Page 25 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Welcome to Reykr,” was all the prince added in his rough timbre before he turned on his heels and headed back into the palace.

When he was well out of earshot, Runa sighed and looked at Cyril. “Mikael is the more…outgoing of my two children. I think the two of you will get along, though. Dion has mentioned how much you enjoy training, and not only is Mikael responsible for organizing most of the manpower here at the palace as commander of our resident contingent of the King's Guard, he oversees all of the training exercises as well.”

Outgoing was an interesting choice of words.

Cyril would’ve opted for several others that started with arrogant and ended somewhere around predatory, but it wasn’t her place to comment. The prince reminded her of too many of the young, foolhardy rogues that came through the guild, riding the high of whatever meager contract they butchered.

They never lasted long.

Cyril doubted she and the prince would do much getting along, but she offered the queen a tight smile and a nod anyway. Manners.

“Well, let’s get you both to your rooms.” Runa linked one of her arms through Cyril’s—only slightly fucking awkward, with a gift clasped in her hands and too much of this strange woman in her personal space—and motioned for Dion to come to her other side. “You must be weary from such a long trip.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

Guided along by Runa, they walked for what felt like forever.

Cyril was certain she had never seen so much moonstone in her life, and never would again. The glittering, iridescent stone made up nearly every interior surface of the damn palace—from the walls and archways to the floors and stairs. Save for strips of obsidian breaking up the sweeping tiles lining the halls and common areas, the moonstone stretched on without end.

Beautiful, but cold.

Nothing like the warm and well-loved wood paneling and plaster at the Rhodea estate.

For what had to be Cyril’s benefit, the queen pointed out her favourite parts of her humble home—the ballroom, archives, and royal gardens—as they trekked up to the royal residence. She pointed at doors and staircases, and through imposing, crystal clear windows as she talked, and Cyril fought a losing battle to keep track of it all.

A key tenet of the guild was to always be aware of your surroundings. It meant learning exits and entrances, mapping halls and stairways, and making sure you knew the best places to slip away unnoticed.

Not a simple task, when the palace faded into a blur of moonstone and rich, silver and blue wallpaper, and Cyril realized that damp and warm travel leathers were even worse than ones soaked through and cold.

After climbing a staircase tucked down the end of a hall, and leading Dion and Cyril across a catwalk overlooking the main atrium below, Runa stopped in front of a set of doors that were nearly double her height.

The face of the doors bore the same design of twisting greenery and soaring birds as the main gates—a common theme Cyril saw carried through the palace’s tapestries and wallpaper. Two guards, armed and dressed in blue and black finery, stood watch on either side of the doors.

“The private wing of our royal residences. Guarded at all hours, so you never have to worry, even if you’re stumbling in drunk at daybreak.” Runa’s eyes lingered pointedly on Dion and, gods, that said plenty. Dion didn’t even have a rebuttal for her outside of a half-shrug.

Runa pulled them half a step forward, but every fiber of muscle in Cyril’s body went rigid. That same eerie feeling rippled through the surrounding air, tying her stomach in knots.

The doors to the residences groaned open.

“Ah.” Runa gave her an empathetic smile. “You, my dear, haven’t spent much time around magic, have you?”

Cyril shook her head. “No—”

“We do not use it for frivolous convenience like you do, Runa.” Dion cut the queen a cool, sidelong glance.

It was the truth, even if Dion was less eloquent in his delivery.

The fae in Helia, and the other southern states, rarely spoke of their magic, and never used it in public. Hells, even broaching the subject of elemental affinity with someone you didn’t know well was an act considered offensive, as Cyril had learned no few times herself as a child. It was like people were ashamed of the gifts given to them by nature, and Cyril had never understood why.

“A pity, really.”

Runa squeezed Cyril’s arm and guided her down the hall.

More wallpaper, more moonstone, more obsidian. Planters and tapestries lined these walls, at least, in a greater density than the rest of the palace.

“Now, you’re the third door down there, Dion, like usual.” Runa gestured vaguely to the left. “And you, my dear, are the second door here on the right. Lovely views of the gardens and lake, but with a bit of privacy if you like to sit outside.”

“I…” All the generosity was making Cyril wary. “Thank you.”