Page 20 of The Mercy of Dawn

Beneath a piece of waxed canvas strung between trees for shelter, Cyril sat wedged between all of her uncles and watched lightning rip across the sky. Together in silence, save for the rumble of thunder and heavy patter of rain, they peered through the holes in the forest canopy to catch glimpses of the brilliant white bolts, near and far. A small comfort from home she’d gladly take.

Especially as the first view of the gates of Reykr’s royal palace came into sight and reminded her just how impossibly far she was from Helia.

On the road up ahead, two looming, wrought-iron gates sat anchored by a pair of white stone pillars that looked like buildings themselves. On either side, dense hedges sprawled out from the pillars, interspersed by smaller support posts that Cyril lost track of as the surrounding forest consumed each side.

Twisted and woven to mimic vines and tree branches, the black metal decorating the front of the gates circled two staggered birds, shooting upward in flight. The same birds, she realized, that the guardsman at the last gate bore on a patch on his chest.

Reykr’s sigil was…simple. Subtle, maybe?

Cyril expected more from the notorious fae.

The feeling in her gut was strange as they cleared the last stretch of road to the palace. The prospect of a hot bath and dry clothes, and a meal of something other than dried rations and game meat, thrilled her. As was the entire notion of their trip finally ending.

There was just the matter of where—and who—that hot bath and meal would come from that smothered her excitement into unease and even a pinch of nausea. Not that having only eaten a measly breakfast would have anything to do with that.

That unease swelled into something far more akin to fear as they closed in on the gates and Cyril felt the air around them shift. As if a giant ripple of something just tore through it. Like thunder almost, except not a single sound cut through the torrent of rain.

Every instinct in her body screamed danger.

Cyril tugged her hood and cowl down, fighting back wet strands of hair that clung to her face. She opened her mouth to ask Dion what in the ever-loving fuck just happened when a groan echoed out and the gates pulled inward.

A group of guards, dressed in the same black and silver and blue uniform, gathered just past the threshold.

“You felt it too?” Bron slowed to her side, wariness written plainly in his green eyes. She could see a glimmer of distrust in Tyr and Ren’s faces as well, despite their masks of neutrality.

“What in the hells was that?” she hissed through gritted teeth. Somehow, she was infinitely colder than just a few minutes prior. As if that were possible after nearly three damned days in the rain.

“Magic. Old and fucking dark.” Bron glanced at Dion, riding well ahead of them, then back to Cyril. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. “I don’t give a shit about what he’s said. Something fucking reeks here, and I do not like it.”

Well, at least she wasn’t the only one feeling off-put.

“Do not trust anyone here, dove, and use every damn thing we’ve taught you to keep yourself safe. Understood?”

Cyril nodded.

“Observe and assess everyone. Who they talk to. Where they go. What they will or won’t eat and drink. And for the love of the gods, dove, do not go alone with anyone, anywhere.”

Of all her uncles, Bron was the second most overbearing. After Dion, of course. Ren took on a very ‘toss her into the rapids and she’ll figure out how to swim’ approach for most of Cyril’s life, and Tyr usually watched at his side. Even if there was always a little quiet uncertainty in his eyes.

But at least Bron’s worry always came as harsh warnings, of things she knew had roots in his personal experiences, and laced with reminders of the skill set she possessed.

After all, one didn’t get raised by an entire guild of rogues without picking up a few useful tricks along the way.

“I understand.” Cyril leaned towards Bron and raised her brow. “The same goes for you.”

He set his hand on his heart, and his chuckle was the most pleasant noise she’d heard in a while. “As my lady wishes.”

Ahead of them, Dion already cleared the gates and was dismounting his horse at the group of guards. Cyril watched with bewilderment as he grinned and clasped hands with these men, flaunting the sort of casual ease he typically reserved for only his most trusted inner circle.

Something definitely reeked about this place.

“They’ll deal with the horses so we can walk the rest of the way,” Dion said as he extended a hand to Cyril and helped her dismount Attie. “Thought you might enjoy stretching your legs.”

“Immensely,” she replied with a smile that stemmed from a place of genuine relief. Dion didn’t need any reason to suspect she and Bron were conspiring.

And truthfully, with how her hips ached after being saddle bound for so long, the prospect of walking sounded fucking amazing. Even if it was still pouring and the soles of her boots squelched miserably with each step along the soaked gravel roadway.

Ren and Tyr got a laugh out of that, at least.