Page 264 of The Mercy of Dawn

Lukewarm.

There was no way she should be awake either, but the trail of morning light from the half-open patio door said otherwise. Against the nagging undertow of exhaustion, Mikael pulled himself out of bed. He found his pants on the floor and called that good enough before he ambled over to the door.

His mother warned him about the brutal nightmares Cyril had and the ones she would likely keep having. She must have had one, he figured, as he pulled the door open wider.

Cyril was just sitting on a chaise, knees drawn to her chest and her back to the door. He opened his mouth, ready to lure her back to bed, but his eyes adjusted to the morning light and Mikael went still.

On Cyril’s outstretched hands, pale yellow flames flickered and danced across the surface of her palms, winking out just moments later. She closed her fist, and a shuddering precursor to a sob left her.

Mikael could only grin as he leaned against the doorframe, pride swelling in his chest.

Cyril Rhodea had her fire.

Epilogue

Dion

Dion felt like he had just stepped into a memory from another lifetime.

The Kallan’s private gardens.

An unseasonably warm autumn day.

The only difference?

It wasn’t his brother and his sister-in-law nestled with each other out on the lawn, soaking up every ray of the afternoon sun. No, it was his spitfire niece sitting between the drawn-up legs of Reykr’s Prince Commander.

The infatuation that hung in the very air around them though? Identical.

The way Mikael looked at Cyril like she was the only living, breathing thing in existence? He’d watched his brother look at Malia the same way more times than he could count.

And gods, it made his fucking chest ache.

Nearly twenty-two years since everything went to utter hells for the second time in his gods damned—

Dion bristled at the brush of a hand on his arm.

Runa smiled up at him. “I wasn’t sure if you’d join us.”

He sighed.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Dion still wasn’t sure if he should be there, or why he’d made the eleventh-hour decision to accept Runa’s invitation. He didn’t deserve to be there. Not amongst the sunshine and greenery, and the undercurrent of peace that ran through it all. He should be rotting somewhere, anywhere—

“Come sit with me.”

Dion eyed Runa apprehensively, but she was already threading her arm through his and steering him towards one of the wrought-iron table sets tucked underneath the second-story terrace.

From two tables over, Lars inclined his head in silent greeting. Not that Dion was surprised, words were something the King of Reykr had in short supply for him as of late. Astor didn’t even look up from the spread of playing cards in his hand. Truthfully, Dion was just shocked to see the crown prince out of the confines of his quarters. Remarkable progress, given everything.

“I think…” Runa started, a bit quiet. Like always, she couldn’t even wait until his ass made full contact with the damned chair. “That we might have some party planning to do in the not-so-distant future.”

Dion blinked.

“A party?” He huffed a laugh. “I hardly think there’s much to celebrate.”

A dozen innocent people had met horrific ends, and Cyril was nearly one of them. Bron was dead, Reyna was missing, and bureaucracy had them at a standstill in holding anyone responsible.