Page 77 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Mikael can be abrasive sometimes. Often, actually.” She smiled tightly. “Despite my best efforts with him, he always feels the need to prove himself.”

Runa waved over a maid, who hovered a few steps away with chilled teas. The queen thanked her and set one in front of Cyril.

“But my son has a good heart beneath those thorns. Truthfully,” she chuckled, “I think he’s gotten so used to women fawning over him everywhere he turns, and you’ve done quite the opposite of that.”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink.

She had a feeling that might be the case. As much of an arse as he was, there was no denying the prince was an attractive man, and women could be painfully predictable sometimes. She knew how much the ones of the south loved looks and titles.

“I think it’s a good thing, for what it’s worth,” Runa added, “But, my son’s overdue discomfort aside, I’m interested in hearing about what you’ve been learning in the archives.”

Cyril took another long sip of her drink, then she told Runa everything.

From the organization of runes at each of the murder scenes—which the queen already had base awareness of—to learning the root meaning of each and the seemingly endless days of fruitless hunting that led to the discovery of the lone, decrepit scroll on elemental cleansing. She ran nearly breathless rambling on about all the other things she sifted through before Tobias helped her with the daunting task of translating that scroll.

The ascension texts she borrowed were the only details she left out.

“And, well, like I said yesterday, Dion was quick to show me how all the reports disproved my theory.”

“Not the most surprising thing I’ve heard, unfortunately.” Runa sighed with an empathetic smile. “Humor me for a moment. How much do you know of our history here, in Reykr?”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink. It wasn’t like Reykr was a regular topic of conversation in the syllabus of her governess during her youth. And when they did discuss the moon-fae…well, those few lessons painted a picture of the northern fae as something Cyril was struggling to accept now.

“Surely you know of when the old kingdom fell?” the queen supplied, filling the awkward void of silence Cyril’s unease created.

“I know a bit,” Cyril admitted, and Runa gestured for her to continue. “My governess said when the last King of Carinae died centuries ago, and the Great Kingdom dissolved into the southern states, that most of the moon-fae left. And she said…”

The queen eyed her expectantly.

“Well, she said the reason they left was because all the lords appointed to the south were sun-fae, and they had conflicting…ideals. Apparently, the king was a tolerant man who let the moon-fae live as they would have in Reykr. So when the new lords tried to force them to assimilate, they left.”

That was all Cyril thought Runa should know of what she’d learned. The queen didn’t need to hear any of the parts of the moon-fae being referred to as savages who refused to adopt the civilized culture of the sun-fae.

“You’ve got most of the important background then.” Runa nodded slowly. “When the exodus started, very few of our people stayed behind. Mainly men, of course, who fell for the false promises of land, obedient wives, and riches.” The queen scoffed. “But those who came back, they traveled the same path as you and your uncles. Across Helia to the Stygias and then through the rift. We have many tales of how the rift itself was widened through the sheer volume of moon-fae passing back through it.”

Having seen the rift herself now, Cyril believed it. She could even imagine what it must have sounded like, to have thousands of hooves and feet passing through there, echoing against the veins of obsidian.

“I see,” she said quietly.

“This history lesson has a purpose, I promise,” Runa said with a wry smile as she picked up the pitcher made of frosted glass etched with roses, and refilled both of their teas. “With the generations our people spent in the south, many of them ended up with large families, and not just with other moon-fae. We settled with mortals and sun-fae and nymphs alike, and our mixed families and bloodlines all came back to Reykr together, which proved to be…problematic.”

Cyril tipped her head. “How so?”

“Well, for as many of our people who lived in the south, there were as many who never left Reykr. Since the very dawn of our people, they lived here in their villages, and many of them adopted a sort of…purist point of view. Thought themselves better than their brethren who ventured south and, in their eyes, muddied the bloodlines and brought unwelcome foreigners back to their lands.” Runa sighed heartily. “Old scholars like to say that red stained our rivers for a hundred years, with all the bloodshed and slaughter that ensued.”

“That’s…terrible. I—” Cyril pursed her lips. “A hundred years?”

“At least.” The queen laughed dryly and said, “And only brought to an end through more slaughter and bloodshed, of course.”

She sat back in her chair and tapped her fingers on her glass.

“Lars’ grandfather fought tooth and claw to reestablish the monarchy here back to its former power and glory, and once he did he was merciless. If a village was suspected to have even a fleeting tie to the purists, it was nothing but a scorch mark by the time his forces were through, and that went on for decades.”

Quietly, Cyril said, “That’s awful.”

A soft hum left Runa.

“It’s why Lars’ father spent so much of his rule trying to mend the atrocities committed by his father, and why Lars has done the same. Freeing people from their servitude, reuniting families, rebuilding villages, even a few strategic marriages to strengthen the ties…” The queen looked at Cyril with a raised brow.