hair slipping over her shoulder, and—

“Runa?” she whispered.

The queen had already given Cyril the decency of turning her back to her. Cyril heard her feet pad across the floor.

“What is— Oh.”

Runa stood beside her, her look of confusion shoved out by a sad smile. She ran her fingers through the hacked-off ends of Cyril’s hair with a gentle touch.

“Your braid was cut, in the…well, when you were…attacked, I assume. I know it looks rough right now, but I’ll have someone come….”

Runa’s words breezed over Cyril as she pulled her attention from the mirror that was forcing a crushing weight of reality onto her shoulders she wasn’t ready to bear. The bruises on her legs were an easier sight to digest, so she focused on those as she willed her feet back into uneasy steps and prayed she could tend to her needs before her body gave out.

She did, thankfully. But by the time she made it back to the sink to wash her hands and force a glass of water into her system, she was shaking.

The wave of pain that grew in her body from the moment her damn feet touched the ground had something to do with it. But so did the battered face that greeted her in the mirror again.

Cyril forced her eyes shut.

“Can you get Mika?” she asked.

The soft whine of the hinges that followed gave Cyril her answer.

She heard Runa’s voice next, then Mikael’s, then a third she didn’t recognize—and didn’t care to recognize, truthfully—as she gripped the edge of the counter and tried to breathe.

A count of five in, a count of five out.

The voices kept mumbling away in her room and, gods…she wasn’t going to be able to keep herself upright much longer. Even with her weight shifted off her healing leg, the pain pulsing through her was brutal.

A count of five in, a count of five out.

A count of five—

“Cyr?”

A shuddering breath left her.

Her grip on the counter wasn’t trustworthy, but she extended an arm towards Mikael’s voice anyway. A silent ask to please fucking help her, and to not make her put it to words. Her voice wasn’t trustworthy either.

Mikael’s hand grazed her back, slipping under her arms, just a moment before his lips met her temple, and he said, “I’ve got you.”

Something that sounded awfully like a sob crawled out of her chest.

“You’re alright, wrath. You just need rest, and a lot of it.” His voice was soft and soothing, but she shook her head.

She wasn’t alright.

Not in body, not in mind.

She wasn’t alright at all.

But Mikael was already gathering her up into his arms and carrying her out of the bathroom.

Cyril expected to see Runa, but she did not know why in the hells Ari was in her room now, or why the two of them were talking near the door. That other voice had a body and face now at least, even if his eyes went fucking wide as they snagged on Cyril.

“What’s Ari doing here?”

Cyril’s question was quiet as Mikael eased her back into bed, and her very bones sighed with relief at the lack of verticality. Her eyes slipped shut almost immediately.

“Well, it’s twofold,” Mikael said as he pulled the covers up over her. She wished he would just crawl into bed with her already, he looked like he needed sleep as much as she did. The mattress dipped as he sat beside her. “He was wondering how you were doing, and…”

His pause went on for far too long.

When Cyril willed her eyes back open, Mikael was looking over his shoulder at his mother and Ari. Runa was taking slow steps back towards the bed.

“And?” she asked.

“Ari and I have to go, Cyr.” Mikael’s attention turned back to her, and at the confusion that must have settled into her features, he added, “The families of the guards…they don’t know yet. We planned on leaving tomorrow morning, but there’s a storm coming in and we—”

Something hot and wet slid down Cyril’s cheeks, and Mikael froze.

“You have to go? How…” Cyril wiped at her face—tears. She was crying. The tightness in her chest hit her then, and the unevenness of her breathing. “How long?”

Mikael hesitated. His smile was tentative, rueful.

“Four or five days to get to everyone and back, I think. But my mother will be here with you, for anything you need.” He glanced to where Runa now stood at the foot of her bed. Cyril could barely see her through the tears that clouded her vision.

“You’ll be sick of me by the time he’s back, I promise.”

That did nothing to settle the unease that crept its way up Cyril’s spine.

The dreadful, looming reality that she was awake, and she was afraid, and Mikael was leaving her.

“Kaia and Gunner have been desperate to see you too, when you feel up for it.” Mikael’s fingers brushed her cheek as he tucked her hacked-off hair behind her ear. “But focus on getting enough rest, alright? You’ve been through hell.”

The panicking part of her mind was screaming at her to plead with him. To ask him to stay, to not leave her when she needed him. Just like everyone always did.

But Cyril could only nod.

“I…” he sighed, shaking his head.

She didn’t get to ask why he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin before he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”

Cyril hesitated before she nodded. “Okay.”

Mikael’s beautiful, glacial eyes were full of remorse as he leaned in once more to kiss her forehead.

Then he left her.

If he even bothered to look back before he slipped out of the door with Ari, Cyril didn’t know. She was too busy easing her pissed-off body onto its side.

Runa rounded the other side of Cyril’s bed and said nothing as she climbed up onto it and sat back against the headboard. She opened her arm in an invitation, and Cyril took it without a second thought, shifting over and settling her head onto the queen’s lap.

The tears came in full force then.

“I know how badly it hurts when you need them and they are bound by duty like that,” Runa finally said with a sort of gentleness that did nothing to help Cyril’s emotions running rampant, “but I promise you, it gets easier.”

Cyril drew a shaky breath and blew it out slowly.

A part of her felt empty in the most painful way, like Mikael carved out a piece of her when he walked out that door. She wasn’t sure how that could ever ease, how it could not feel like a void lingered in his absence. But Cyril was too exhausted to consider the implication of the ache tethered deep in her chest.

Runa’s fingers skimmed through her hair idly, and the queen said, “Get some rest.”

Chapter 63

Nothing but screaming filled Cyril’s ears.

Her own screaming.

A terrifying, familiar slickness coated her skin, and she…

Her chest heaved of its own frantic volition. Bursts of pain tore up through her side with each sawed breath her lungs fought to draw of damp, decay-laced air. The sickly metallic tang of blood coated Cyril’s mouth as she struggled to get herself upright, the cold and gritty ground biting into her palms and knees.

Not plush carpet runners.

Not smooth, polished moonstone.

Despite her frantic blinking, the abyssal black filling her vision refused to clear.

No hearth crackled gently across the room.

No dull murmur of life in the hall.

No wind rattling the window panes.

Thick, heavy silence filled the air around her.

Cyril’s heart raced, goosebumps rippling up her flesh, and every instinct in her body told her to run, to move, to go.

But she struggled to get up.

She could barely will her leg to bear the full breadth of her weight, the muscle locked and searing, the bone aching and—

“It wakes.”

Every bit of air knocked from Cyril’s lungs with a sob, and she fucking ran.

Nausea-inducing agony be damned. She had to move. She had to get somewhere, anywhere but here.

Cyril clasped a hand over her traitorous mouth, trying to smother the cries that the rattling, otherworldly voice pulled from her. It echoed and rumbled from every fucking direction. No matter how hard she ran, no matter how far she ran.

In the unyielding pitch black, her collision with a stone wall was jarring.

Smooth and cold, the impact rattled her bones, and she staggered away.

“Cyril!”

No.

No.

No.

Cyril had to go. She had to keep running.

But she fucked up.

She let herself think, let herself hesitate, and the pain caught up.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she splayed a hand against the wall, steadying herself to limp away from the thundering footfalls closing in behind her.

She couldn’t move fast enough.

“Cyril!”

Cyril’s knee buckled and slammed into the cold, cragged floor. A hoarse sob left her. Nothing but the frantic rushing of blood filled her ears as she fought against the arm that wrapped around her midsection and hauled her back. She clawed and twisted, but it was pointless. She had nothing left in her.

“Give her to me.” A female voice, soft, lilting, just like—

“Nononono—Don’t, please. Please don’t hurt me,” Cyril choked out, but a bolt of ice shot through every nerve ending in her body.

Cyril stilled as tension slipped from her muscles.

A dull whine filled her ears, and she struggled to process the light that flooded her vision.

The gleaming moonstone floors she was heaped upon.

The hands, clasped at her temples and—

“You’re alright,” a familiar, masculine voice rumbled at her back. It was a tone so close to what a scattered part of her being was frantic to hear.

The hands on her temples eased her face up, and up, and up until her gaze snagged on the wide, silvery-blue eyes staring down at her. Blue eyes, and fair skin, and red hair, and—

“Sweetheart, you’re safe,” Runa said, her brows drawn together. She cupped Cyril’s cheeks before she settled her hands back in her own lap. “No one is going to hurt you here.”

Here. The palace. Not…

Cyril’s breath came in ragged bursts. She had no control over the startled half-sob that clawed its way out of her when the arm holding her loosened. Her gaze dropped past the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to her chest, to the bronzed and bleeding skin of the muscular forearm holding her upright.

“I…” She sucked in a shuddering burst of air as a shiver set into her body.

“Lars has you,” Runa said softly.

Cyril knew that, but she couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t stop the burning that pricked at the corners of her eyes moments before tears flooded her vision.

“I’m sorry, I…”

Cyril hurt him, but she just couldn’t get it out. Not as a sob rattled out of her and she clamped her hand over her mouth.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Lars sounded so calm, so nonchalant, but Cyril was already too far gone.

She couldn’t get a handle on the tears and sobs that rolled out of her. She tried to tell herself, repeatedly, that she was safe, but every fiber of her fucking being was on edge—ready for danger, ready to run. The heavy footfalls echoing down the hall did nothing to help that.

Cyril tensed, her muscles barking in protest as her legs slipped on the tile floor and she pushed back against Lars. Away from the noise, away from the danger, away from—

“It’s just Dion.” Lars’ voice was as quiet as she’d ever heard it.

Dion.

She hadn’t known a single word could conflict her so thoroughly, and seeing him only served to heightened the dread and relief that swirled through her in tandem.

She blinked through her watery vision to where Runa had gone to meet him, halfway down the fucking hall. Cyril didn’t know how she made it so far from her room, not with the pulsing ache in her leg that got worse with every passing second.

“What happened?” she heard Dion say, exasperated and breathless.

Had he run here?

Runa spoke too softly for Cyril to make out much more than night terror and feverish as they cleared the rest of the distance down the hall.

Dion’s eyes were wary as he said, “Where is—”

“Do not finish that,” Runa bit out. “You are her family, and I cannot even fathom the list of things you have to make amends for. Start by taking care of her for once.”

If Cyril hadn’t felt like shit before, she certainly did after that.

Even with their relationship left in shreds, she still was a burden.

A thread of her being revolted at the thought of why their relationship was in shreds, of why she hadn’t seen him in weeks. But all reason unraveled when he sank to his knees at her side.

Rare softness hung in Dion’s eyes, his entire face uneasy, as he said, “What do you need, Cyr? Do you want me to…?”

Even with Dion’s hesitancy, Cyril nodded desperately. She was afraid of what sort of broken noise might come out of her if she tried to speak.

Lars and Dion had some sort of unspoken exchange before the king loosened his hold on Cyril to let her uncle get his arms around her.

Dion pulled her to his chest, the soul-soothing smell of his cologne wrapping around her too. A sob slipped out of her, followed by another, and another, until her shoulders shook and she crumpled against him. Her emotions were fucking fried.

“Oh, kiddo,” he said with a sort of gentleness she hadn’t heard in years—a sort of gentleness that only made her cry harder—as he ran his hand over the back of her head, over the hacked-off strands of hair. “I’ve got you, okay? Let’s get you back in bed and comfortable.”

Dion didn’t wait for her to make a fumbled attempt at speaking before he eased her up onto her feet—a monumental task given how her muscles protested at the movement and how pain shot bone deep in her leg. She couldn’t even graze her toes on the ground without a whimper cutting through the sniffles her sobs had settled into.

“I can’t…” she admitted, even as she tried once more to settle a fraction of her weight on her left leg. Not a fucking chance.

“That’s alright.”

Dion was already shifting, guiding her arms up around his neck before his own settled behind her back and knees and lifted her. Cyril nestled her head against his chest, and Dion carried her back to her room without another word.

Even as he set her down in bed, brought her water, and made sure she was thoroughly tucked in, the silence persisted.

He didn’t question what happened.

He didn’t scold her for reckless endangerment.

He didn’t have a snide comment about her decisions or interests.

For the first time in Cyril’s entire life, Dion Rhodea kept his opinions to himself.

It was a blessing that sleep took her before she could dwell on that too much.

Chapter 64

Cyril was a child the last time she woke to Dion sitting at her bedside, and it made her heart hurt in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. Not with how much the rest of her body still ached, at least. Even the weighty press of her duvet edged on being uncomfortable.

Dion looked so peaceful, slouched back in the plush armchair with his ankle crossed over his knee, flipping through a stack of parchment. The dark shadows clinging around his eyes, though, spoke volumes to just how little peace he’d had in the weeks since she last saw him.

He deserved it, she supposed, for the decision he made.

But it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Cyril eased onto her side, drawing her knees up as close to her chest as they would go. Her healing body did not like that, but she didn't care.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

Dion’s eyes slid over to her. He lowered whatever he was reading.

The smile he gave her was cautious, maybe a little sad even.

“Afternoon,” he said, and that certainly explained why the sunlight pouring in through her bedroom windows hurt her eyes so fucking badly. Well, that and the head injury too. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed through her nose. “I don’t know.”

“Better than yesterday?”

Well, her throat didn’t feel like it had as much glass in it. The pounding in her head had settled into something a shade or two away from bearable too. The tight, pulling ache low in her chest was new though, and not something she was impressed to wake up to.

“A bit, I guess. It’s—”

Her attention snagged on the papers that Dion absentmindedly straightened out and tossed on the end of her bed.

“What’s that?” she asked, as if he might deign to tell her something for once in her life. Dion eyed her and then the papers with unease for long enough that Cyril pressed half of her face into the plush end of her duvet and sighed, “Never mind.”

“It’s Wren’s report on your injuries, Cyr.”

Cyril blinked down at him. Dion already had the papers back in his hands.

“And what does it say?”

“...You really want to know?”

“I’d like to know why I feel like such shit—” Cyril couldn’t hold back her ragged cough. The shards of glass were back. “Aside from the broken leg business.”

To that, at least, Dion huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“Let’s see.” He sat back in his chair, shuffling through the papers until he found one to pull to the top of the pile. “You had…a fractured pelvis and shattered femur, a complete abdominal tear, a collapsed lung, multiple damaged organs, a severe concussion…”

The unimpressed, sidelong glance Dion cast at Cyril drew a quiet “Oh” from her.

“Oh, indeed. And where was…” He flipped through the pages again. “Ah, here. ‘Upon my arrival, the patient—Cyril Rhodea, age twenty-one—presented with near critical exsanguination as a result of her grievous abdominal injuries’...”

“Exsan—” Cyril’s eyes narrowed. Maybe the concussion was to blame but… “What does that mean?”

“You nearly bled to death.”

The hint of bitter amusement vacated Dion’s voice, leaving tension in the air that Cyril wanted nothing to do with.

And it wasn’t easy to shove aside the part of her that wanted to go toe to toe with him on instinct. The part of her that wanted to joke about how fitting it would have been if she went out like her mother did. But she was exhausted.

She didn’t have it in her to fight with him, though.

Instead, she pushed herself upright in a slow and painful motion, and said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

That, at least, was the truth.

The finer details of what drove her screaming out into the hall hadn’t stuck around, and for that she was grateful, but the aftermath was clear. She owed Lars and Runa an apology too, for having a fucking meltdown in the hallway and ruining their evening.

“Cyr, you do not have to apologize for that.” Dion’s eyes softened. He sighed, tossing the medical report back onto the foot of her bed. “You shouldn’t have been alone, not so soon. I…I hadn’t known he—”

“Mikael had to go, he didn’t have a choice.”

That was what she kept telling herself, at least, that he had duties and obligations that had to come before all else. But just saying his name hurt a part of her deep down inside. A single day, and she was pining after him like a lost puppy.

She’d blame that on the head injury, too, or maybe the blood loss.

“I realize that now, and I don’t envy what he has to do.”

As Dion leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, Cyril wondered just how many times he delivered news like that, to the families of men who died far too soon, all in the name of their work.

If his absent stare across the room was any indicator…too many times.

“And truthfully, Cyr,” he continued, pulling his eyes back to her, “even if I had known last night… Well, I don’t think I’m high on the list of people you’d want to keep you company.”

Cyril nodded, her lips drawn in a tight line.

They both knew he was right.

Even him being there now felt so many shades of fucked up.

Some deep-rooted part of her felt sated and safe to be around him. The child within her, maybe, that thought her uncle was an infallible, trustworthy man. But there was a larger part of her now that feared her own flesh and blood, the monster that he had become.

“I’m still sorry you had to deal with it, with me,” she said, wincing as she rubbed at the aching muscle beneath the scarred skin on her thigh. “I feel like that’s not very high on the list of things you want to be burdened with.”

Cyril raised her brow, hoping to the gods it would break some of the simmering tension in the room.

It did not.

“Taking care of you is something I will never be mad about having to do, kiddo, so please don’t apologize. You aren’t a burden, and you never have been. I—” Dion sighed, shaking his head. “I fear I owe you a great number of apologies and explanations, and I’m not sure where to start.”

That knocked the air from Cyril’s lungs.

Dion was not the sort of man to admit fault for anything, but apologies were something she was not ready to field from him. That would involve putting what he did to her—what he’s done to her—to words, giving it merit and credence and reality.

No part of her was steady enough to cross that bridge.

Not now, and maybe never.

So she took a slow breath, trying to ignore that pulling ache stirring up in her chest again, and looked Dion right in the eyes as she said, “I want explanations.”

Dion blinked at her, a current of surprise flickering in his features. Maybe relief, even. Whatever he expected from her, it wasn’t that. But Cyril wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.

“Anything,” he breathed.

“Your scar. How did you get it?”

A pained, dry laugh left Dion as he turned his eyes up at the ceiling. “Right to it then.”

“It was during your ascension, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.” His gaze slid over to her, uncomfortable as all fucking hells. “I suppose you’d like to know the details of that as well?”

Cyril nodded, and Dion took a slow breath.

“I was twenty-nine when it happened—” A far cry from the it was a long time ago and I don’t remember the specifics spiel he gave her the last time she broached this subject. “—and I had just fulfilled a fairly, well…political contract for the guild that resulted in some…retribution.”

Confidence was not something Dion usually spoke without, but there was not a measure of it to be found in his words now, the slow and cautious things they were.

“The home I lived at in the city was ransacked while my…partner and I were out having an evening to ourselves, and they waited for us. My senses were…dulled, and they took us by surprise. I woke up in a barn somewhere remote, and they killed her in front of me.”

Cyril stilled.

The embroidered edge of the duvet she’d been toying with slipped through her fingers.

“Your partner?”

Rogues didn’t have dedicated partners. If a contract was deemed risky or high-profile enough, they may be assigned someone to work in tandem with, but—

“My wife,” Dion said, with the sort of defeat she was certain she never heard him speak with. Like that singular word caused him agony.

Cyril’s lips parted, but she couldn’t muster up even a noise. Every ache and pain vacated her body as that singular word settled in.

Wife.

Dion had a wife.

How many times had she teased him about not settling down?

How often did the residents of the estate give him a hard time about his proclivities?

“I made two very distinct mistakes in my early days as a rogue,” Dion continued, and Cyril had no idea how. A hundred years of shoving it down, she supposed, but that pain…

“The first was allowing myself to care for someone like that, despite the dangers of my work. The other was not knowing when to keep my fucking mouth shut.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But that was when my ascension happened. They forced me to watch as they…slaughtered her, and I exploded. My fire leveled the building and took most of them with it too, but I didn’t stand a chance against the few who made it. They beat me within an inch of my life, carved this”—he gestured to his scar—“into me, and left me for dead in the mountains.”

Cyril just stared at Dion, at the discomfort in his eyes as he held her gaze, at the tension wrought through every bit of him.

She had no words.

It was always easy to assume no short few terrible things had happened to Dion in his life, with his temperament the way it was. But this was something she’d never considered…

“And to answer what I’m sure your next questions will be…”

Ah, there it was.

Dion’s voice had taken on a honed edge she knew well.

This conversation was over.

“Reykr royal patrols found me by some grace of the gods and brought me here to recover, which was how I met Lars and Runa. And no, I will not speak about her, ever. So please don’t go down that road.”

And that was that.

Her life’s curiosity sated, and no bit of it felt good to know.

Not an ounce of satisfaction in knowing Dion’s deepest, darkest secret.

All it left her feeling was flush and a bit nauseous, which was maybe just the doing of her healing body, but none of what he told her made her feel like she once dreamed it would.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Dion gave her a nonchalant shrug, like he hadn't just mentioned he had a wife that had been brutally murdered. Like he hadn’t just solidified that she knew even less about the man who raised her than she thought.

“It’s ancient history now. But—” His angular eyebrows drew together, and he tipped his head. “You are not doing well, are you?”

Cyril’s responding smile was weak, and she shook her head.

“I’ve felt better,” she said as she pushed back the covers and willed her legs over the edge of the mattress. Dion stood in a hurry. “I just need to get up for a bit and…”

She was immensely thankful for Dion’s physical presence as she pushed herself up onto legs that wanted very little to do with load-bearing. Her knees buckled, and she gripped at Dion’s arm for dear life as pain shot up through her thigh.

“I think up is the last direction you should be going right now, Cyr—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” She sucked a sharp breath in through her teeth and pressed her forehead to Dion’s shoulder. The wave of discomfort started to ebb. “What time is it?”

Dion shifted twice. Once to look at the clock, she was sure, and the second to give her what must have been an incredulous look.

“Just after one. Why?”

“Do you think we missed lunch?”

“...You’re hungry?”

“Yeah.”

She really wasn't at all.

But movement seemed like it might be the answer to her woes. Maybe her leg would hurt enough that it would distract her from the pain in her head and her chest that just wouldn’t fucking quit.

“I’ll go down and get something for you, just sit—”

Dion sighed as Cyril pushed away from him and took her first few hobbled steps down the side of the bed. Better already than the steps Runa had to guide her through to the bathroom the day before. She skimmed her fingers along the mattress and footboard as she worked a slow path toward her closets.

The queen’s borrowed loungewear was something Cyril would never complain about wearing—hells, she hoped Runa might tell her where she got them from—but the prospect of getting into her own clothing was more exciting than it should have been.

“Just give me a minute to get dressed and we can go down.” Cyril steadied herself on the closet half-door she pulled open—slim pickings with most of her things in Mika’s room now. “Apparently, Wren said I should be up and moving, anyway.”

Dion grumbled something that sounded awfully like a protest, but he sank back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

“Yell if you need something,” was the last thing she heard him say before she limped into the bathroom with an armful of clothing.

Outside of her room, the palace brimmed with life.

Not in a good way, either.

It was bright, far too fucking bright, and busy—loud, really.

Cyril should have stayed in bed.

Her leg was in no way ready for that amount of walking either, but like hells she would ever admit defeat to Dion. Even if he watched her with wary eyes the entire time. She just clenched her jaw through the pain and the headache, and the nausea that simmered.

She was just overwhelmed from being cooped up, and it would pass. At least, that's what she told herself.

Lars and Runa looked stunned when she hobbled through the dining room doors with Dion’s help.

“I know, I know.” Her uncle held a hand up in defense when Runa’s surprise morphed into disapproval. “She wanted to come down.”

“I need to sit,” Cyril said quietly, and Dion gave her an unmistakably annoyed look. He shuffled her right into a chair that Lars rushed to pull out from the table.

Nothing improved once she sat.

The ringing that built in her ears neared deafening. She felt like she might vomit at any moment. And her chest? Fuck. Something tethered itself to the middle of her ribs and pulled with all its might on every breath she took. An inexplicable sort of pressure took its place on every exhale, and Cyril was closing in on asking to visit Wren.

Worse didn’t seem like the right direction for things to be going in.

Something had to not be healing right, for her senses to be this out of fucking whack and for—

“Cyr, you need to eat something…”

Dion’s voice cut through the static filling her head, full of concern and so. Fucking. Loud.

She nodded and rubbed at her sternum, hoping it would ease some of the discomfort.

It didn’t.

So, instead of the chicken she was sure would turn her stomach inside out, Cyril reached for the teacup Dion filled for her and brought the sloshing liquid to her lips. The aroma of the tea she’d grown to love was nothing short of putrid, but three sets of eyes watched her expectantly.

So she drank.

It was bitter, but she focused on the warmth of it, fighting that heave that tried to crawl its way up her throat.

Everything went downhill from there.

With the sparse threads of her attention pulled every which damn way, Cyril missed the table in its entirety as she set her cup down. The porcelain shattered as soon as it hit the floor.

Chairs scraped, dishes clattered, and searing pain tore through Cyril’s ears. She clutched at her head as it pounded and that screeching ringing became unbearable.

It didn’t stop.

“Cyril, you need to—”

That agonizing sound was going to tear her fucking head apart…

And she…

“…Please, Cyr, just…”

She couldn’t fucking breathe.

The pressure in her chest wouldn’t go down, and the pull was just fucking merciless, holding her ribs in a vise. Her vision swam, gray and hazy, and something firm grazed her back.

Like stone.

A damp and metallic smell hit her then, like blood and death and rot and—

Nononononono.

Darkness slammed into her like a wall, and a painful rush of air filled her lungs. Hands gripped her face, fingers skimming her temples, and pulled her attention up—silver eyes, red hair.

Runa.

A wave of calmness forced itself through every fiber of Cyril’s body, loosening every damn muscle in her, until she felt like putty in the queen’s hands. Thick and tangible shadows swirled all around them, dampening every light and sound until the alarmed voices she could hear faded to broken whispers.

“…happened, D…like it or not…”

She took a few ragged breaths, and the furious beating of her heart eased.

“…no…she’s not re…”

Runa swiped her thumbs over her cheeks, pulling dampness with them.

Had she been crying? Her eyes burned like she had.

Cyril wanted to ask what in any of the fucking hells just happened, but all she rasped out was, “What…?”

“I think you panicked.” The queen’s smile was soft and empathetic. “You may have been too ambitious with your first excursion. That poor body of yours has been under so much stress, and still is, trying to heal.”

The lump in Cyril’s throat was painful to swallow down.

“I’m going to settle your mind a bit, alright?” Runa said, carding her fingers through Cyril’s hair. “And then Dion is going to bring you upstairs and put you to bed.”

Cyril nodded, and darkness consumed her.

Chapter 65

Cyril had no memory of leaving the dining room, but she was back in bed the next time she was treated to a moment of consciousness.

The room was dim and quiet, but it was fucking hot.

Or maybe she was the one that was hot, because Runa’s fingers felt like ice when they brushed over her forehead and swept her hair back. Her skin felt flushed and sticky, and…gods.

That was the fucking Queen of Reykr at her bedside, fussing over her.

Cyril might’ve marveled at the notion, or at least thanked the woman, but that searing ache pulled through her chest again and stole her breath.

“You’re in pain still…” Runa said softly.

A statement, not a question, but Cyril nodded anyway.

Beside her, the mattress dipped as Runa sat down.

“Is it your leg?” she asked Cyril. “Wren said it's mended well, but maybe…”

Whatever Runa mused was lost amidst the furious rushing of Cyril's heart in her ears. That uncomfortable flush was working its way through her body again and the tether in her chest was just pulling tighter and tighter.

It was happening again.

She couldn’t breathe.

She rolled, curling up in a fetal position in hopes it might ease some of the tension. But it was fruitless. The pressure just kept building.

Those cold hands cupped her face, and the queen swore.

“She’s so hot, Dion. Let me—”

“No.” Dion’s voice carried gentleness, but still had a finality to it. “Cyr, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath, slow and—”

“My chest hurts,” she whined.

“Your chest?” Dion asked, but Runa was already filling Cyril’s vision and easing back the blankets.

“Show me where,” she said.

Cyril shifted back enough to press her hand low on her sternum. The pain eased a bit as she gulped down a few full lungs of air. Runa brushed her fingers over the back of Cyril’s hand.

“Oh…I see. Well—” The queen gave her an empathetic smile. “That should ease a bit every day, and you’ll feel much better once Mika is home. But you need to rest as much as you can until then, and try to stay calm, for both of your sake.”

The last thing Cyril wanted to think about right now was Mikael.

Of course, she would feel better when he was home. She didn’t need Runa telling her that. Just hearing his name made her chest ache a bit more.

“And if you’re alright with it, Cyril…” Runa exchanged a glance with her uncle, and he gave a resigned nod. “I’m going to help you sleep. No nightmares, okay? Just rest. I’ll get the kitchens to make something easy for you to eat, and wake you up in a bit. We can figure out some kind of schedule, but I think you should be asleep more often than not for a few days.”

Cyril didn’t have it in her to think or protest or do anything other than nod.

Runa’s hands touched her temples. She felt cold, then she felt nothing.

For the next few days, Cyril didn’t spend more than an hour or two at a time out of Runa’s sedation. She wasn’t sure if she could be more grateful for the queen’s particular flavor of magic.

Little more than mild aches lingered in her leg and her chest, now. And of all the bruises splattered across her body, only a ring of yellowish-green clung to her throat.

Honestly, without the pink, scarred flesh wrapping around her waist and a gruesome recount from Wren, Cyril would have doubted that she had almost been disemboweled the week before.

When she joked about owing Gunner a thanks for making sure her insides stayed inside, Dion and Runa didn’t find it as funny as she did.

But it was the truth, and humor felt like her most significant return to form yet.

A visit with any of the King's Guard just wasn’t something Cyril was confident she could handle yet. Even the few times Wren, Dion, and Runa all occupied her room, talking all at once, proved to be more taxing than Cyril cared to admit.

Normal, apparently, for her head injury, but still annoying as fuck.

It came as a relief that the spritely moon-fae man Runa hired from the city to come and deal with Cyril’s hacked-off hair didn’t ask questions. He took one long, apprehensive look at her before he set about his task in total silence.

Dion and Runa both watched on with tentative curiosity as he worked, trimming and snipping away at Cyril’s hair until it was even again. The ends didn’t even skim the tops of her shoulders.

After the man left as quietly as he came, it was Dion who loosed a breath and said, “And we thought you looked like her before.”

A cursory look in the mirror hanging near her bedroom door told Cyril she had indeed become the spitting image of her mother.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

It didn’t help that she was still so fucking exhausted.

Whether it was a side-effect of the sleep Runa kept putting her in to stave off the nightmares and panic, or she was still in the thick of recovery, she didn’t know. But it took a concerted effort to travel back to where Dion and Runa were sitting by the fire.

She didn’t even stifle her groan as she dropped back onto the sofa and curled up against the arm. Dion pointed at the teapot on the table, but Cyril shook her head.

Food and drink were still iffy, almost as iffy as the entire notion of Dion waiting on her hand and fucking foot, as he had every hour she had been awake. Her fatigue was making her far more tolerant than she was sure she should be of him.

“It looks good, Cyril, it really does,” Runa supplied with a wistful smile that she didn’t feel like reading too far into. Cyril just gave her an awkward thanks and settled under the blanket that Dion draped over her. “And I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for certain, but it looks like Mikael and the others will be back in the morning. Quite early, I believe.”

Cyril’s back went rigid, and she felt a familiar ache in her chest.

“Tomorrow morning?”

She had refused to let herself think about it during her brief hours of consciousness over the last few days, but she missed the insufferable, arrogant prince.

So, so much.

Runa nodded, and she looked so damn happy.

“Tomorrow morning, and I’m sure he’ll come see you as soon as he can. All the families will have made it back too, so we’ll be going ahead with the pyres after sundown.” Runa brushed off her robes as she stood. “I should go be with Astor for now though. Do you want me to help you sleep now, or should I come back later?”

A few months ago, the idea of someone entering her mind and manipulating her like that would have been the most off putting thing Cyril had ever heard. Even though most people had magic running through their blood, the southern states regarded it with such unease. A thing to be neither seen nor heard.

Not the case in Reykr.

It was as casual of a gesture as Runa offering her a glass of water.

“No, thank you, I…I’d like to try things on my own tonight.”

Truthfully, if Mika was going to be home in the morning, Cyril wanted as clear of a head as possible. And it wasn’t like Runa could tuck her in and knock her out every night for the rest of her life, anyway.

Runa looked at her hesitantly.

“Alright. But you know if you change your mind…”

“I know where to find you.” Cyril smiled. “How is Astor doing?”

The long pause Runa took was telling.

“The illness in his blood is mostly cleared now, so I’m relieved about that.” She smiled sadly at Cyril. “Given the circumstances though, I would not say he is doing well.” And how could he be? All roads pointed to his wife being the catalyst for at least a dozen senseless and brutal deaths. “I’ll tell him you asked after him, though. It’ll mean a lot. He’s asked about you too, you know.”

“He has?” Cyril blinked. A log in the fireplace cracked, and she flinched.

“Often, actually.” Warmth settled back into Runa’s face that Cyril was relieved to see. Stress was not a look the queen wore well. “He sees how Mikael looks at you, and how you keep Mikael in check. Astor has a vested interest in seeing you make a full recovery.”

A stifled noise left Dion that sounded awfully like a laugh, and Cyril couldn’t help her smile.

Runa offered them both a quiet goodbye before she slipped out of the room. Cyril waited until she was sure the queen would be well out of earshot to turn and look at Dion.

“I feel terrible for Astor. How long has…” She had to choose her words carefully here. “How long ago did he marry Reyna?”

Dion blew out a slow breath, his attention turned on the fire.

“Mm… How old is Mikael? I remember Runa being pregnant and terribly sick at the wedding.”

“He’s…”

Cyril swallowed.

Fucking hells.

She was certain she asked him this at some point.

“He’s twenty…twenty-seven…I think?”

“You think? Oh, Cyr.” Dion laughed. “Well, if that is the case, then they’ve been married twenty-seven years this winter. Which, I think, is an awfully long time to be married to someone and not know what they are capable of.”

He’d taken the thought right out of her head.

“It’s sort of sad too,” Dion continued, “that this all seems to be borne of some woefully misguided desperation. It’s baffling how fucked up the purists’ beliefs still are, even after all these years.”

His sigh was palpable.

“Have you heard anything?” Cyril asked hesitantly. “About her, or…”

“Unfortunately not. The peninsula is warded as all hells, and they’ve refused Ezra’s outreach for communication. There’s talk about using Reyna’s sister’s body as some sort of bargaining chip, but I’m not sure that anyone wants to resort to that yet.” Dion shrugged half-heartedly and sighed. “I also admittedly have done little work as of late”—he glanced at her with a raised brow—“but I’m sure I’d know if anything major came up.”

It was hard not to feel a slight twinge of shame, that she’d let herself become his burden again, even though she swore to herself that any semblance of a relationship they had was over.

Maybe that wasn’t what she really wanted.

Or maybe she was just desperate for comfort.

But it was strange to see Dion sitting beside her so casually, with a mug of tea clasped between his hands and half-smiles lifting his tired face. She hadn’t seen this version of him in such a long time.

“I’m okay if you want to do some work, you know,” she said, instead of the other half-dozen things in her head that might upset the peace. “I’ll have to be alone and awake at some point, and I feel alright today.”

She genuinely did. This was the longest she’d been awake since the day she panicked and things weren’t back to normal by any means, but far better than they were. Light and sound were tolerable now, and those were remarkable improvements.

Dion seemed to wage some internal battle as he looked back at the fire.

“I have a disgusting amount of paperwork to sift through.” A hearty, resigned sigh left him and he stood. Cyril didn’t even want to imagine the sort of administrative nightmare this all had become. “Send someone for me though, if you change your mind. I’ll just be holed up in one of the offices.”

“I will, don’t—oh fuck right off.” Cyril swatted at Dion as he stepped past her and ruffled the absolute hell out of her hair.

He laughed the entire way to the door.

Chapter 66

Cyril made serious use of her time spent awake and alone.

The last time she had a long, leisurely soak in the bath? She wasn’t sure, but the warm water and gentle steam felt fucking amazing. She just had to put a bit of extra effort into avoiding any overlong glances at her thigh, or her side.

The lace trim of the night slip she picked to wear afterward dipped down just below the last tendril of angry, raised pink tissue on her thigh. Those brutal, jagged scars weren’t something she was quite ready to look at.

Dinner comprised what had become her usual—chicken and vegetables, all simply cooked. This time, she enjoyed it from the balcony.

Her suite was comfortable, and the hospitality the Kallans had given her was more than she could ever thank them enough for, but those four walls felt closer than they ever had before.

The fresh, early autumn air felt liberating.

Cyril sat out on that balcony, wrapped in a thin blanket, until darkness settled in and she found herself dozing. The second or third time the muted rustling of birds in the trees jolted her eyes open, she headed back into her room.

Sleeping turned out to be a difficult thing.

She tossed and turned for hours. Every noise made her uneasy, and her damn body couldn’t decide if it was hot or cold.

First, she froze.

So Cyril got out of bed, rubbed at that dull, persistent ache in her chest, added an extra log to the fire, and tucked herself back in.

Her skin was damp with sweat an hour later.

She hauled her ass out of bed, again, and opened the window beside her nightstand.

It cooled her off too much.

So, she left the fire roaring and the window open, grabbed another blanket, and resigned to flipping the covers on and off all. Damn. Night.

The temptation to knock on Runa’s door became hard to ignore.

But, eventually, some combination of the soft rustling of leaves beyond her window and the gentle crackle of the hearth finally lulled her to sleep for a few hours.

And then the heavy scent of rain filled her room.

Cyril swore, repeatedly, as she slid out of bed and went to close her window. But the sky was clear, a wash of inky black dotted with glimmering starlight, and the ground looked dry.

Head injury, she reminded herself, as she crawled back into bed.

It must not have even been another hour when the universe decided that sleep was no longer on the program, and a knock rapped at her door.

Her legs didn’t want to carry her out of bed with any urgency, though.

The memory of the last time someone came knocking at her door before dawn was impossible to ignore. But the knocks echoed again, a soft trio.

Not loud.

Not urgent.

No voice came with it.

So Cyril took a few slow breaths and eased out of bed, walking over to the door on uneasy legs. This was not the same, she told herself, as that day she tried so hard to forget about. Cyril hesitated still, with her hand hovering on the doorknob, but the knocks started again, and she pulled open the door.

With his hand still poised to knock, Mikael smiled at her and said, “Hi, wrath.”

Chapter 67

Mikael hadn't been sure if there was ever another time the sight of those looming sandstone and steel gates ever brought him so much relief. He saw it in Ari too, in the immediate sag in the captain’s posture once they rounded the last bend in the road.

And it wasn’t for a lack of time spent away from home, either.

Even in Mikael’s relatively short tenure with the guard, their trips number in the dozens. From training exercises to assignment rotations, he spent weeks upon weeks away from home every year. Often by choice, when the palace and his duties, and even his own family, felt suffocating.

The trips usually just didn’t involve bearing such devastating news.

Mikael also never had someone he was desperate to get home to before.

He struggled to sleep most nights with that last glimpse of Cyril's face in his mind. Her eyes tear-filled. Her face battered. Her body broken.

Walking out of her room that day gutted Mikael in a way he hadn’t been prepared for.

He knew Cyril would be well tended to with his mother and Wren, and every working member of the palace at her disposal. But Mikael also knew he hurt her when he left, and that still didn’t sit well with him. The needs of another were never a factor in his decisions before, so duties always came before all else.

That was going to have to change.

When he and Ari finally made it into the royal stables, silence greeted them. Not surprising given just how late—or early—it was, but the lack of conscious stable hands meant another delay.

“Just go,” Ari said as Mikael stared despondently at his saddle and travel bags. “I’ll deal with all this and dump your things in your office.”

Mikael cast him a sidelong glance.

“That hardly seems fair.”

Ari shrugged as he started working through the fastenings of his own saddle.

“If it means I don’t have to watch you pout anymore, I’d say it’s perfectly fair.”

“Pout?” Mikael stared at him. “I have not been—”

“Oh, you have,” Ari chuckled, “So get your ass moving and go see her. I’ll take care of this.”

That nagging pull was far too strong for Mikael to resist.

“I owe you, Ari, seriously,” he said, his feet pulling him halfway down the aisle.

Ari just waved him on and laughed, and Mikael took off running.

He ran from the stables, through the pathways, and straight into the palace. It felt like a wicked form of torture to run right past her room and into his own, but he had days’ worth of travel clinging to his skin that felt prudent to deal with.

His clothes clung to his still-damp skin when he was back at Cyril’s door, knocking with as much patience as he could muster.

The door swung open on his third attempt, his hand still midair.

“Hi, wrath,” he said.

Cyril’s dark, tired eyes went wide, and a long second of silence passed.

“You’re back,” she breathed, like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing in front of her. The smile that bloomed on her face made his legs feel unsteady.

“I am.” He smiled at her as he leaned against the doorframe. “Can I come in, and can we please go to bed?”

That shook Cyril out of her half-asleep stupor.

She blinked, laughed a bit awkwardly, and stepped aside to let him in.

“Gods, it feels good to—”

The door had barely clicked shut behind Mikael when Cyril collided with him.

Her face nestled right into his chest and her arms wrapped around his midsection, squeezing him tightly. A remarkably emotional noise left her.

“I missed you, you arse,” she grumbled, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

And just like that, Mikael felt like he was finally home.

“I missed you too,” he whispered.

And for a while, they just stood there.

Mikael was far too content to hold her close, brushing a hand over her back while he carded the other through her soft, inky-black hair. It was even shorter than when he last saw her, but Mikael was certain now she could pull off anything. He focused on that, and the sheer warmth of her body tucked against his, instead of the way the angles of her bones dug into him.

The road to getting her healthy again was going to be a long one.

But she was alive, he reminded himself, and everything else just needed time.

When the sobering reminders of why he was so grateful she was alive became too hard to ignore, Mikael eased back from her. He notched his fingers under Cyril’s chin and tipped her face up.

The faintest trace of sun-spun gold shimmered in her eyes and, for now, he would take that.

“You’re feeling better?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious. After all, she was up and walking on her own. Lucid, too.

A far cry from the condition he left her in.

“So much better,” she said with a smile that made him want to believe it was the truth. “I’m just tired now.”

As she was still speaking, Mikael started easing Cyril backward. One shuffled step at a time, towards the bed that he was desperate to crash into.

“That makes two of us. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since—”

Cyril planted her hand on his chest.

“Wait a second,” she said, and Mikael stilled.

He didn’t even get to ask why before her other hand slipped up the back of his neck, tangling into the damp strands at his nape. He caught just a sliver of her wry smile before she pulled him down and pressed her lips to his.

Gods. He missed this too.

The physicality that inevitably came from being in her presence.

For being a woman who had self-proclaimed ineptitudes with her feelings, physical affection was something she had no issue with. Mikael was just happy to be on the receiving end of her attention, and her unfathomably soft lips.

That first kiss was tender, carrying a weight of relief with it. But another, and another, followed it until Cyril’s lips lingered with restrained eagerness, and both her arms slid around his neck.

Mikael's blood warmed thoroughly.

As he started guiding her backward again in slow, measured steps, he didn’t dare pull his lips from hers. Not with how easily they parted for him, that first brush of her tongue triggering a honey-like drip of need down his spine. The soft, breathy noise Cyril uttered when the backs of her thighs hit the bed was all the confirmation he needed that sleep could wait a little while longer.

He helped her up onto linens that felt like fucking silk after a week in bedrolls and inns, and let her pull him right in with her. Only then did he let that molten, indulgent kiss falter, as she settled back into the plush duvet and Mikael kneeled above her.

He took a single look down at the wisp of fire-made-flesh that turned his life upside down in ways he could never imagine, and words just tumbled out of Mikael.

“Cyr, I love you,” he said, and Cyril stilled.

Her hands hovered on his arms, braced on either side of her, and she looked thunderstruck.

“I love you so much,” he repeated, a little more softly, because he needed her to hear it again, “and it was like fucking torture being away from you.”

It was the honest to gods truth.

Mikael had known for longer than he cared to admit that it wasn’t just some fleeting physical interest he had in Cyril.

He was enamored—no.

He was fucking infatuated with every part of her being.

That night in the cellar, faced with the possibility of an existence without her, only solidified what he’d been too afraid to admit to himself. And the turmoil he battled, leaving her behind? Confirmation he was a coward for not telling her.

His words hit their mark this time.

Cyril’s eyes softened, and Mikael was certain he grinned like an idiot when a smile tugged at her own lips.

“Come here,” she said as she cupped his face and guided his forehead to rest against hers. Quietly, she added, “I love you too.”

That felt as good as if she screamed it from the fucking rooftop.

Cyril kissed him again, and Mikael let it consume him.

The warmth that licked out in every direction from his core was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. A smoldering spark of need ignited within him, and Mikael felt desperate to be closer to her. Her fingers carded through his hair, nails raking across his scalp, and a groan slipped out from somewhere deep in his chest.

Mikael wasn’t sure if it was possible to want someone more than he wanted her at that very moment.

His body ached for every inch of contact it could get and, in the most primal way, he just wanted to be inside of her. He wanted to feel that slick, snug heat that drove him fucking mad.

One pointed graze of his hand up the soft, irresistibly warm flesh of her inner thigh, and Cyril yielded to his whims entirely.

Mikael settled between legs that parted so fucking easily for him and rocked himself selfishly against her core. The needy whine she uttered against his lips had an ache of want running right through to his cock.

He groaned and gripped her thigh, dragging her impossibly close.

Her wince was sobering.

“Cyr…” Mikael eased back, looking down at her.

And what a mistake that was.

Just the sight of her with that silky burgundy slip gathered up around her waist and her knees splayed for him had Mikael fighting to hold on to any rational thoughts.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” she said, a breathy and desperate edge to her voice. But Mikael was not convinced.

“Are you sure this is a good idea…?”

“Positive.” Cyril eased a hand between them and palmed at his aching length. “And you don’t get to tell me you love me and just kiss me goodnight like it was fucking nothing.”

Mikael wanted to laugh, tease her even about just how hot and bothered his declaration made her, but he could only groan instead. Just a simple and insistent touch and she had dangerous heat pooling at the base of his spine. He was wound up so fucking tight it almost spelled disaster.

Mikael set his hand over hers, stilling her movements.

Sheepishly, he said, “I won’t last if you keep that up, wrath.”

Amusement flickered in her eyes.

“I’m not sure what you’re waiting for then,” she said, her voice low and rough in a way that did precisely nothing to help. She completely disregarded his hand too, and started tugging the laces of his pants. A few deft movements, and she had her hand wrapped around him.

That first languid stroke had him biting back a string of curses.

He slipped his hand back up the inside of Cyril’s thigh and tugged aside the scrap of black, lace-trimmed fabric she liked to call underwear, bearing the slick and molten heat waiting for him. He eased a finger into her, followed quickly by a second, and rocked them slowly as she arched into his touch.

“Mika…” Cyril said softly—submissively, almost. She tipped her head back and Mikael was on the verge of losing it completely.

He pumped his fingers faster as he pressed his lips to the expanse of throat she bared to him, working a path away from where he was desperate to mark her. When he met that soft, delicate flesh at the base of her jaw, he rumbled, “Are you ready for me, wrath?”

Her whine and nod were all he needed to replace his fingers with his cock and let her touch guide him home. Three slow, languid thrusts and a full-bodied groan had his hips flush with hers.

He didn’t have words for the sated thrum that trickled through every fiber of his being. And Mikael knew there was never a time where being buried in her body didn’t bring him to some blissful plane of existence.

But this was something else entirely.

And he was still at a loss for words when she tangled one hand in his hair and left the other between their bodies, working herself to release.

Mikael was certain he was dreaming.

Against every instinct to savor this moment, to take his time and watch her indulge in a way she’d never dared to in front of him before, Mikael couldn’t hold himself back.

Every rough pump of his hips flooded his spine with inexplicable pressure and warmth, the cruelest test of his fleeting restraint. Hells, the soft, needy gasps she uttered threatened to spell his end on their own. But he held out, teeth gritted and a bruising grip on her backside, until every muscle in Cyril’s body tensed.

“Mika, I…”

The most intoxicating whimper of a moan left her lips.

Mikael completely lost his rhythm as her back arched and she came undone around him.

A few more ragged, groan-laced thrusts, and he fell right over that edge with her, his release stealing every bit of breath from his lungs. Little tremors of utter bliss rolled up his spine as he rocked against her slowly, riding out every last bit of pleasure he could get.

And when Cyril cupped his face, kissing him slowly as they both struggled to catch their breath, Mikael had never felt more sated.

Lying there with Cyril, and soaking in that hazy afterglow that had her eyes hooded and her smile bright, was all Mikael needed to live. Food and water be damned.

But she had other plans.

“Can I ask you something?” Cyril said quietly, a hint of breathlessness still in her voice.

That didn’t bode well.

Her hands skimmed up his shoulders with an almost tentative touch and Mikael hadn’t even realized he was still fucking dressed.

No wonder his body felt like it was damn near on fire.

“Should I, uh…”

He glanced between them.

Cyril had the audacity to look embarrassed as she unwrapped her legs from his waist and nodded.

Mikael bit back a groan as he eased out of her and pried himself away for long enough to rid himself of his pants and shirt. Cyril had already nestled in under the blankets by the time he settled back in.

“Alright, wrath,” he said, extending an arm out in invitation, “Ask your unsettling question.”

She laughed nervously, and Mikael sighed.

“That is not helping at all, you know.”

“I know, I know! I just…”

Cyril eyed him before she sagged into his open arm, tucking herself right up against his side. At least she was exactly where she was supposed to be when she unloaded whatever fresh hell was important enough that it demanded an answer now.

“You just…?”

He felt her sigh.

“When you were away…did you feel it too?” Her question was such a hesitant, cautious thing, as she splayed her hand low on his chest. Just below where his heart was finally slowing its frantic pace. “Pain, here?”

“Pain? I…” Mikael went still. “Yeah.”

Hells, his entire damn body felt foreign in the days he was gone. He just chalked his aching chest and crawling skin up to the unimaginable shitstorm that happened before he left. Thought the stress had finally caught up with him in those first quiet moments that he had to breathe, to process it all.

That pain now though?

It was like it never existed.

No, something contented and sated thrummed in its place instead.

And for her to ask if he felt it too…

Mikael’s brows climbed just as Cyril softly said, “Our bond.” The breathy laugh that slipped out of her sounded far more anxious than it did humored. “I think it was pretty pissed with us.”

Fuck him.

Their bond.

It happened so quickly…

Bonds could take years to form with the right person, if they even formed at all. There was no guarantee that it ever would. Couples could be madly in love for centuries and never have a bond form. It was a matter of luck, and fates and destinies, as his mother would prattle on about.

And while it certainly fucking explained things, Mikael was stunned and, gods, he was fucking elated. A bond was a gift beyond gifts, but Cyril’s tone…

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

She stared up at him with wide eyes.

“No! That’s not it at all.” Cyril’s features softened and she dropped her gaze. “I’m so happy, but it…”

She made a quiet noise, her fingers flexing against his chest.

“It what?”

“It terrifies me, Mika.”

“The bond?” he asked, and Cyril nodded.

“The bond. Loving you. Caring about you like I do.” She exhaled shakily. “I know you love me now, but when is it going to stop? When are you going to get tired and change your mind, like…”

Everyone else.

Cyril didn’t even need to finish the words, and his heart still ached for her.

Mikael shifted onto his side and Cyril didn’t resist when he notched his fingers under her chin, tipping her face up. Her eyes were full of so much conflict.

“Never, Cyr. Never,” he said softly. “You have no idea how much purpose you have given me, or how lucky I feel when you look at me, and I know that you see me as much as I see you. I love you, and there are no conditions with that. Not now, not ever, okay?”

Mikael trusted Cyril understood precisely what he was talking about. That she knew he would never treat her like that fucking waste of air did.

Whatever freedom she wanted, it was hers. Hells, he’d even be the one to push her from the fucking nest if she was afraid of spreading her wings too far. And whatever brought her happiness, he’d see that she had so much of it she got sick of it.

But what he would never do was use the condition of his love to get what he wanted from her.

“Okay,” she whispered, and that was all he needed for now.

Mikael kissed Cyril’s forehead before he circled his arms around her and drew her in close. “Can we sleep now? I’m fucking exhausted.”

Days of travel, a quick fuck, and an emotional outpouring? Mikael wasn’t sure how his eyes were still open.

A quiet, breathy laugh left Cyril, just a puff of warm air against his skin, and she said, “Me too.”

Mikael was grateful it only took minutes for him to feel Cyril’s body go slack, for her breathing to settle into something deep and rhythmic. He let himself slip away then too, to make the most of the few hours of rest he’d get before the sun rose and brought his duties with it.

Chapter 68

One by devastating one, the three funeral pyres laid along the rocky lakeshore became engulfed in unyielding blue flame. A beautiful and brutal contrast to the dark waters beyond.

Blue flame, Cyril was told, to wash the souls of the departed anew and cleanse them for safe passage into the otherworld. A last rite, given to every moon-fae without question. The people of Reykr cared for their country folk so unconditionally that, no matter your life’s transgressions, they would see you granted safe passage into whatever lay beyond.

She would have found the tradition admirable, but the lingering reminder of the last time she stood on this backshore left little room in her mind for much else.

Instead of admiration, Cyril’s heart only ached in a profound, unsettling way.

Not for a lack of familiarity with death, either.

Hells, she came into this world delivered on the grim, black wings of it. And growing up at the guild, submersed in the periphery of that sort of work, loss of life was always a factor.

It just never felt so merciless.

The Rogues of Helia made calculated decisions in every contract they took. Decisions that were made by seasoned, well-traveled people who knew the explicit risks they faced in pursuit of their riches. Most made it back, if only a bit battered and bruised.

But for the few who didn’t, retribution came as a swift and ruthless act, and their lives were celebrated, thoroughly. Rowdy and bawdy always, and full of good food and drink.

These last few months were nothing like that.

Bron’s nearly hundred years of vibrant life never saw its celebration.

He was wiped clean out of existence, with no trace left behind.

No parties or toasts, or teary-eyed reminiscing about his antics.

And the three men’s bodies being immolated right before her eyes? Nothing but good, honest men who met horrific and unjust ends. Maimed in a way that still made her stomach turn over in knots.

Not a single one of them asked for this.

Cyril blew out a shaky breath to still her spiraling thoughts.

A side-long glance came from her right, narrowed with concern.

She offered Dion her best reassurance with a tight smile and squeezed the broad hand he rested atop her shoulder.

There was still so much left unaddressed between them.

So many things Cyril wasn’t sure she could ever come to terms with.

So many things Cyril wasn’t sure their relationship would ever overcome.

Or ever should overcome, truthfully.

But now, on this clouded and cool night of mourning, Cyril needed an anchor above all else. Above all sense of right or wrong. Someone to keep her tethered and grounded, when the reality of why they stood here felt a little too fucking heavy.

Dion knew that too, when he showed up at her door just after dinner and found her alone and teary-eyed. He understood, with no exchange of words, that she couldn’t be a burden to Mikael. Not today.

And as the midnight wind swept across the lake, bringing with it the crackling heat from the pyres, her uncle offered just what she needed—his stalwart presence and nothing more.

The breeze should have been refreshing, but it did little to quell the sickly feeling that ebbed and flowed through her ever since their descent down the winding path to the lakefront. The rich, cloying scent of incense and other offerings left to be consumed by the flames didn’t help either.

Pungent sandalwood laced with lavender burned her eyes and lungs.

Cyril wasn’t confident she would last until the first light of dawn ushered in the vigil’s end, but the alternative was not something she allowed herself to consider. She owed it to the grieving families, dotted in groups across the backshore, to ride out her discomforts. Such minute, insignificant things by comparison.

But even for all her determination, it took tremendous effort to hold back a sob of relief when the cool, clean scent of rain wove itself through the air.

Not from the sky, Cyril knew now. She had known since that morning, when she woke utterly bathed in the scent, wrapped in the arms of its bearer. It was a revelation that presented a possibility she wasn’t ready to face.

Dion’s steadying grip left her shoulder, only to be replaced by another’s hand, splayed across the small of her back. She looked up to her left, but Mikael’s attention sat ahead, the three pyres a violent flicker of blue in his eyes.

His men. His comrades. His friends.

Cyril’s heart ached a bit more.

When he finally spoke, some immeasurable amount of time later, his voice was as uneasy as she’d ever heard it. That sometimes exhausting, cocky bravado was nowhere to be found.

“Will you walk with me?”

Mikael led Cyril far enough from the shore that the smell of incense dissipated on the wind, taking the sound of the crackling pyres with it. They found a bench leading up the path back to the palace, quiet and private.

Mikael’s exhaustion was palpable as he sat down.

He let out a slow breath and, without an ounce of preamble, said, “Astor wants to abdicate his position as crown prince.”

“He what?” Cyril froze, blinking.

Mikael nodded slowly, his gaze vacant.

“My brother no longer feels fit to one day fill our father’s shoes with all of this.” He waved vaguely back towards the lake. “And I mean…I understand the sentiment, but…”

Cyril stared at him. “Would that mean…?”

“Me. And I’m not—” Mikael shook his head. “I think my parents have talked him off that ledge for now. They want him to focus on his well-being and worry about his duties later. But…”

He leveled his gaze with hers, and Cyril’s stomach sank at his hesitation.

“Mika.”

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me, Cyr. I…I don’t know what’s going to happen. How my life might change, how your life would change. And I just—”

He sighed, and Cyril’s heart didn’t just plummet. It vacated her entire fucking body. She trusted her legs so little that she took a seat beside him on the bench.

Quietly, she said, “You want me to go?”

Mikael bristled. “No! Gods, no, of course I don't. But I think you should—”

Cyril pressed her finger to his lips and shook her head.

“I don’t care what you think I should do. I care about what you want.” She cupped his face in her hands, brushing back errant auburn waves and leveling their gazes. Those brilliant blues were so dark—so tired. “So, Mikael. What do you want?”

He closed his eyes and nuzzled her palm.

“I’m selfish, wrath. Of course I want you to stay here, with me,” Mika murmured, losing a ragged breath. Cyril made a soft noise as Mikael took her hands in his own and pulled them away from his face, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles. “All I want to do is mark you and make you part of my life forever. But choice is something I’ve always had the luxury of, and you haven’t, ever. So, what do you want?”

Cyril had never been more sure of anything.

She didn’t have to pause, or think, or even consider before she said, “You. This. Whatever happens, whatever that means, I—” A shaky breath left her, and a smile peeled across her lips. “I feel at home here, with you. And you…you took care of me when everything fell apart. I want to be able to do that for you, and not because I owe you, but because I love you.”

Those were definitely tears that had the moonlight glimmering in his eyes. Mirrors to her own, she was sure.

“Wrath,” Mikael said quietly, his voice thick.

He reached for Cyril, pulling her into his lap, where he wrapped his arms around her waist and nestled his face in the crook of her neck. His contented sigh felt like it reached out and soothed her damn soul.

This felt like home, in a way that home never did.

“You’re making a soft man out of me.”

She knew he couldn’t see her face, but Cyril grinned.

“Soft isn’t high on the list of words I would use to describe any part of you.”

Mikael wheezed a laugh that reverberated right through her.

“What did you call me once…a rake?” He drew back enough to level a look of mirth with her. “I think you’re worse than I am, Lady Cyril, and I”—he notched his fingers under Cyril’s chin, grazing his lips over hers—“love you so much for that.”

The kiss that he sealed that statement with? Cyril never wanted it to end. There was no spark of heat that so often sidelined tender moments. This was soft and affectionate, and more than Cyril ever could have dreamed of such a simple gesture.

But it did end, with Mikael resting his forehead against hers.

Quietly, he said, “You know, I always used to think all the preaching my mother does about fates and destinies was a bunch of bullshit. But I think I understand her now.”

“You do?” Cyril shifted back in his lap and tipped her head.

A boyish smile pulled across Mikael’s lips as he nodded, baring those damn teeth, and completely betrayed the unease his eyes scoured her face with.

And he… Gods, it was dark out, but was he blushing?

Cyril’s heart started beating a bit faster.

“I do. And what I think, wrath”—he smoothed a hand over her thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake—“is that I was meant to have my ass kicked by an infuriating woman from Helia. That I was meant to be here, at your side, every time things fell apart. And what I don’t think is that it was just a coincidence I felt so drawn to you the moment you showed up on our doorstep, armed for war, that it nearly drove me out of my fucking mind.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and, for a moment, Cyril had no more words for Mikael.

Just the small proclamation she made, of feeling at home with him and wanting to take care of him, on the heels of their conversation that morning… It drained the shallow reserves of her emotional expression entirely.

And she hated that.

Hated that she felt paralyzed too, staring into Mikael’s glacial eyes as he looked back at her with a sort of eagerness that made her blood run hot and cold at the same damn time.

Cyril was bad at this. Bad at feelings. Bad at talking about feelings. Bad at expressing much else than anger and pent-up frustrations.

And that…it wouldn’t change overnight.

Even for how much she knew she loved Mikael, for how all she wanted to do was touch him and be in his arms, and breathe the same damn air as him.

She needed time for some things.

So, slowly, Cyril took his face in her hands, slipping her fingers around to cradle his nape.

“Are you implying that we ended up here because of fate, and not just because you like the sight of me strapped with weapons?” she asked, all feigned disbelief.

Mikael’s eyes flickered with amusement.

“I’m implying that for whatever reason we ended up here, I’m grateful, because I couldn’t imagine dealing with all of this bullshit with anyone else.”

Cyril grinned. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Good.” Mikael tucked her hair behind the point of her ear and let his knuckles trail down the side of her neck. The smile he fixed her with made her heart feel like it was about to burst. “And let’s not pretend I haven’t seen how you look at me in my uniform, wrath.”

Cyril laughed.

“You should wear it more—”

Mikael silenced her with a kiss. Longer, this time, but it still had Cyril sighing when he pulled away from her.

“We should head back,” Mikael said with resignation. “You’re alright to keep standing?”

Her leg ached already from the few hours she had spent standing so far. But she didn’t want Mikael to worry about that. Not now. Not with everything else he had on his shoulders.

“I’m fine still.” Cyril gave Mikael as reassuring of a smile as she could as he helped her up.

If the prince actually bought it, she didn’t know. But he threaded his fingers through hers and led Cyril back down the dark path to the shore to wait out the hours until dawn deigned to grant them her mercy.

Chapter 69

Despite everything, Cyril couldn’t sleep. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, given the contrasting magnitudes of what took place the evening before, but her mind raced and she just couldn’t settle. Part of her felt more sated than she ever had in her life, with Mikael’s slumbering body and proclamations of love wrapped around her.

But there was unease she grappled with too.

Guilt and grief, maybe, for all that happened. For all that wouldn’t have happened if someone listened, or acted sooner, or did anything other than sit around and mind the peace.

Her chest was aching again, and distance from Mikael had nothing to do with it this time.

It was only a matter of time before all her tossing and turning woke him, so Cyril extracted herself carefully from the prince’s arms and his bed. He shifted around and grumbled something entirely incoherent, and then he was gone again.

Cyril wrapped herself in a throw and crossed the room with the quietest, half-limped steps she could manage.

On the other side of the double glass doors, whispered remnants of sunrise left the balcony awash in a soft, golden light that beckoned Cyril out to it.

A breath of fresh air seemed like her best option, truthfully. She was desperate enough for sleep that the thought of a few minutes of shuteye out on a patio chair seemed thrilling. She’d slept in far worse places.

The early autumn air was cool and damp, carried on the faintest breeze, and pricked at her bare legs as she settled into a chaise. Cyril let her eyes slip shut as she rubbed at an ache in her neck, the subdued, early morning chatter of birds filling her ears.

As soon as darkness filled her vision though, her mind betrayed her entirely.

Reminders of death and blood and gurgling last breaths slammed into. Like her mind just couldn’t fight to keep those horrific images at bay anymore. The smell of decay filled her nose, the acrid copper tang of blood coating her mouth, and nausea clawed at her quickly.

But Cyril gripped the cool, metal arms of the chaise, tethering herself as her breath came in shaky bursts. She sank back against the chair, pressing so hard that the cushion lost its comfort, and metal rungs dug into her back.

She just had to breathe.

Slowly, those sickening images dissipated.

But the aching pressure in her chest felt infinitely worse.

It was so easy to write off the discomfort when Mikael was away. After she’d pieced together Runa’s startling commentary, she blamed every bit of her pain on that fresh, angry bond stretched so thin between them. It settled entirely after he returned too.

Now she knew just how different this was.

Rooted somewhere deep in the very core of her being, this aching pressure was nothing like the tug of that bond. And Cyril was tired of ignoring it, of shoving it away because she was afraid.

So she reached for it.

Gripped and pulled and invited in whatever the hells her body had so insistently tried to get her to acknowledge, if only so it might finally let her get some fucking rest. She prepared for the worst. For the inevitability of terror and guilt of what happened to tear through her thoroughly, as it felt like it had nearly done so many times already. At least now Mikael was close enough to hear her if she needed him.

Cyril was not prepared for warmth.

She was not prepared for that pull in her chest to surge through her limbs as soon as she acknowledged it, leaving a blissful sort of heat in its wake. The chill of the early morning air simply vanished, and her hands buzzed in a way she’d never felt before.

When she opened her eyes, a ragged breath left her lungs.

Mikael wasn’t sure what in the hells woke him up, but he wasn’t happy about it.

His soul was tired, his bones ached, and there was no fucking way he should be conscious. Not when he was finally back in his bed, sleeping beside his bonded, his everything. Cyril was…

Not in bed anymore.

He rolled over, sweeping his arm over the spot he was sure she had just occupied.

Lukewarm.

There was no way she should be awake either, but the trail of morning light from the half-open patio door said otherwise. Against the nagging undertow of exhaustion, Mikael pulled himself out of bed. He found his pants on the floor and called that good enough before he ambled over to the door.

His mother warned him about the brutal nightmares Cyril had and the ones she would likely keep having. She must have had one, he figured, as he pulled the door open wider.

Cyril was just sitting on a chaise, knees drawn to her chest and her back to the door. He opened his mouth, ready to lure her back to bed, but his eyes adjusted to the morning light and Mikael went still.

On Cyril’s outstretched hands, pale yellow flames flickered and danced across the surface of her palms, winking out just moments later. She closed her fist, and a shuddering precursor to a sob left her.

Mikael could only grin as he leaned against the doorframe, pride swelling in his chest.

Cyril Rhodea had her fire.

Epilogue

Dion

Dion felt like he had just stepped into a memory from another lifetime.

The Kallan’s private gardens.

An unseasonably warm autumn day.

The only difference?

It wasn’t his brother and his sister-in-law nestled with each other out on the lawn, soaking up every ray of the afternoon sun. No, it was his spitfire niece sitting between the drawn-up legs of Reykr’s Prince Commander.

The infatuation that hung in the very air around them though? Identical.

The way Mikael looked at Cyril like she was the only living, breathing thing in existence? He’d watched his brother look at Malia the same way more times than he could count.

And gods, it made his fucking chest ache.

Nearly twenty-two years since everything went to utter hells for the second time in his gods damned—

Dion bristled at the brush of a hand on his arm.

Runa smiled up at him. “I wasn’t sure if you’d join us.”

He sighed.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Dion still wasn’t sure if he should be there, or why he’d made the eleventh-hour decision to accept Runa’s invitation. He didn’t deserve to be there. Not amongst the sunshine and greenery, and the undercurrent of peace that ran through it all. He should be rotting somewhere, anywhere—

“Come sit with me.”

Dion eyed Runa apprehensively, but she was already threading her arm through his and steering him towards one of the wrought-iron table sets tucked underneath the second-story terrace.

From two tables over, Lars inclined his head in silent greeting. Not that Dion was surprised, words were something the King of Reykr had in short supply for him as of late. Astor didn’t even look up from the spread of playing cards in his hand. Truthfully, Dion was just shocked to see the crown prince out of the confines of his quarters. Remarkable progress, given everything.

“I think…” Runa started, a bit quiet. Like always, she couldn’t even wait until his ass made full contact with the damned chair. “That we might have some party planning to do in the not-so-distant future.”

Dion blinked.

“A party?” He huffed a laugh. “I hardly think there’s much to celebrate.”

A dozen innocent people had met horrific ends, and Cyril was nearly one of them. Bron was dead, Reyna was missing, and bureaucracy had them at a standstill in holding anyone responsible.

Bleak would be putting things lightly.

And that wasn’t even considering the immeasurable weight of Dion’s own sins. The ones that he knew everyone around him bore the effect of, despite the feigned undercurrent of peace that swirled all around them since Cyril’s brush with death. It felt like it would unravel at any given moment.

Celebrating was the last thing Dion felt like doing, but Runa’s eyes had a sparkle to them that was off putting.

“Yes, a party. My son”—the queen tipped her chin towards where Mikael and a dozing Cyril sat out in the sun, on a patch of grass between two vibrant garden beds—“you know, the—ah, what was it? Whelp that couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”

Fuck.

The sidelong glance she slid to Dion was caustic.

He didn’t want to know how she’d heard about that.

“He came to me this morning and asked if I would take him to the vaults to see what we had that might be suitable for an important piece of jewelry.”

Runa let him stew on that prospect for a few painfully long moments.

Dion ran his hand through his hair as he said, “Well, fuck. There’s no misconstruing that, is there?”

Cyril. Married. To a prince.

Gods help him.

“No,” Runa chuckled, “There certainly isn’t, and I know you have your doubts about my son—”

“Had.”

“Either way.” Runa waved a hand. “My son loves her, Dion, in the kind of way I wasn’t sure he would ever care for someone. Not with his, well…”

“His reputation?”

A quiet hmph left Runa.

“Yes, his reputation.” There was that caustic glance again. “The endless cycle of bedroom guests. Paying for pleasures in the city. Never being seen with a partner in the light of day. Concepts I know you are intimately familiar with, Rhodea.”

Dion nodded with each punctuated statement, a wry smile blooming on his face.

“Very.” It was his turn to chuckle. “You understand my apprehension, then, when he set his eyes on my dear niece.”

“What I was getting at, you insufferable gnat, was that I have never seen my son like this before.”

Her attention drifted over to the sun-basking lovebirds, and she shook her head.

“When he brought Cyril back that…night. I helped him clean her up and get her comfortable, and Mika broke down. I haven’t seen him cry since he was a child, Dion, but he did that night. For her. For what happened. For what he almost lost.” Runa sighed through her nose. “He let me into his mind so I could see what he saw in that cellar. But I felt everything he felt too, when she was bleeding out in his arms. There is no mistaking that sort of love.”

Dion released the white-knuckled grip he hadn’t realized he held on the whorled iron arms of the chair. Ten minutes with the Queen of Reykr and she was already testing his sobriety worse than anything else in the last ten days.

“Are you going to lecture me about fate and destiny now too?” he said coolly, because he knew exactly where she was going with this.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t remember what that seer told Malia, that—”

“That woman was a fucking farce,” Dion seethed.

“—her daughter born under the sun of day would find her heart a home bathed in moonlight. I think those are hard words to misconstrue.”

They’d had this conversation so. Many. Fucking. Times.

Dion was tired of it.

Tired of the years Runa spent trying to wield that single statement as proof Cyril should live in Reykr, away from the only remaining thread of her family. Runa could say all she wanted about the seer who conveniently never foresaw the same daughter born under the sun of day becoming an orphan just after her second gods damned birthday.

“Is this why you invited me here, to do your victory lap? Tell me I was wrong, and you were right?” Dion scoffed.

“I invited you here because of her,” Runa said through a tense jaw. “Your niece still loves you, Dion. She may never forgive you for what you’ve done, and rightfully so, but she loves you. And I am trying to figure out how to navigate all of this.”

Forgiveness. What a laughable idea.

“You won’t have to worry about that much longer. I’ll be out of your hair in a few days.”

Runa blinked at him.

“You… Are you going back to Helia?”

“Tyr and Ren too. It’ll be a lively ride back. And don’t—” He sighed. Runa’s eyes had narrowed with her obvious disapproval. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been gone for nearly four months. The guild is self-sufficient, but not indefinitely. It’s not like I have business being here anymore either. Lars ended the contract, and we gave all our findings to Ezra so the guard can take over.”

“Is now the best time, though?” The queen’s expression softened at least. “Cyril is still recovering… Could you not wait a few more weeks?”

“We’ve already made our arrangements. A porter is taking our things the day after tomorrow, and we’ll depart two days after that. And Cyril, she…”

Dion glanced to where his niece still sat with Mikael. Awake now, though. Cyril stretched and turned, and—

Fuck.

She looked right at him and smiled. Then she was on her feet, pulling the prince with her on a direct course for the tables.

Dion forced a smile onto his face as he quickly said to Runa, “She’ll get better care from you and Mikael than I could ever give her. She needs space from me too, and time to do things on her own.”

The narrow look Runa gave him spoke to how little she agreed with that statement. Shocking, truthfully. Cyril and Mikael were too close now for her to argue with him, though, and the smile she plastered on for them was more satisfying than it should have been.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” Cyril said, her expression nestled somewhere between content and exhausted. “Can we join you?”

Runa gestured for the two of them to sit while Dion said, “I suppose you wouldn’t have noticed while you were busy snoring.”

Halfway to seated Cyril froze, gripping the arms of her chair. She blinked at Dion.

“Snoring? I…I wasn’t—” She looked to Mikael for reassurance, but his brows only climbed and he looked away. “You arse, why didn’t you wake—”

“You weren’t snoring, sweetheart,” Runa interjected. She shot a withering glance at Dion and Mikael before she continued. “How are you feeling? Mikael said—”

“I’m just tired, that’s all,” Cyril said, far too quickly. “But it’s fine.”

That didn’t bode well.

And neither did Mikael’s sigh or the glare Cyril cut him.

Trouble in their little bubble of paradise already?

“It’s not fine, Cyr,” Mikael said quietly, “You’re up all night, and you aren’t—”

“It is fine,” she bit back.

The prince yielded, sinking back in his chair with a sigh that spoke to just how not fine it was with him. If Dion had to guess, with how the dark circles hadn’t abated under Cyril’s eyes much in the days since the pyres…

“Nightmares?” Dion asked.

“No,” Cyril said adamantly at the same time Mikael sighed, “Yes.”

They glared at each other.

Dion figured as much.

The lingering mental burden of what Cyril endured wouldn’t disappear overnight. Time would play a part, but Cyril had a long list of things she needed to come to terms with if she ever had a hope in any of the hells of moving on. Easier said than done, he knew, and Rhodea’s weren’t exactly known for their resounding coping abilities…

Still, if she didn’t deal with things sooner rather than later… Fuck.

She’d just turn into him, or worse, her father.

The prospect of either of those was terrifying.

It was Runa who broke the budding tension as she cautiously said, “I won’t pry, but please promise me you will let me know if things don’t get better soon?”

“I will,” Cyril mumbled, her shoulders sagging.

Mikael gave his mother an appreciative smile as he draped his arm across the back of Cyril’s chair. And then he looked at Cyril so expectantly it even made Dion a bit uncomfortable.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?”

Oh, her temper was so close to boiling over. All but confirmation that she wasn’t sleeping, and probably not eating well either. Even though he shouldn’t have found it humorous, Dion’s lips quirked.

The poor prince had no idea what he was getting himself into.

With remarkable patience, Mikael said, “Are you going to ask him, or…?”

Cyril blinked up at Mikael, and then her eyes went wide. Her attention flickered over to Dion.

“Right. Dion, I have a question, I—” Cyril cleared her throat and shimmied forward in her chair. She set her hands on the table, palm side up, and stared at them intently.

“I was wondering, when you conjure your flames…” She looked up at him, hesitant, and Dion hated himself for that. “Are they always the same color? I was talking to Gunner, and he said his aren’t. But, I…I wanted to know about yours.”

Dion set his own hands on the table.

A half-hearted moment of focus, and they were wreathed in vibrant flame. The same sunset shades of red, orange, and trimmed in yellow, as always.

“More or less,” he said, lifting his hands to turn them forward and back. He smirked as Runa leaned away from him, sweeping her mane of copper waves away. “Why?”

“Because mine are kind of sad.”

Dion blinked as pale, golden-yellow flames licked up the surface of Cyril’s palms and along her splayed fingers. He blinked twice more for good measure, and it did nothing to stave off the pride that swelled in his chest.

He knew that all signs pointed to Cyril’s ascension having taken place in that cellar. The similarities to his own experience were impossible to ignore, but Dion was wary of clinging too strongly to that hope.

To actually see her bear flames—their flames—though?

It was an indescribable feeling.

“Well.” Dion’s flames winked out, and he hovered his hands a few inches above hers. Warm, but not scorching like it should have been. “I suppose you’re responsible for party tricks now, aren’t you?”

At that, Cyril grinned, and her flames immediately guttered.

“The color takes some practice. You’ll need to learn how to give them more fuel, more of a river than a drizzle of power, and they’ll get darker, stronger.”

“Will you show me how?” she asked with a sort of eagerness that Dion never thought he would be on the receiving end of again. He’d never be able to say no to that. “The barracks has a fire-warded training room that Mikael said we could use. Maybe after dinner tonight? If…if you’re staying, that is?”

“You know I’d be happy to, kiddo. But, ah…”

He cast a cautious glance at Runa, who gave her nod of approval.

The sort of unbridled happiness that swept across Cyril’s face was something Dion would treasure until his final breath. He wasn’t sure he had ever witnessed the Rhodea golds spark with joy like that.

And he wouldn’t risk spoiling one bit of that by telling her his plans to leave. That could wait until he figured out just how difficult it would be to push their departure out by a few days. Hells, maybe even weeks.

No matter how uncertain the future of his relationship with Cyril had become, Dion wouldn’t miss this opportunity for the world.

Acknowledgements

Let me start off by saying that writing the acknowledgements of my very first book is SUCH a surreal experience. Even though I’ve been a (stubborn) dreamer for my entire life, and a writer for nearly half of it, there were so many times in the last 16 months that I thought my most ambitious dream so far wouldn’t come to fruition.

But here we are, at the finish line! And holy hell, did it take a village to get here.

To Eric—my partner in crime. Thank you for making sure I never got (too) hangry and remembered to take my meds anytime I got lost in the writing cave, which was almost every day. Thank you for supporting me endlessly as I take this first step towards my dream of writing full time. One day (hopefully in the not-so-distant future), you’re going to make a great house-boyfriend and I will buy you that sailor scout maid apron to wear.

To ESOG—my very own gaggle of idiots, and the first people who knew I was embarking on the terrifying adventure of becoming an author! Thank you all for being my sounding board, for gassing me up every time I questioned my life decisions, for making me laugh multiple times a day, and for your unwavering support at every bump in this crazy journey.

To my Beta Reader Team—Quinn, Amanda, Genia, Madison & Cenna. I can’t thank each of you enough for the time & effort you put into reading through my manuscript, and answering my endless questions about your experience. Your feedback was invaluable to helping shape The Mercy of Dawn.

To my editor—Ciara. Thank you for being my editorial sherpa and for the fountain of knowledge you have imparted on me during round after round of edits! I know this manuscript was a beast, and I misused commas probably a few thousand times, but I couldn’t be more grateful for your help in getting it to where it is now. I can’t wait to embark on the rest of the series with you!

To my work bestie—Luke. I know it’s been torture for you to not read this, despite being one of my most avid cheerleaders. By the time you see this, you’ll finally have had that chance, and I hope it is everything you dreamed it would be!

To everyone I met through Bookstagram, from artists to my ARC team and everyone in between—Thank you for taking a risk on a debut indie author who had nothing but unedited quotes & vibes to give you.

And last, but certainly not least—to my Mom & Dad. Thank you for never stifling your one and only weird ass kid. I know it hasn’t always been stress-free (let's not talk about my high school years), but look at how far we’ve come!

Ashley. ♡

About the author

Hi! I’m Ashley, a serial daydreamer with a passion for the darker sides of fantasy and romance.

When I'm not busy slaving away to corporate overlords (kidding!! . . . maybe.) I write stories set in otherworldly places that feature healthy pinches of space and flawed characters who grapple with trauma & their sense of belonging in their journeys.

I have a personal soft spot for slow burns, found family, morally grey characters, and basically anyone to lovers, and you’ll find elements of these (+ more!) in my works.

If you want to learn more, or stay in the know about the Fires of Carinae series, visit www.ashleybreseebooks.com or follow me on Instagram at @ashbreseewrites