Page 19 of The Mercy of Dawn

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.