Page 177 of The Mercy of Dawn

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.