Page 28 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Thank you, Rika.”

Chapter 7

Bathing chamber— what an understatement. It was bigger than any bloody bathing chamber Cyril had seen in her entire life.

And the tub—gods, if it could even be called something as simple as that—had her somewhat frantically trying to sling off her weapons and leathers and base layers. She’d apologize later about leaving it all in a damp heap on the floor.

Tantalizing steam scented like sweet jasmine rose out from the pearlescent stone basin built down into the very floor itself. Neatly carved steps, inlaid with more strips of decorative obsidian, beckoned her down into the waters.

She could inspect the well-stocked vanity afterward.

Cyril was glad no one was around to witness the involuntary mewl of a noise that left her when she reached the last step and sank to her shoulders. The achy cold that had been her constant companion the last week washed away in an instant.

The bath was large enough that she could swim a few strides to the far end, where stone trays housed soaps and oils and hair tonics—a somewhat daunting task she’d face in a bit. For the time being, Cyril folded her arms on the edge of the tub and nestled her head on top. She felt her sigh down to her damn toes.

No matter how hospitable and disarming it was all proving to be, Bron was right. It would be unwise for Cyril to trust anyone here, and awareness of her surroundings was paramount to her safety. Unlike her uncles, however, Cyril could not rely on intimidation and brute force to fulfill any work issued to her by Dion. If he even bothered to issue her anything meaningful, that was.

Cyril would have to mingle, if only a bit, and build a few false relationships if she had any hope of gathering information.

But for the night ahead, she would attempt to enjoy dinner with the Kallans, if only to appease Dion. Getting acquainted with her surroundings and any strategizing could wait until the next day, when her uncles were back and they’d all spent an evening unwinding.

A long night’s rest and a hot meal would do them all good.

“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m really not,” Dion mused from Cyril’s doorway.

She shrugged and finished lacing her boots.

“Runa told me to come dressed comfortably, and you know I don’t place dresses high on my list of comforts.”

Dion didn’t even need words to express his displeasure at seeing the white blouse and dark pants Cyril wore—hand-picked by Rika—instead of whatever sort of elegant ensemble he’d foolishly hoped she’d wear. His eyes said everything.

Cyril didn’t care. He had such uncontested control over every other aspect of her life, but her choice of attire would never be one of them.

Dion sighed his annoyance, but let that thread of conversation die. Instead, he offered her his arm and led her out of the residential wing. They had descended halfway down the sweeping staircase in the heart of the palace when he turned to her and asked, “What did Reyna give you?”

Cyril blinked.

“Shit.” She winced. “I put it down and forgot.”

“Of course you did.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she grumbled. “Like you weren’t just as eager to get in a hot bath.”

Dion’s lips quirked.

“You look…refreshed at least.”

Cyril snorted. An indignant sound in such a refined place.

“I know I looked shit earlier. Thank you so much for the reminder.”

His eyes widened. “Cyr, that is not what I—”

“You don’t even want to know how long it took me to wash that many days of grime out of my hair,” she chuckled, and Dion only shook his head.

He led Cyril through hallways that felt endless, with the sort of ease that came with someone who traveled them many times. Something told her he wouldn’t appreciate questions about just how many times he’d been a personal guest of Lars and Runa though.

Lars.