Page 38 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Good.” Dion looked down the table at Cyril, and she knew what was coming next. “You’ll make yourself comfortable in the archives?”

It was difficult to smother down the disappointment that had every part of her wanting to sag in her seat, but Cyril kept her shoulders squared and forced a pleasant smile across her lips.

“Of course, I’d be happy to.”

Relegated to safe work, like always.

Dion gave her an appreciative nod, but Cyril heard little of what came afterward. Something or other about Lars wanting them to settle in before they started working, and a trip into the city that she knew wouldn’t involve her. Trips into the city for work never did.

At least her new prison had plenty of things for her to explore, she supposed.

Tyriel's hand inched its way to her shoulder, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

A silent acknowledgement.

Cyril knew it bothered the others as much as it did her, and maybe even more, to see the work Dion deemed appropriate for her.

Bron, Tyr and Ren, and countless others, spent most of her formative years teaching her how to be a proper, full-fledged rogue. There wasn’t a weapon she didn’t know how to handle or a body she couldn’t disarm if the circumstances were dire. She could climb and run faster than half the rogues at the estate, and carry herself on silent feet when she wanted to.

Hells, Bron even took a concerning amount of enjoyment in teaching Cyril where to place her blade to slit a target’s throat—the left side was most important, he stressed, to drop them in a breath or two. A grotesque skill she never wanted to use, but one that she was immensely thankful for anyway.

Years and years of effort by the army that raised Cyril, all to prepare for the day she would handle contracts of her own.

But that day never came.

Dion always mustered up an excuse.

The stakes of the contract are too high.

The contract is dangerous.

The client requested the services of a senior guild member.

The contract is too complicated.

The list went on and fucking on.

Some variation of excuse that let him avoid giving her a contract of her own, without him ever taking a single ounce of responsibility for it. Without him ever having to admit it was his personal decision to hold her back, and nothing more.

And so he always relegated her to the safe tasks.

Research, more often than not, or visiting scenes of crimes—chaperoned, always—to gather evidence. Occasionally, when Dion felt generous, she accompanied him to parties that doubled as reconnaissance operations. Floating about the room, listening and observing, and accepting dance offers from men that made her skin crawl, all in the name of information gathering.

That was the extent of her work as a Rogue of Helia, if she could truly be called that.

Her other uncles, at least, still made efforts to see she was ready and able to take a contract if the miraculous day ever arrived. Despite her birthday being a miserable day that she loathed celebrating, they always banded together and bought her a new blade or bow, or took her into the city for new fighting leathers.

Gestures that meant the world to her, and that Dion often overlooked.

Cyril realized, a bit abruptly, that everyone sitting around her was starting to rise. She stood too, as casually as she could. Their briefing was over, and captains and commanders began filing out of the room.

Cyril couldn’t say she felt any more informed now than when Dion first told them about the contract, but maybe everything they needed was in the records Dion held in his hands. If he deigned to let her read any of it, of course.

Bron nudged her with his elbow, and mirth filled his face before he even started speaking. “Any big plans for your afternoon?” he said. “Breakfast, perhaps, seeing as you just rolled your ass out of bed?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “I had a rough night.”

It was impossible to ignore Mikael’s attention snapping over to her.