Page 108 of The Mercy of Dawn

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.