14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I f there was a single, minuscule thread of silver lining to Rika’s death, it was that Cyril was no longer stuck alone with Dion.

Her uncles had been at the palace for days now, put up in another corridor of guest suites, and they occupied most moments of free time she had. One of them always came banging on her door in the morning to drag her down to breakfast before she’d slink away to the archives for the day.

Not that any of them were having much luck getting any closer to understanding what the fuck was happening in Reykr. From what Bron just finished telling her, residents and staff of the palace all said the same things that the city folk had.

Everyone felt like they had witnessed someone or something out of place, but no one could definitively say where or when. It was common, Cyril knew, in the aftermath of crimes, for people to become paranoid, to notice things they may not have paid any heed to before.

The only fruitful thing to come of their questioning was the uncovering of a get-together down in the servants’ quarters on the night of Rika’s death. It was the birthday of one of the tenured cooks, and they’d all enjoyed food and drink as duties wrapped and the rest of the palace went to sleep.

Not an unusual night by any means, except about half the staff couldn’t remember anything that happened after midnight.

Bron sighed. “Apparently, most of them thought a groundskeeper spiked their glogg again, whatever the fuck that is.”

“ Again ?”

“I know,” he sighed. “So needless to say, we know fucking nothing useful.”

Bron shot back the rest of his drink, his frustration palpable. She could tell that all of her uncles were frustrated, and she sympathized with them entirely.

There was one thing, though, that always improved Bron’s mood— gossip .

“You know,” Cyril dropped her voice and Bron leaned in immediately, “we had an interesting… interruption when they first found Rika’s body.”

A bit of life sparked up in Bron’s eyes again.

“Go on, dove…”

“We were all standing there, and some mortal woman came stumbling out of Prince Asshole’s room wearing nothing but his shirt, wondering when he was coming back to bed .” Cyril tried and failed to imitate the woman’s singsong voice, but it got a hell of a chuckle from Bron.

“Talk about a hell of a thing to wake up to,” he said.

“Right? And the prince did not seem happy about it at all.”

Bron eyed her. “You enjoyed his suffering, didn’t you?”

“Do I even need to answer that?”

“No, you don’t.” Bron shook his head. Something crept into his mind, though, and he narrowed his eyes. “The prince isn’t…attached to anyone, yeah? We talked to all the family, but I don’t think—”

“Oh, no . He made that crystal clear. She was just a bit of fun , apparently.” Cyril rolled her eyes.

“Look, dove, when two people just want to—” Bron’s own eyes flared wide with amusement when Cyril clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Don’t you dare finish that.”

He pulled her hand away and laughed .

“In all seriousness, though. This woman, was she about this tall”—he held his hand halfway up his chest—“and curly-haired? Generously endowed, too?”

Cyril sighed. These men.

“You’re disgusting, but yes.”

“We questioned her. Violet or Daisy. Rose, maybe? Some kind of flower for a name. She’s a courtesan from the city, apparently, and an expensive one at that.”

“Oh.”

That was…more than Cyril needed to know. A true testament to the prince’s demeanor too, if the only company he could get had to be paid for.

“Mm. But the prince’s warm bed aside”—Bron bumped her shoulder—“I take it your research hasn’t been very fruitful?”

“Not exactly,” she grumbled. “I don’t even know how many hours I’ve spent in the damn archives, but I haven’t found anything useful. One of the poor scribes even spent an entire day translating this decrepit old scroll with me, and it ended up being all for nothing.”

Cyril sighed and took a healthy swig of her wine. Tobias easily took the spot for the most patient person she had met in her life thus far, but she still felt awful about wasting that much of his time, even if he insisted he’d be happy to do it again just for fun.

“Just an ancient bread recipe?” Bron chuckled.

“Not even!” she groaned. “It was about this practice of the old culture here, called elemental cleansing. Apparently, they were big on using these displays of the elements to balance evils . They had all kinds of ceremonies for it too, but it seemed like most of them involved making some sort of offering back to the gods, like salt for the earth, or incense for the air. I just—”

She sighed again. It had been one thing to admit defeat to herself, but it felt a special kind of awful to say it out loud.

“You just, what? That doesn’t sound like it's nothing to me, dove.”

Leave it to Bron to find her infallible.

“I thought that maybe this meant someone was trying to do some cleansing , you know? Take matters into their own hands and clean up Reykr like that vigilante in Epheos a few years ago.”

“I’m still failing to see where this is nothing .”

“I was getting there.” Cyril shot a narrow look at Bron. “Honestly, I thought I was onto something, so I asked Dion if I could see the victim files.”

Bron’s brows climbed. “Did he let you?”

“He did.”

“And?”

“Crystal clear records, all four of them. Everyone who knew them loved them, too. The carpenter used to make toys for kids at the infirmary with his wood scraps, and I found out Rika volunteered at a temple in the city whenever she had time off.”

Bron’s nose wrinkled before he said, “That’s sad, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly. And it also means we don’t have some vigilante trying to purge Reykr of its filth.”

“Maybe not…but don’t discredit yourself yet, dove.” There was that empathetic smile that Cyril could only ever tolerate from Bron. “Just because the piece doesn’t fit where you think it should right now, doesn’t mean it’s the wrong piece, if you catch my drift?”

Cyril sighed. “You’re trying to talk to me about patience again, aren’t you?”

At that, Bron chuckled.

“I’ll spare you that tonight.” He slung his arm across Cyril’s shoulders, steering her out of the loop of hallways that they spent the last half-hour wandering, trying to get some peace after a raucous dinner. “We’ve both got empty drinks, and you know Dion will be pissed if we’re not in there batting our eyelashes at everyone.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

With the guild, royal family, and a handful of high-ranking guards in attendance, dinners at the palace had become a bit of a production. They spent their evenings in a larger dining room that also had an attached lounge well stocked with everything they might need for a night of unwinding.

Bron and Ren flanked Cyril in the back of the lounge, standing comfortably around a tall table with their third bottle of red wine—the first two of which Ren nearly drank all to himself.

The room was dim and warm and smelled like worn leather and the rolled tobacco Lars and Dion enjoyed smoking with their spirits. Normally Cyril didn’t love the way the smoke burned her eyes and itched at her throat, but she’d had enough to drink that she barely noticed it tonight.

Like each dinner and wind-down before, the groups kept to themselves—Cyril and the guild, the guards and the arrogant prince, Dion with the rest of the royal family—except for Tyr tonight, who had taken to flitting about from group to group.

He was either right hammered or trying to gather intel. Both, maybe.

It all reminded her of home.

Like when bodies and booze and laughter would fill the great hall shoulder to shoulder. Admittedly, this wasn’t as rowdy as a room full of drunken rogues and house staff, but Cyril didn’t mind that at all. Even just the hint of home was welcome.

What she did mind, however, was that Rendal decided she would be the target of his harassment.

At least three times in the last few hours, he hip-checked her right into Bron or the wall when she wasn’t paying attention. After a near disaster on the first one, she stopped holding her wine glass when she wasn’t rushing it to her lips.

On the third hit, she tried shoving him back. Bron and Ren both threw their heads back with roaring laughter as she slammed all her body weight into the physical embodiment of a stone wall that was Ren.

He did not budge.

And now, gods help her, Ren was using her head as an armrest.

“I swear to each and every fucking god,” Cyril hissed as she swatted at his arm. She ducked out from under the weight of it as he started rubbing circles into her hair. “I’m going to take out your knees when you aren’t looking, you oaf.”

Ren’s chasmic eyes met hers.

Something diabolical flickered in them and he grinned .

“It’s going to be hard to do that”—he reached for her, and Cyril wasn’t fast or sober enough to get away from him—“when you’re busy swimming in the lake.”

A shriek of laughter left her as Ren hauled her under his arm, like he was carrying a piece of damn lumber, and trudged towards the door.

“Ren, no!” she barked, all flailing limbs and fruitless attempts to get out of his grasp. She assuredly kicked someone, but she couldn’t see past the curtain of hair that hung around her face.

“But I thought you loved swimming, dove.” He jostled her around, pretending to adjust his grip. Cyril swore and laughed, and a few indignant noises left her. “Besides, the water looked lovely.”

“Stop! Ren —” Another shriek of laughter left her as he jostled her once more. Her face felt so hot she knew it was an ungodly shade of red. “Ren, you’re going to make me sick!”

“We’ll just have to”—he shook Cyril around again —“dunk you in the—”

“ Enough .” Dion’s unmistakable growl had Ren freezing. “Would you two knock it the fuck off?”

Cyril hadn’t noticed how silent the room was.

With a slow, measured movement, Ren set Cyril down on her feet. He let her hold on to his arm as she tried to blink through the wave of dizziness rolling through her.

Standing in front of the armchair he’d spent all damn night planted in, the stare Dion cut them with was withering. His eyes fucking dripped with displeasure.

“Dion, it’s alright. They’re allowed—” Lars tried to ease the tension that held the entire room hostage, but Dion cut him off.

“Was I not clear with you?” He looked right at Cyril, holding his glass of spirits on its sixth or seventh refill. “Stop acting like a fucking child.”

Cyril took a deep breath.

They’d had such a nice last couple of days.

“Piss off, Rhodea,” Ren spoke before Cyril even exhaled, and everything about his posture changed. He was nothing but a long line of coiled tension, ready to strike. “It was me, not her,” he spat. “Stop looking for excuses to treat her like shit.”

The room's wary eyes focused on Cyril and her uncles.

Cyril just wanted to slip back into the shadows and disappear. The few brawls she’d seen break out back at the estate were nasty things, full of black eyes and bloody noses. She did not want to imagine the chaos that would ensue if one happened in this room.

Bronson, mercifully, appeared out of thin fucking air. He clasped Ren on the shoulder and jerked his chin towards the door.

“Let's turn in, yeah? Busy day tomorrow.”

Ren breathed a few colorful profanities, but let Bron lead him out of the room after he kissed Cyril on the forehead. Tyriel followed with a sway a few steps behind, and Dion’s caustic stare trailed them the entire way out.

Behind Cyril, the hushed conversation started back up as the guardsmen decided whatever threat they were assessing was no longer of concern. Cyril just stood there, avoiding eye contact with anyone in particular, because she didn’t know what the fuck to do.

There was a half-full glass of wine back at her table she wanted to finish, but she wasn’t sure Dion would tolerate her presence anymore. With how he shot back his drink and quickly poured himself another, she didn’t know if it was worth sticking around to find out, either.

Soft silver robes swept into her vision before she had a chance to think on it much more, and Runa’s hand settled on her shoulder. The smile she gave Cyril was knowing.

The queen looked past her and called out, “Mikael?”

Cyril’s body tensed.

They hadn’t interacted since he was hells-bent on driving her fucking mental while she documented the runes, and she was plenty content with that.

Mikael filtered through the groups of men and came to stand beside them, hands clasped behind his back.

Cyril realized then, glancing up at him, that he really did remind her of Dion, and not just a little. From the same swaggering, arrogant way they walked, to the black fitted everything they wore, and the shirts left open far lower than they had any right to be.

Mikael was just bigger than Dion.

Not bulky, but taller. A touch broader in the shoulders.

A dash more wild and handsome—

Oh, fucking hells.

She’d had too much to drink.

And if Mikael’s smirk was to be trusted, her observations…well they were less than fucking subtle.

“Have you told Cyril about the training yet?” Runa eyed her son expectantly.

He stiffened, and that smirk slipped right off his face.

“Ah. No, I haven’t had a chance with—”

“ Well ?”

Mikael’s gaze slid to Cyril. Flat, unimpressed. “We have new guards starting their base training next week, and my mother ”—Runa grinned in her periphery—“suggested that you may have some interest in participating in their training drills.”

Cyril’s eyes widened.

“Oh, that sounds—”

“It’s not glamorous,” Mikael interjected. “Morning runs, drills, basic hand-to-hand and weaponry.”

“No, that sounds amazing.” She looked from Mikael to Runa and back to the prince. “I’d like that.”

That might’ve been a flicker of surprise that graced his features.

“Alright.” He nodded, giving both Cyril and his mother a tight smile. “I’ll see that someone gets you the schedule.”

It might have mostly been the wine speaking and warming her thoroughly, but…gods, Cyril was excited . The last time she’d had something to look forward to was, well…

She wasn’t entirely sure.

Months ago, maybe? Anytime she tried to think of something she enjoyed doing, all her mind would treat her to was Dion calling her a child. Just like she was sure he was thinking now as he watched her, half-heartedly having a conversation with Lars.

Her excitement wilted.

“I…should turn in,” she said quietly, looking between Mikael and Runa again. Their own eyes followed hers to Dion and back. “I have some books I’ve been meaning to read.”

“Of course,” Runa smiled and squeezed her arm. “Mika will walk you back upstairs.”

They each stuttered a noise of protest, but Cyril overtook the prince. “I appreciate it, Runa, but I don’t need an escort…”

“Nonsense. I’m still uneasy after what happened, and I don’t want you walking alone this late. Besides,” she said, casting her son a knowing look, “he was going to slip out to the barracks any moment now.”

Mikael sighed and gestured towards the door.

“After you.”