Page 6 of The Mercy of Dawn

Ten fucking days.

Four to get them up through the foothills and forests north of the estate, another three to reach and clear the Obsidian Rift up in the Stygias, and a final three to get to the palace after they crossed the border into Reykr.

Dion thought they might shave a day or two off if the weather cooperated and they hauled a few long days, but Cyril didn’t plan on holding her breath about that.

Given how high tempers flew just at dinner, she wasn't even convinced they'd make it through the trip without Dion or one of the others pummeling each other. Never mind the idea of having efficient riding days.

She was thankful, though, that Dion picked three of his highest-ranking rogues to round out their merry little cabal for this fucked up trip—Tyriel, Bronson, and Rendal.

They were three men who had seen and done things that gave Cyril the chills to think about. But they also took on the role of surrogate fathers when Dion found himself unexpectedly raising his baby niece. Not a single one of them knew what the hell they were doing raising a child, but they loved to comment that Cyril turned out mostly alright.

And, for what it was worth, they sided with her over Dion more often than not.

There would be no shortage of commiseration between her and the three of them on this trip, and she was immensely thankful for that.

But there was still the daunting matter of packing…

“Fucking hells,” Cyril sighed as she hauled herself out of bed and stalked over to her wardrobe. Maybe, just maybe, if she knew what kind of shit-storm awaited her, she would have forgone the firewater last night.

Chapter 2

Aday to pack? Fucking abysmal. Cyril didn't consider herself to be a high-maintenance fae—especially compared to some wives and daughters of rogues and lords she'd met—but Dion had given her little to go off of.

He assured her their accommodations would be a step up from the hostels and hovels they frequented on their travels, but he declined to enlighten her any further, saying she’d just have to wait and see for herself.

Insufferable. Fucking. Arse.

So, she prepared for something in between palatial living and being stuck in the top bunk of a barracks with one of her uncles snoring beneath her. A stack of black pants and neutral blouses, her tried-and-true ensemble, a couple of simple dresses with their awful matching silk shoes, and a small pack of nightclothes, toiletries, and odds and ends.

Her life for the foreseeable future, tucked away into three travel trunks that departed with the porters the previous afternoon. Cyril wasn’t confident in how goods like that held up being phased through anchor stones—a rare fae magic she never understood—but she tried not to dwell on it as she finished securing her saddle and giving her equine companion a slow once over.

The sleek, midnight black mare, Athena—or Attie, Cyril preferred—nosed Cyril's hands with excitement as she swept them up her muzzle, straightening and fussing over the bridle and its fastenings.

Cyril had spent countless hours with Attie from the moment the horse got her wobbly, unwieldy legs beneath her five summers ago. She was as sweet-tempered as horses came, and never faltered during some of the long, arduous runs Cyril put her through on the estate trails.

Two peas in a pod, her uncles always teased, if only for the lengthy black manes they both sported and a mutual love of apples of every variety. A small mercy Dion gave Cyril, assigning her Attie and not one of their many feisty geldings, like the one Rendal struggled with beside her.

No one was particularly pleased to be gathered in the courtyard at dawn—the cool bite of the late-spring morning air made Cyril regret her thinner choice of leathers—but his horse was fucking pissed.

“Dion, you cannot be serious about this,” Rendall groaned as he grappled for the horse’s reins. The horse—Kingston, if Cyril remembered correctly—neighed with petulance as he bucked and stomped out of Ren’s grasp.

Repeatedly.

Bron looked over at her with wild amusement in his eyes before he and Tyr turned their backs, sparing Ren from more of an audience than he already had.

Dion shrugged from where he sat perched atop his horse. “He’s the only one big enough to carry you for this long. It’s not my fault you’re built like a fucking oak.”

What sounded suspiciously like a snort came from the direction of Tyr and Bron.

But Dion wasn’t wrong.

Cyril spent most of her childhood climbing Ren like he was a tree. Even now, at the five and a half feet she made it to, he towered a foot and then some over her.

None of her uncles were small or slight men, not with the often…physical nature of the guild’s work, but Ren was by far the largest rogue at the estate. He was the most frightening, too.

If his looming stature didn’t have someone questioning their decisions, the death lingering in his eyes usually did it. Ren always defended them as being rich like chocolate, which happened to be his favorite food, but they reminded Cyril of the black depths of a well more than anything.

Lucky for her though, Ren was usually the first to cave whenever Cyril needed help with anything. He loved to remind her that he knew he was royally fucked the moment Dion shoved her wailing and fussing newborn self into his arms for the first time, and she didn't utter another sound as long as he carried her around. Apparently, Ren had no choice but to have a soft spot for her after that.