24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

T hree days in Brynnhold and Cyril still hadn't fully seen the city. The inn she was staying at with her uncles, the merchant district, and the guard’s station all happened to be just a couple minutes’ walk from each other. Convenient from a working perspective, to not be trekking long distances between each, but terrible for her curiosity.

It felt like an especially cruel form of torture to bring Cyril all the way here and confine her indoors, but Dion was as focused on the task at hand as ever. Bron had apparently found their most credible lead to date, in the form of a recent business deal gone particularly sour.

The details of which, of course, she wasn’t privy to.

It only took ten minutes after returning to the guard’s station that first day for Cyril to go from budding linguist to fucking bookkeeper . The only saving grace was that Soren and herself were assigned to pour through the thousands of business records together.

Misery loved company.

In the grueling days they spent together, he went out of his way to teach Cyril little bits about Brynnhold—like the devastating fire that leveled the original city centuries ago, and what the different colors of ribbons tied to front doors represented—and provided some much needed comedic relief whenever the pages and names and numbers all blurred together.

A regular occurrence, unfortunately.

Cyril sagged against the spindle back of her chair and groaned, rubbing at her burning eyes. “I hate this,” she grumbled, and Soren exhaled sharply.

“Do you even know what a suspicious business record looks like?” he asked in a terrible reenactment of the city commander’s voice as he set his stack of papers down. “Because I fucking don’t.”

Every shape and size of parchment imaginable littered the top of the table in the cramped office they commandeered at the station. Shipment manifests and customer accounts made up the majority of the records and, other than giving Cyril a wicked number of paper cuts, nothing about them raised any red flags. Not that either of them knew what those red flags would be.

Soren told Cyril he spent the bulk of his two years so far with the Royal Guard on and off border patrols, having only returned a few weeks ago from his most recent rotation. And Cyril, well…

“They don’t teach that at the guild, no,” she chuckled. “Sorry that you got sucked into being my babysitter.”

“Your babysitter?” Soren gave her a look like he’d just smelled something sour. “What? So you don’t blackmail—” He picked up a record and squinted at it. “Miss Afferly about how many bottles of almond oil she bought?”

An undignified snort left Cyril.

“Was that the one with eight on it? That’s a questionable amount! Why would one person need that much almond oil?”

“You have a point,” Soren chuckled and tossed the paper back on the table. “So why exactly am I babysitting you?”

“My uncle seems very opposed to me being alone anywhere there is the possibility of fun .” She rolled her eyes. “Gods forbid.”

“Is he the angry-looking one?”

Cyril blinked.

“That doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

Soren sat back in his chair. “So there’s the really tall, really fucking terrifying one. The one who looks like he’s allergic to feelings. The one that is simultaneously friendly and gods damned frightening. And there’s the angry one.”

Rendal. Tyriel. Bronson. Dion.

Cyril cackled , to the point she had tears in her eyes as she said, “Yeah, he’s the angry one.”

“I hit that right on the head, didn’t I?”

He beamed with pride as he smoothed down the front of his uniform.

“Gods, did you ever.” She wiped at her face, a wheeze of a laugh leaving her. “I’ve never —”

A single knock rapped at the door before the hinges creaked open.

Friendly and frightening stuck his head in, and Soren shrank back.

“Hi, dove.” Bron grinned at her in that wry way of his. He tossed an appraising glance around the cramped office before he said, “Have you eaten?”

A quiet growl rumbled in her stomach, and she shook her head.

“Come on then.” Bron pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Let's go for a walk and grab some dinner.”

A walk , in Brynnhold ?

Cyril was out of her chair before Bron finished speaking.

The walk down to the docks wasn’t as long as Cyril hoped, but as they wove through the cobbled streets and towards the briny smell of the sea, she glimpsed three yellow ribbons and a single white one tied to the front doors of various row houses. Three new babies and a passing, if she remembered Soren correctly.

And just like he said, Brynnhold was a sweeping sea of stone.

She hadn’t given a second thought to the rows upon rows of stone structures when they first arrived, but now she understood the practicality of it.

It must have been one hells of a fire if after all this time the city-dwellers still insisted on building from stone. Except for easy-to-replace structures like doors and window sills, and little vendor stalls, the people of Brynnhold constructed everything from gray and cream-colored stone.

Well, everything except for the docks in the harbor, of course. There might have been more planks of wood there than in the rest of the city combined.

By this time in the evening, the hustle and bustle Cyril witnessed in the markets quieted into more of a gentle buzz, and the docks sat full of bobbing fishing boats moored for the night. Outside of a few straggling deckhands and workers still milling about, Cyril and Bron had the place to themselves.

Which was for the best, considering the ferocity with which she inhaled the mincemeat pastry that Bron bought for her on the walk down.

“What did you say this was?” Cyril asked after she swallowed down the last bit of it. She peeked back into the parchment, and her hope of finding another piece was crushed.

Cyril pouted.

Bron laughed as he crumpled his own parchment and tossed it out into the water. “No idea what it’s called. But I think I’ve eaten my body weight in them and they’re fucking delicious.”

“They really are.”

Cyril took one last look in the wrap before she tossed hers over the edge of the dock as well. She wondered if the palace kitchen would take any offense to her making a special request when they went back…

“So,” Bron started, knocking Cyril right off the cloud of food-induced bliss she drifted on. “I heard from a little Dion-shaped birdie that you ”—he bumped her shoulder—“may or may not have beaten the ever-loving shit out of Prince Asshole a couple of weeks ago?”

“I did.” She beamed. “In front of a bunch of the guards too.”

“Good.” There was a sort of unrestrained pride on Bron’s face even as she swatted and swore at him when he reached to ruffle her hair. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, you know.”

She knew that well.

But at least Bron dished out praise and expectations in equal measures.

“Did Dion tell you about anything else I’ve been doing?”

Like maybe all the damn time she’s spent in the archives, trying to learn an entire other language. An almost dead one, at that.

“Well…” His brow creased. “He may have also less enthusiastically mentioned that the same prince is getting a bit too…comfortable with you?”

She blinked.

“He what ?”

“I believe the exact words he said to me were, ‘That arrogant whelp can’t keep his fucking hands to himself,’ and ‘If he thinks he can get that comfortable with Cyr, he’s got another fucking thing coming.’”

Cyril stared at Bron in disbelief. But he nodded slowly, like he understood exactly what pieces just clicked into her mind with startling clarity.

Cyril was glad she had already finished the dinner Bron bought her because she suddenly found herself with no appetite. The pastry felt like a ball of lead in her stomach.

“Is that why he brought me here? To keep me away from Mikael?”

“I think that may have been a contributing factor, yes.” Bron sighed and shook his head, tendrils of blonde hair slipping back over his shoulders. “Something has him all sorts of fucked up, Cyr, and I haven’t figured it out. But Ren and Tyr see it too. He’s hot one minute, cold the next.”

Bron leaned back on his palms, his emerald eyes turned out over the rippling water of the harbor. “And I know this is easier said than done, dove, but try to not take it personally. You’re just bearing the brunt of whatever bullshit’s keeping him up at night now. I wish there was something I could do, but—”

“I’ll be alright.”

What were her other options?

She knew Bron would pluck the moon itself from the night sky if he thought it would make her happy, and it meant more than she could say. But things just weren’t that simple dealing with Dion, and Cyril refused to burden Bron or the others with any more details on just how volatile her uncle was becoming. They had enough on their plates as it was, and it wasn’t like she was being given much opportunity to help with their investigation.

“Did he tell you he took off with some women without saying a word and left me to fend for myself at that same dinner that he’s pissed about?” she added. “Or did he leave that part out?”

Bron huffed a dry, bitter laugh.

“Not surprising in the least. Though, I can’t say I’d want to tell my niece I was leaving to get my—”

“ Please don’t finish that,” she groaned, and he tossed her a wry smile. “It was bad enough that Mikael had to tell me…”

“Oh? Was that before or after the whelp couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”

“Not you too!” Cyril hissed. Bron feigned a grievous injury when she smacked him, clutching his arm tight to his chest. “Whatever Dion thinks he saw, he’s wrong. We just danced a few times.”

“ Just danced?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes!” Cyril cut him a sharp glare, but the amusement in his face didn’t falter whatsoever. Her cheeks burned. “I don’t know what you thought I got myself into.”

The insufferable arse chuckled.

“You are Dion’s blood relative. Anything is possible, dove.”

Cyril didn’t give him the benefit of a response to that.

Bron grinned at her, but he let silence settle in. It was never an awkward or uncomfortable thing when she was with him. Wherever they sat, whatever they watched, it always came so easily.

“They’re treating you well, up at that big fancy house?” he asked a few minutes later.

“And by big fancy house , you mean the palace?” Cyril chuckled. “They are. The food is good, the wine is good—” She eyed Bron. Two things of the utmost importance to him. “—and I get to do a lot of riding. And I…”

Cyril sighed.

For her entire life, Bron was the only person she could speak to without restraint. Her deepest, darkest secrets? He knew them all. Her hopes and dreams, no matter how delusional? He knew every one of those too. And Bron never judged her for any of it, not truly. He wouldn’t tell a soul either, unless she asked him to.

But to the man who gave her so much unrequited advice and guidance, especially as they embarked on this shitshow of a contract, it brought Cyril no insignificant amount of discomfort to say, “I don’t hate it here.”

Bron nodded, but said nothing, and his eyes never left the harbor.

He didn’t look surprised, at least.

“And it feels so wrong. I thought Reykr was bad, that I was supposed to hate it because…well, because that’s what I was told. But the people here…they’ve been so kind. Even the lands, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. And I just…”

Cyril sighed again and clasped her hands in her lap—she didn’t know what else she wanted to say. There were too many things floating around in her head to grab onto just one. But she didn’t get opportunities like this often anymore, to have quiet chats with Bron.

He glanced at her and a half of a smile tugged at his lips as he said, “I understand, dove.”

“You do?” Cyril’s brows climbed and Bron nodded.

“It’s not what I thought it would be like here either.” He pursed his lips, looking back out over the water. “I’m wary, still, of it all. But I understand how you feel.”

“I’ve been letting my guard down,” she admitted, and her chest felt a little lighter. “All the damn time. I keep catching myself, realizing that someone could have tampered with my food, or I'll get back from a ride and realize I didn't have a weapon. Or, gods—” She groaned. “I’m alone with people all the time. And I just think about how disappointed you’d all be with me if you knew. I know Dion already is.”

“Never, Cyr,” Bron said firmly. “You’re twenty-one . You shouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time. We shouldn’t be putting you in situations where those are the things you worry about. You should be worried about having fun, dove. Living a little.”

Cyril eyed him warily.

“I’m dead serious. Go get hammered on solstice and dance in the grass until the sun comes up. Hells, get handsy with the prince if that’s what you really want.” He raised his brow at her, and Cyril felt her cheeks warm. This would be where their conversation ended up. “But only if that’s what you want. If it’s not, and he touches you again, I’ll break his fucking hands.”

“You don't need to break anyone’s hands,” she groaned.

“The offer will always stand, dove.” There was a glint in his green eyes that Cyril knew meant he would enjoy every moment if it came to that. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. “And, above all that, never let some fear of disappointing us cloud your decisions or take away from your happiness. We will always be proud of you and love you, and there are no clauses to that. No ifs or buts. Really, I think we’d just be more proud of you if you did something questionable that one of us hasn’t already done.”

He looked at Cyril and swore quietly.

She hadn’t been able to stop the tears that rimmed her eyes at an alarming speed, or the couple that escaped down her cheeks.

“Shit, Cyr, I didn’t mean to—”

Cyril waved him off. She scrubbed at her face as she said, “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just…thank you.”

“Of course, dove.” Bron studied her for a long minute with that sad, empathetic smile on his face before he stood and extended his hand to her. “As much as I’d be happy to sit out here all night with you, we should get back to the inn before Dion gets his fucking panties in a twist. He was pissy enough as it was this morning.”

“He was?”

Cyril took Bron’s hand and tried to subtly brush all the pastry crumbs off her legs as she stood. She hadn’t seen Dion much this morning, truthfully, before they all left, but he seemed his usual amount of…grumpy?

“He was in a right foul mood,” Bron scoffed as he slung his arm across her shoulders and steered her back towards the street. “I didn’t stick around long enough to figure out what about.”

“He got back pretty late last night. This morning, technically, I guess.”

It was the only thing she could think of.

She’d been sound asleep herself when the squeal of hinges woke her up and boots thudding against the floor in Dion’s room kept her up for the next half an hour. Not something she was overly impressed with in the wee hours of the morning.

Bron cast her a sidelong glance. “He went out last night?”

“After he walked me to my room. Said he had things to deal with. ” Her poor impression of her uncle’s smooth tone at least drew a huff of a laugh from Bron. “I thought he was with you guys.”

“No. No, he wasn’t. It was just Ren and I doing the…questioning last night.” Bron pursed his lips and shook his head. Questioning —she knew what that meant. Confirmation that the dark spots on his boots were just what she thought they were. “It’s no matter now, though.”

Cyril didn't push it with him, even though it did matter to her—another one of Dion's damn hypocrite tendencies.

He expected to know everyone’s whereabouts at every fucking point in time, and there was hells to pay if he didn’t. But if someone questioned his whereabouts? Gods.

It wasn’t a pretty thing when that happened.

“Are you having any luck with…questioning?” she asked.

The sigh that left Bron was telling.

“Not as much as I would have hoped given the, well…” He gave Cyril a tight smile. “ Effort we’ve been putting in.”

“Oh,” Cyril said.

She knew exactly what effort meant too, and she wasn’t about to push him any further on that.

Bron’s hand, draped over the top of her shoulder, drifted into her periphery, and Cyril focused on that instead of the frustration bubbling up in her about fucking everything .

She traced the outline of the rising sun tattoo occupying the space between his thumb and forefinger—the mark of merit that rogues of Helia wore. Dion, Ren, Tyr, and most of the others each had their own somewhere on their bodies.

The number and pattern of dots and lines apparently allowed them to identify one another, but it was another one of those many little secrets kept from her.

“Do you think Dion would ever let me get one?” she asked.

Bron flexed his fingers and cast her a wary glance.

“Do I think Dion would ever let his perfect, beautiful little niece do anything to mar herself permanently?” He raised his brow at her. “No, I don’t. But I do think if you asked Ren nicely enough, he’d do it for you, anyway. Dion be damned.”

Cyril’s lips parted and her eyes went wide. “You think he would?”

“I do. But don’t be running up to him asking him to do it tonight, dove.” Her shoulders sagged. It felt like Bron was right inside her head sometimes. “Wait until we’ve made it through this contract in one piece. I’m sure he’d be happy to do it then.”

Cyril pouted a little, but that was something she could do.