Page 36 of The Mercy of Dawn

The room even smelled like she imagined a war council would: like smoke and old paper, and just a hint of too much cologne for her taste. That courtesy came from all the damn men packed in the room—about a dozen of them, all in uniform except for the king and her uncles.

She was relieved to see them. Less so for the abrasive prince lingering by his father’s side.

Dion’s hand met her back and urged her forward as he said, “Apologies for our tardiness. Cyril sleeps like the dead.”

It took a remarkable amount of restraint to turn slowly and stare at Dion, her eyes wide. Embarrassment burned hot in her cheeks.

The fucking arse.

“That is quite alright,” Lars said with a chuckle, low and rich, as he straightened from where he stood at the head of the table. His hands sat splayed over a map Cyril didn’t recognize at all. From beside the king, though, she saw Mikael shake his head.

As if the pretentious prick never slept in a day in his pampered fucking life.

Gesturing at the table, Lars added, “Shall we?”

Bron caught her eye from across the room, pointing to a chair between him and Tyriel. She slipped over there before Dion could tell her otherwise, and he took a seat on the other side of Bron.

A day apart from her more amenable uncles had felt like an eternity.

“Already lazing your days away in bed now, are we?” Bron murmured in that knowing, teasing way of his as he squeezed her knee. His green eyes sparkled with amusement.

She opened her mouth, but something yanked on her ponytail and drew all of her attention to her other side.

Tyriel, grinning like a fool, slid a steaming mug in front of her.

“You need it more than I do,” he whispered.

Cyril gave it a discrete sniff and wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t place the smell, but it was heavily spiced and probably bitter.

Tyr sighed. “Good Hells, woman, it’s tea. Drink.”

She took a sip—bitter, but not unpleasantly so. It was almost reminiscent of the black brew Sebille always had on hand for anyone having a rough morning at the estate.

Anything to rouse her faculties at that point was welcome.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, and Tyr nodded.

Cyril kept the mug clasped between her hands, letting the warmth of the earthenware seep into her fingers. The office was fucking freezing, and Cyril wished she’d had more than two jarring seconds to get dressed before she came down.

Hopefully, the briefing would be just that. Brief.

“Am I correct in assuming everyone has a basic understanding of what we are discussing?” Lars started, and nods bobbed through the room. “Good. Now, before we get into it, introductions.”

Motioning first to Dion, Lars introduced her uncle as both Lord of Helia and Master of its infamous Rogues’ Guild, and as a long-standing ally of Reykr and the king himself.

Ally of Reykr.

Cyril wasn’t sure the strangeness of that notion would ever wear off.

Lars introduced the rest of Lord Rhodea’s party as high-ranking members of the guild, gesturing vaguely to Bron, Cyril, Tyr, and finally Ren, who took up residence at the rear of the room. Brooding, as usual.

The king’s introduction sounded much nicer than the niece who was forced to come here, and she owed him her thanks.

Then Lars moved on to Reykr’s personnel.

Seated to the king’s left was Ezra Hallowes, General of Reykr’s royal forces. He was tall and broad, with short dirty-blonde hair and a sort of darkness in his eyes that made Cyril shift in her seat when he looked across the table at her. That man had seen some wicked fucking things in his life.

To Lars’ right was Mikael, who looked…bored. Not that they needed introductions, but Lars addressed him as Commander Kallan and Cyril fought against rolling her eyes. She had little doubt the title was given to him without merit. Some sort of consolation prize for being their spare heir.