Page 24 of The Mercy of Dawn

This prince was also the first person Cyril had yet to witness in Reykr bearing more than a single weapon, with a baldric saddled with knives hanging off one shoulder, and the hilt of a short sword peeking up over the other.

“Were you already speaking ill of me to our guests, Mother?” he mused down at Runa with a feral grin.

Cyril wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the sharp gleam of full-blooded moon-fae canines.

Runa laughed at him, the sound soft and melodic.

“Only the necessities.” She reached up to cup his face in her hands and gave him one hell of a scrutinizing look. “When did you get back? You are never this scruffy, and gods, your hair—”

“I haven’t even been back for an hour.” He swatted his mother’s hands away as she tried to run her fingers through the auburn waves that hung just above his shoulders. “I’m in one piece, so you can stop fussing.”

The queen feigned a scandalized gasp. “Fuss? Mikael, I would never…”

The entire exchange was fascinating to Cyril, and Dion even looked pleasantly amused as he watched on beside her.

Was it…normal?

It wasn’t like Cyril exactly had, well…any true parental relationships to go off of, and the volatility of her interactions with Dion was something she hoped wasn’t normal for anyone.

“Our guests?” the prince murmured, glancing over his mother’s shoulders.

Fuck. His gaze was piercing in the sort of way that made Cyril shift a half-step closer to Dion, and the prince fucking smirked.

“Mikael, you remember Dion?”

Runa turned to stand between them, one hand resting on her son’s arm.

“Somewhat vaguely, but yes.”

He offered Dion a tight, polite smile and a nod as they clasped hands.

“You were young last time I came to Reykr, and much smaller,” Dion said.

The prince was at least a few inches taller than her uncle, but had the same lean sort of build as him. All practical, well-honed muscles.

Mikael laughed. “I seem to remember you being much larger.”

“He’s taller than Astor now,” Runa added, directed entirely at Dion, and he shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. Just another thing Cyril assumed had to be a normal conversation piece between normal parents.

The prince turned his unsettling attention back to Cyril, and every muscle in her back ached as she tensed.

“And you are…?”

Her lips parted, but, thank the fucking gods, the queen interjected.

“This beautiful young woman is Lady Cyril Rhodea, Dion’s niece and his heir.”

Mikael cocked his head at her like a wolf would size up its prey, and his eyes roamed far too freely. Cyril wanted to crawl out of her skin.

“Do all ladies of the south travel so heavily armed, or…?”

Shit.

She swallowed down the lump creeping up her throat, but her voice still cracked as she said, “Ah, well…”

“Entirely unsurprising for the daughter of the Rogues’ Guild, Mika.” The queen came to her rescue again. “And I’m sure the two of you will have no shortage of things to discuss later, after our guests have had time to settle from their travels.”

Runa raised her brow at Mikael and he lowered his head, hands clasped behind his back. Cyril knew the queen’s move well from her own experiences with Dion—a silent dismissal.