11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

D ion 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.

“How was your visit with Runa?” Dion continued with that feigned, casual ease he wore so well. Like he hadn’t been anxiously awaiting hearing about every damn thing she spoke with the queen about.

Cyril only scoffed.

“…Not good?”

“Good is not a word I would use to describe it, no.” They were almost at the doors to the royal residences now, and Cyril picked up her pace.

“What happened?” Dion spoke softly as he reached for her arm.

She shook him off.

“I do not want to talk about it,” Cyril ground out, offering the guards posted at the doors each a tight smile.

Dion waited until they made it clear through to the other side before he caught her wrist and pulled her to a stop. He did not let go this time when she tried to twist out of his grip.

“Cyr, stop .” His casual ease was gone, replaced with something far more impatient. “What is your problem?”

“You,” she hissed, turning back to glare at him. “You are my problem.”

Dion’s brow narrowed.

“ Me ?”

“Yes, you. You and your fucking secrets.”

Cyril jerked her arm back and Dion finally let go.

“My secrets?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, please enlighten me.”

Her uncle's unwavering gaze held a clear challenge, like the gold blazed with the prospect of putting her in her place, and Cyril met it with her own.

“Were you ever planning on telling me that Runa and my mother were friends ? Or did you figure she would corner me at some point and do it herself? Try to push some sentimental bullshit on me like she just did?”

The wave of anger she’d struggled to smother in the archives was sparking to life again, and Cyril didn’t know if she had it in her to stuff it back down.

Not for Dion, at least.

“Cyril…” he sighed, rubbing his brow. “We’ve only been here a day. I did not think that she would—”

“ A day ?” she spat. “What about the ten fucking days we traveled for?! Or were you too busy brooding the entire gods damned time to think about anyone else?”

“Lower your voice, now .”

Dion cast a pointed glance over his shoulder.

Cyril wasn’t sure when the prince commander, or the guard he was standing with, took up watch at the half-open door to the residences. But she didn’t care. Let the arrogant asshole listen. His opinions on her were abundantly clear, and she had no plans to improve on that.

She let all of her attention hang on Dion as she seethed, “You had ten days to tell me one simple thing, and you didn’t. Because you’re a selfish fucking coward and you never have the balls to tell me anything.”

Dion’s eyes blazed, and he was in her personal space in an instant, crowding her back against the wall. He grabbed her chin with a brutal grip and jerked it upward, forcing her to look at him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Have you ever considered,” he seethed, “that I don’t tell you anything , Cyril, because you act like a fucking child? That every time you throw one of these little fucking tantrums, I find you a little less deserving of my so-called secrets ?”

The inferno pumping in Cyril’s veins banked into ice and she stilled.

“I thought as much.” Dion huffed, his breath warm on her face. “Deal with your fucking baggage, Cyril. You’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone and you need to grow the fuck up about it.”

Dion released his hold on her, and he could have vanished into thin air for all that she knew.

Her vision was blurry and her ears hummed as every word he just maimed her with sank in. It was such an effortless thing for her uncle to wound like that. Easy, she supposed, when it was the truth. When the words were always there in his mind, waiting for the right time to deal their blow.

It took a minute for the feeling of his fingers digging into her face to subside, for her to feel sure enough of her legs to clear the final few paces to her room.

She needed air.

She needed cold, or warmth, or something, anything , to take away the tightness that threaded itself through her chest.

Cyril made it halfway to her balcony before her knees met the floor.

So Cyril’s mother had been a friend of his own.

At least now Mikael knew why Runa was so fond of an abrasive woman she had never met. She was a deeply sentimental person on a good day, but to have the daughter of a dead friend staying under her roof...

It shed a bit of light.

Watching Cyril and her uncle go head to head in the hall wasn’t something he should have watched, but Mikael had never been one to enjoy doing what he should do.

When his mother mentioned Dion wasn’t always an easy man to deal with, he hadn’t doubted her. A man of his rank and order was bound to have a confrontational streak. He just hadn’t realized that would include such a wicked streak of cruelty too.

To his own flesh and blood, no less.

Not that the dark-haired wisp of a woman didn’t have a lick of venom in her own eyes, of course. But he saw the fear that existed there too. And so did one of the stationed guards, who had taken part in the less-than-subtle eavesdropping with him. He’d surged a step forward when Dion moved in on her, but Mikael held out his arm and shook his head.

This was not the type of thing they'd engage in without cause. Was the entire display entirely inappropriate? Absolutely. But there wasn’t any danger in that domestic pissing contest.

So Mikael and the guardsman observed in silence as the Rogue Master berated his niece with a chilling calmness. To say the sort of things he’d said, to pick her to pieces and wield the entire notion of her dead parents as, what…some sort of leverage? Some sort of playing piece to get her to act on his terms? It was sickening, honestly, and familiar in a way Mikael wasn't proud to admit.

They’d continued watching, even as Dion stalked past them with a look of lethality in his eyes and muttered curses on his breath.

And Cyril had just stood there. She’d looked…absent, with her hands clenched at her sides and her eyes fixed on the floor.

Mikael wasn’t exactly a stranger to the burdens of familial conflict—and he almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

The miserable Rhodea woman had an equally miserable life, and, gods , if that’s how she was used to being spoken to…dinner made a shade more sense now.

The guard had just shrugged at him when Cyril finally turned and walked the rest of the way to her room, and he slipped back through the doors to join his partner at his post. That was likely the most excitement the poor man would ever see being posted in the residential wing.

Mikael should have followed him out and made his way back to the barracks. He had a criminal amount of paperwork left to finish for his reports on the alpine assessment, but his curiosity got the better of him.

It always fucking did.

With careful steps, he approached Cyril's door.

The last thing he needed was for her to hear someone poking about outside her room and come investigate. Explaining his way out of this would be…awkward, and being on the receiving end of her ire was low on his list of interests.

Truthfully, he expected to hear some sort of manifestation of anger on the other side of her door. Swearing and stomping, or things clattering about—she seemed expressive .

Instead, the sound of quiet sobbing reached his ears.

Mikael frowned and pulled himself away from her door.

Not his people, not his problem.