Page 43 of The Mercy of Dawn

“I…I hoped it might bring you some joy to see—” Runa reached for her hand, but Cyril wanted nothing to do with that. “Oh, Cyril, I never meant to upset you.”

Cyril straightened in her chair, wiping at her face with her sleeve. Another slow, deep breath and she could pull herself together enough to get the fuck out of here. “I’m just not feeling very well. I missed breakfast and lunch, and the briefing was a lot to take in…”

She was rambling a bit, she knew, but it served its purpose.

Runa eased away, putting a healthy measure of distance between them. Her silver-blue eyes were full of so much sadness, but Cyril couldn’t find it in her to care.

“Of course. We can visit the gardens another day.”

Cyril nodded, every bit of her focus tethered on getting out of her chair and the steps she took towards the door.

She paused at the threshold.

“If it means anything, I…I’m sorry that I’m here and she isn’t.”

Runa’s eyes went wide and Cyril walked out of the room.

Chapter 11

Dion was going to kill Cyril when he found out what she said. And it wasn’t if, but when, because there was no way in hell Runa wasn’t planning on telling him what happened. It was an impulsive decision, she knew, and a poorly made one at that, but Cyril was fuming.

She didn’t care if she offended Runa as the Queen of Reykr or as the friend of her mother and uncle. And she didn't care if she lost favor with the royal family that she didn't give two fucks about either.

Whatever sentimental bullshit Runa thought she could ply her with to get her guard down, Cyril wanted no part in any of it.

The path she mapped back to her room from the archives was direct, and Cyril walked it with determination. She breathed, slowly and deeply, counting to five on every inhale and exhale like Bron had taught her. It quelled her nausea enough that she no longer tracked every planter she passed, but her anger was a far more fickle thing to please.

A distinct Rhodea trait, she knew, for their love and hate, and everything drifting between, to blaze as red hot the fire that thrummed through their veins.

Well, the fire that should thrum through her veins.

Not that she needed to think about that too.

Dion always lectured her on redirecting her anger into something productive, even though he did a piss-poor job of redirecting his own at anything other than her and her uncles.

At least taking off was an option back home.

Never outside the bounds of the estate, of course, but the stables, sparse forests, and training grounds served as good a sanctuary as any. The kitchens too, if the weather was miserable. Sebille always knew when she needed a cup of tea and a mountain of dishes to wash or vegetables to cut.

But in this godsforsaken place, those weren’t options.

The unfamiliar lands were likely riddled with things she wanted nothing to do with, and Cyril didn’t know where anything was. Hells, even if she did, she doubted their kitchen staff would much appreciate a guest just wandering in.

So silence and solitude would have to do, to ride out the hours until dinner.

“Cyr?”

She paused and blinked, looking around.

Dion jogged up the stairs behind her. A cursory glance back told her she blew right past him and the rest of her uncles in the foyer. The other three waved with varying levels of enthusiasm and made their way out the main doors.

“Sorry, I…” Cyril didn’t have a reasonable excuse. “I didn’t see you.”

Dion carded his hand through his hair and chuckled. “No, I gathered that.”

He gestured for her to continue up the stairs.

They were walking together. What a joy.