Page 10 of The Mercy of Dawn

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.