Page 41 of The Mercy of Dawn

One small work table with a handful of chairs and a set of plush armchairs occupied the center of the room, flanked by various cases and cabinets along the length of the walls.

Fae lights provided the only source of light in the room, the warm, swirling orbs dotted in carefully placed clusters on the ceiling. Cyril had only seen them a few times before, at some rather lavish parties back in the city, and it was equal parts fascinating and odd to see them used in such a mundane application.

Reykr’s frivolity knew no end.

Truthfully, she might have found a little enjoyment in it if the magic didn’t make her feel so damn sick.

While Cyril settled in at the table, Runa went to retrieve whatever it was she was so eager to show Cyril from behind the glass doors of a wall cabinet. She returned with a book bound in a plush, white leather, an intricate silver stitching fashioned like stars bordering its cover and spine.

The book was twenty-five years old, according to the date embroidered on the bottom.

Runa sat down with a bit of a huff and looked at Cyril. “Now, I am not sure if Dion explained much about…how we came to know each other?”

“Nothing, actually,” Cyril sighed. “Other than it was a long time ago.”

She couldn’t help the fledgling kernel of hope that flickered to life in her at the prospect that maybe, just maybe, the Queen of Reykr would finally be the person to paint a bit of color into her uncle’s history.

That hope died quickly.

“Ah, well,”—Runa gave her a small, empathetic smile—“his story to tell, not mine.”

Cyril scoffed at that.

“Dion is not fond of telling anyone stories.”

“He has his reasons, I’m sure. We all have things we’d prefer to keep beneath the surface.”

The queen slid her hand over the surface of the book, sighing softly.

It was only then that Cyril realized her severe lack of observation skills. The queen’s hands were tattooed, and heavily at that. Combinations of dots and lines and little symbols she did not recognize sat like ornaments on her fingers and the backs of her hands. They looked like they wrapped around her palms too.

“What I can tell you, though,” Runa continued, “is that through your uncle I had the immense pleasure of meeting both your mother and your father.”

Cyril blinked at the queen. “You—”

A knot took hold of her stomach, and it wasn’t entirely from the two meals she already missed.

“My parents?” she said with a rasp in her voice.

Convenient, for Dion to never mention that.

Runa nodded eagerly.

“They came with Dion at least a few dozen times over the years. One of the last times I saw them was when they came for my and Lars’ wedding anniversary.”

There was some sort of fond recollection in Runa’s eyes as she flipped open the cover of the book. Oblivious to the discomfort churning its way through every fiber of Cyril’s body.

This was not part of the deal, and Dion fucking knew that.

Cyril had a right to know what the hell was waiting for her here—a right to know that she might get fucking cornered about her gods damned parents.

But no.

Of course.

Why would the self-centered Lord Rhodea ever—

“It was a bit of a milestone anniversary, you see, though I’d prefer not to share which one to preserve a bit of my dignity.” Runa chuckled, and a smile forced itself across Cyril’s lips.