19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

W ell, the dress wasn’t pink. But Cyril didn’t have a hope in any of the hells of getting into it on her own. Even the dressmaker needed help to lift it from its box and spread it out on her bed.

She wasn’t sure how he expected her to move around in it.

“It’s beautiful.” Cyril looked at Runa, who had gathered in her room with Dion for the unveiling, and offered her a smile. “Thank you.”

The dress was a work of art.

It was just better suited for the likes of a princess, or a proper, demure lady and not, well…Cyril.

She loved the color of the deep, burned orange fabric Runa picked for the base dress, and the black and gold embroidery covering the bodice must have taken a small army days to do. Even the sleeves, long and sheer with matching embroidered cuffs, were something she would wear happily.

But the skirt…

Gaudy and awful.

Layers upon layers of tulle and gauze, and other fabrics that looked like they were going to itch terribly, all gathered up under the bodice to form a full, cumbersome skirt.

Runa responded to her with a tight, brief smile before she turned to the dressmaker and bit out, “This is not what we agreed upon.”

The short moon-fae man balked at her.

“Your Majesty, I assure you—”

“No, no .”

Runa stalked around the bed and separated the two halves of the dress.

“This”—she pointed to the bodice—“we agreed upon. But this ”—she waved her hand at the skirt—“couldn’t be further from what we talked about.”

Cyril and Dion both watched in silence as a few stuttered syllables left the dressmaker, and the queen sighed, pinching her brow.

“Wait for me outside,” she said, and the man backed out of the room in silence. “Your other dresses, are any of the skirts separate?”

Cyril shook her head.

“They’re all attached. But it’s alright!” She looked from Runa to the dress and back. “I don’t mind, really. I’ll just need some help with it.”

A crease formed between Runa’s brows.

“I’ll make sure one of the girls comes up, but I’m sorry, Cyril.”

“It’s fine, really!” It wasn’t fine at all, but the last thing Cyril wanted to do was come across as unappreciative of Runa’s gesture, even if it had run utterly sideways.

Runa sighed and said, “I’ll see you two at dinner.”

Amusement glimmered on Dion’s face, but he waited until the door had closed behind Runa to say, “Will you chat with me for a minute before they come to stuff you into that monstrosity?”

Sitting beside Dion in front of the fire in her room, Cyril’s palms were sweating. He wasn’t the sort of man to want to talk without reason. Not usually, at least.

“Did something happen in the city?” she asked quietly.

He had once again been absent for the past few days, returning only that morning, and it was the only connection she could make. He seemed happy enough, but Cyril hadn’t seen her other uncles in a while now and she had no idea what was happening there.

Dion smiled and shook his head. “No, but I’ve been thinking.”

“…About?”

“You, and your future.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “I wasn’t planning on bringing you here at first, you know, when Lars sent me the contract. But the more I thought about it, I realized it would be good to get you out of Helia and let you explore your prospects elsewhere.”

Cyril’s mouth went dry as she said, “ Prospects ? What do you mean?”

“Work.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But I already work for the guild.”

Dion sighed. “Cyr, proper guild work is dangerous . More than you understand.”

“You mean more than you’ll let me understand,” she scoffed.

“I’m not kidding, Cyr. It is not the sort of life I want you to have, period.” Dion scrubbed his hands over his face before he looked at her again. “I’m asking you to have an open mind while we’re here, please. Talk to Runa about it, if you can. She has an unfathomable number of connections, and she might have some ideas on things you could do.”

“Why would I…” Cyril shook her head. “If you don’t want me at the guild, I’ll find work somewhere else back home. I am not staying here.”

“Cyril, you are a highborn woman who doesn’t want to get married. Trying to make any sort of life for yourself in the south will be nearly impossible.”

Oh. They were not having this conversation again.

Not a fucking chance.

They’d done this spin dozens of times, and Cyril’s answer never changed.

“If this is some ploy to convince me to get married, you can stop,” she said, willing an ounce of calm into her voice. “You know that I—”

“It isn’t, Cyr,” he groaned. “I know you don’t want to. I know you think it’s stupid. Trust me, I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. But it doesn’t change the fact that every damn lord in the south wants nothing more than a pretty wife with the promise of land and riches one day. And none of those men are good people, Cyr.”

She scoffed. “Worse than you?”

“Yes, Cyril, worse than me ,” he bit back, “because I would never have it in me to steal a woman’s virtue from her and use it as blackmail. Or hope she fell pregnant and force her into a marriage that way.”

Cyril blinked.

Was he insinuating that these men, that they would…

Her stomach turned.

“You can’t be serious,” she mumbled, watching Dion’s scar tug and pull as he rubbed at his face.

He looked at her for a long second before he said, “I’m dead serious, Cyr. So forgive me for wanting to find an alternative for you.”

Cyril certainly didn’t enjoy the sounds of what Dion insinuated, but what option did she have? Helia was her home, and with it came navigating the politics of their neighboring states.

Quietly, she asked, “So you want me to stay here?”

Here , as in an isolated, foreign land.

Here , as in a place full of people she knew nearly nothing about, and wasn’t sure if she could trust.

Here , as in a place that was not her home.

“I want you to consider it, yes.” He glanced at her briefly before he rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Part of the reason I am so fond of Reykr is its freedoms, and I would like for you to have that.”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled in between Cyril and Dion, broken only by a knock at her door that she couldn’t have been more grateful for.

Dion rose and said, “Please, think about it. And if you have the chance, talk to Runa about it, see what thoughts she has.”

Cyril nodded as Dion walked away, and let in the two maids who came to help her get ready. And even as the kind, soft-spoken women pinned gold baubles in her hair and cinched her into the extravagant gown, she could only think of one thing;

Dion didn’t want her around anymore.

Nineteen years as her sole guardian, and he was done. Fed up with teaching her, taking care of her, and protecting her. He wanted her to stay in Reykr not because it would be any good for her, but because she wouldn’t be his burden anymore.

For as badly as Cyril always craved a sliver of freedom, this was never how she wanted it.

The weight of that reality had her stomach in knots, but she feigned a tight smile when the maids cooed over how elegant she looked, and ushered her out the door.

Dion was waiting for her just outside the door to the residential wing, chatting with the guards. She took his arm in silence and spent their entire walk trying to convince herself that she had gotten it all wrong, that Dion only had her best interests in mind and not his.

In all of her twenty-one years, Cyril wasn’t sure something had ever stolen her breath like the state ballroom did.

And what a welcome distraction it was.

Even though she wasn’t pleased about Dion’s presence, she appreciated having his arm guiding her through to their table, giving her a chance to gape at her surroundings. She appreciated the unease he looked at her with too. He knew he fucked up.

As Cyril and Dion wove their way through the courtiers mingling about before their meal, she counted no fewer than two dozen tables spread across the long, rectangular room.

Against the otherwise neutral table linens, centerpieces of vibrant spring flowers—all in tones of blue, purple, and green—and their twisted glass accents brought a splash of life to the room. Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea what any of the flowers were called, but she was certain she had seen each of them in the gardens on her tour with Runa.

Above them, swaths of gauzy, cream-colored fabric hung in soft billows across the ceiling, gathered in neat bunches at each of the crystal chandeliers dotting the room. The sweeping lengths of the gauze rolled down the three interior walls, pinned in place with similar flower arrangements, framing alcoves and tapestries.

But of all the shining odds and ends of the room, the most stunning of all were the fae lights, and they were everywhere .

Small, large, and every size in between, they hung with impossible perfection in the air. More than she could ever hope to count bobbed along the draped fabric of the ceiling, and a cluster hung above each table. They lined the walls too, following the delicate plaster arches all along, and even illuminated the garden that the ballroom’s glass wall looked out onto.

They made the grand room feel intimate and warm, and Cyril couldn’t help but gape. She attended some prim parties back home, but nothing like this. The whimsy of it all had done wonders to quell the unease the earlier conversation with Dion had left her with.

She could see Astor and Reyna at the head table, leaning into each other and chatting quietly. Beside them sat an absent-looking Mikael, dressed in his military finery with two empty wine glasses already in front of him. Cyril and Dion’s own table for the evening was just a few over from the royal families.

“Cyr, you're going to catch flies if you just stand there like that. Come on.” Dion’s tug on her arm sent her crashing back down to reality. “You can continue gawking from your chair. Sit.”

“ Gawking ?” Cyril snorted. “Gods forbid, I appreciate something.”

Her uncle pointed to the chair he had just pulled out.

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Sit.”

Cyril did, though it took coordination between herself and Dion to sweep the tulle of her skirt under the table. A generous gesture from the queen, yes, but one that had gone sideways in the worst possible way.

They were the first to arrive at their table, with four empty seats spread about the round. Cyril couldn’t help but feel a little anxious about who their tablemates might be, after the unexpected turn of her conversation with Dion.

Surely there had not been enough time for him to talk to Runa and involve her in his schemes, but Cyril felt it safer to be wary. She had a clean shot at three exits if they filled their table with nothing but prospective employers—one to the garden, and two back out to the atrium.

“You look lovely, Cyr.”

Cyril almost didn’t hear Dion over the rolling rumble of chatter in the room.

“I— Thank you?” Cyril blinked and then glared at Dion. “I’m not sure if you want something or if you’re just trying to make up for earlier.”

He sighed, “It’s just a compliment, Cyr, no hidden agenda.”

Unlikely.

Dion rarely did things without some kind of motivating factor driving his words or actions. But Cyril just wanted to have a pleasant night and resisted the urge to challenge him on that.

Cyril’s lips quirked as she said, “You look…lordly.”

Her uncle struggled to clamp down a stoic mask over the grin that crept into his face.

“I do, don’t I?” he mused, smoothing a hand over the red and gold sash draped across his chest. The bastard cleaned up so well, with his tailored jackets and finery.

Cyril crinkled her nose at him and chuckled.

This sort of banter used to come easy to them. Now there wasn’t a moment where it didn’t feel like she was walking on thin, cracked ice with him. Like one wrong move could spell disaster at any moment. And Cyril…she didn’t want to think about any of that right now.

“I believe those ”—Dion subtly tipped his chin towards a foursome walking pointedly in their direction—“are our tablemates for the evening.”

Three men—two tall and one rotund—and a woman who wore an almost offensive amount of jewelry. All fae, and exuding an aura of arrogance that Cyril had yet to see in Reykr. Commonplace in the south, yes, but after a few weeks away it felt foreign.

The reek of a sickly rich cologne hit her nose when they were still a few tables away. She winced at Dion, and he nodded his agreement as he rose from his chair.

Cyril went to do the same—a polite greeting was the least she could offer—but Dion set his hand on her shoulder. Apparently, he didn’t want to fight with her skirts again, either.

“Oh, my ! Some unfamiliar faces. What a treat !” The woman’s voice was grating. “Who might the two of you be?”

Cyril reigned in her groan. She was in for a long evening.

“Dionysus Rhodea, Lord of Helia.” He pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head, the full image of regality. “And my niece, Lady Cyril Rhodea.”

“Helia? How exotic !” The woman swept a section of coarse, yellow-blonde hair over her shoulder. “We are the Salversons.” She gestured vaguely to their group, then to the rather plain brown-haired man beside her. “My husband, Lord Otto Salverson. His brother, Councilor Mathias. And my son, Lief.”

She beamed at the wiry man beside her with a prominent nose and crooked grin. His dark, deep-set eyes bore into Cyril, and he didn’t bother to look at Dion. It made her skin crawl, the sort of unrestrained interest he looked at her with.

Her uncle squeezed her shoulder as she shifted in her seat. At least he noticed, too.

“Lovely to meet all of you,” Dion said and then gestured to the table. “Please, sit.”

Gods help her.

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, Lord Rhodea , but does Helia not have a predominately sun-fae population?”

Cyril stifled her groan.

Half a meal spent in blissful quiet and now the bird of a woman sitting across the table had to open her mouth. It was bad enough that three of the four Salversons couldn’t keep their fucking eyes to themselves, but at least Cyril had the rotations of plates set in front of her to focus on.

The food was exceptional, as it always was at the palace.

“Predominantly, but not entirely,” Dion said. He set down his utensils and sat back in his chair. Cyril just kept eating. “As is the same for most of Southern Carinae. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Lady Salverson chuckled and waved her fork in Cyril’s direction, “Your lovely niece here isn’t entirely sun-fae, is she? Or even entirely fae, for that matter?”

Cyril’s utensils clattered as she set them on her plate, blinking across the table.

It had been a long time since her heritage was the focus of any dinner discussion. Especially in that sort of tone. People of mixed race weren’t uncommon in the south, especially in Helia, and most didn’t care if you were. But there were always a few highborn assholes lingering around who thought otherwise.

Perhaps it was for the best that Lady Salverson didn’t address her directly.

Dion’s hand found hers under the table, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Forgive my ignorance, Lady Salverson, but I’m not sure why that would be of any importance?”

“Oh! It isn’t of importance, so to speak.” The woman made that awful, cackling noise of a laugh again. “I just haven’t been able to place it. Her ears aren’t as pointed as any of ours, so I assumed some sort of mortal mix. But that can’t be right, because she’s far too striking to have any sort of human mixed in there with her.”

Dion squeezed her hand tighter.

He had to know she was fucking simmering .

Her dress was far too tight, the room felt stifling and now this woman was gawking at her like she was a fucking prize horse, trying to figure out if her bloodline was pure or not.

Otto cleared his throat and sat up a bit, the first noise he’d made since the start of their meal. “Elise darling, I think perhaps—”

Lady Salverson gasped loud enough that a couple of neighboring tables—including the royal family's own—looked over at them.

“Your father”—she jabbed her dinner knife in Cyril’s direction—“sullied with a nymph housekeep, didn’t he?” The woman looked so fucking proud of herself. Like she’d just uncovered the secret of the century. “Fell whim to that sweet little siren song of theirs? A feisty dryad, or was she one of those delicate water bearers?”

Just about every muscle in Cyril’s body locked.

She couldn’t even form words to spit back at the woman.

Sullied ?

What a disgusting thing to insinuate. That her mother was beneath her father’s rank and order, that he reduced himself to something lesser just to be with her.

“You must have a miserable life, Lady Salverson, to find enjoyment in throwing accusations like that,” Dion spoke with enough seething anger for the both of them, and Cyril was thankful for that.

“ Accusations —” A few indignant noises left the woman.

Dion leaned forward, dishes clattering as he planted his hands on the table. His lips peeled back into a snarl as, with a lethal sort of calmness, he said, “I will only tell you once to think very, very carefully before you speak of my late brother or his wife again. Am I clear, Lady Salverson?”

Silence and wide eyes swept through their table.

Dion settled back in his seat. He shot the rest of his drink back in one go before his hand found Cyril’s again and he gave it a firm squeeze. His skin nearly felt like it was burning—had he come that close to losing it?

The sharp smell of whatever spirits had been in his glass washed over her as he leaned in and kissed her temple.

So softly she almost didn’t hear it, he murmured, “I love you, Cyr. That bitch is nothing.”

Cyril looked up at him and smiled.

He did love her, didn’t he? She had to be a fool to think—

“Savages.”

Something frightening flashed in Dion’s eyes as his attention snapped across the table and he bit out, “ Excuse me ?”

“Savages.” Lady Salverson was so red in the face it looked like she was ready to blow. Glistening canines bared, she leaned across the table. “You filthy, disgusting— ”

Her eyes flared and every bit of color drained from her cheeks. She dipped her head as she scrambled out of her chair.

Cyril half expected to see Ren standing behind her.

“Your Majesty.”

Before Cyril processed what Lady Salverson even said, warm and tattooed fingers settled on her shoulder. The other Salversons stood, as did Dion, but when Cyril tried to, Runa’s hand kept her seated.

The fucking dress.

“It’s my fault you’re stuck in that beastly thing tonight, so please do not worry about ridiculous protocols,” Runa said with a warm smile before she turned to Dion. She hugged him and kissed his cheeks, whispering something Cyril didn’t catch, and then leaned down to do the same to her.

Whatever Runa said to Dion left a genuine smile on his face.

The queen did not extend the same warm, intimate greeting to the rest of the table. She stood between Cyril and Dion, her hands resting on the backs of their chairs, and insisted everyone sit.

“You have my apologies. I intended to do some introductions earlier, but all of Lars’ primping had us running late. You’ve all had a chance to get acquainted, I take it?”

There was a sort of soft yet commanding regality to Runa’s voice that Cyril hadn’t heard yet.

Dion snorted. “Quite.”

Lady Salverson opened her mouth, but Runa cut her off.

“I’m not sure if they told the two of you already, but the Salversons hail from a village quite near the one I grew up in, near the northern sea.” Runa dropped a very subtle glance down to Cyril and everything clicked—the Salversons were purists. “And Councilor Mathias here has been a valued member of our court for longer than I can remember.”

The councilor, at least, dipped his head in appreciation.

“Fascinating,” Dion said flatly.

Runa looked at him with a coy smile and said, “Quite.”

“And as for these Rhodeas…” she continued, “Dion’s been a close family friend of ours for, what, a century now?”

Dion blew out a breath as he nodded.

“Believe it or not.”

“Time really has gotten away from us,” The queen chuckled. She glanced briefly at Cyril before she added, “This remarkable young woman’s mother was a dear, dear friend of mine, and I, well…” There was a flicker of that genuine sadness that tugged on the thread of guilt tethered eternally inside Cyril. “Let's just say I’m immensely grateful for this time that I get to spend with Cyril.”

“Touching,” Lady Salverson bit out.

Her husband intoned her name softly, and she cut him a narrowed glance.

“Well, I’m sure the dancing will start soon and I should get back to Lars before he sends out a search party.” Runa slipped that cool diplomatic mask back on with such ease. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

The moment Runa was halfway back to her table, the Salversons scattered.