Page 21 of The Mercy of Dawn

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.