Page 2 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril was so…tired.

Icy pinpricks clawed up her fingers and arms, and her legs felt like nothing but dead weight. She was ready for this to be over, ready to yield, ready to find out if there was anything after.

Thump. Thump.

“Cyril?!”

Cyril’s eyes flew open.

Chapter 1

Four Months Earlier

The mead was a terrible idea. And the wine. And whatever in the hells that Bron spent the evening passing around in that strange, serpentine-shaped bottle. He claimed it was an exotic and expensive potation, imported from some unpronounceable place in the mortal lands.

To Cyril, all it tasted like was firewater, and the precursor to a fucking miserable morning. The other rogues all agreed too. Not that it stopped a single one of them—herself included—from partaking in another round, and another, and at least another few after that.

It had been such a dreadfully long time since the great hall at the estate ran so rife with the sort of raucous, celebratory energy Cyril happened upon when she went down for dinner. It would have been remarkably rude, she told herself when Bron shoved a bottle of wine in her hand, to not stick around and take part in the revelry.

Never mind the fact she’d never caught whose birthday it was, or why the hells they were celebrating so thoroughly.

Cyril drank and laughed and sang along with her uncles and the other rogues to bawdy, cheek-warming tunes even as the entire great hall became a muddy, distorted thing. She was certain Tyr had stuck her in a chair at some point, though she hadn’t the faintest idea why.

When the first whispers of dawn trickled through the towering windows stacked at the far end of the hall, the debauchery came to a rather abrupt end. Dozens of them all swept out the main doors in a wave of profanities and laughter before singles and duos—and even a few eyebrow-raising trios—filtered off to their rooms and outbuildings.

Cyril remembered little of what happened after that.

She made it back to her bed, at the very least, if the familiar cream and gold canopy draped above carved oak bed posts was any indicator.

Her list of befuddled accomplishments ended there though.

A criminal amount of midday sun poured through the uncovered windows flanking her bed, and she hadn’t even made it under the damn covers to shield her face. Apparently being sprawled out, fully dressed, on top of the bedspread beckoned to her last night.

Truthfully, that she made it that far was impressive.

Less impressive was the steady, wicked beat her head pounded to with increasing intensity every second since she cracked her eyes half-open. It fell in perfect tune with the footsteps that started echoing down the halls just a moment ago. Heavy, determined footsteps that Cyril knew meant she was about five seconds away from being in such deep shit.

Five.

Four.

Cyril slid a pillow over her face and groaned—she didn’t have a single fucking hope in any of the hells of talking her way out of this.

Three.

Two.

Wait. Tyr or Ren certainly wouldn’t be awake yet, not with how much they each put back last night. Maybe one of them would weather Dion’s wrath for her.

One.

The hinges of her bedroom door protested miserably as it was forcefully flung open.

“Cyril Rhodea, get your spoiled ass out of bed, right fucking now.”

“Morning, Dion,” Cyril mumbled from behind her pillow.

His boots thumped across the floorboards. “So, were the horses just supposed to clean out their own stalls this morning, or…?”