25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

O f no surprise to anyone, Dion was in a miserable mood when Cyril and Bron got back to the inn. The sun had barely set, but he argued it was irresponsible of Bron to keep Cyril out in the streets after dark . Like they’d been waving around gold coins and wandering shady alleyways in the middle of the night or something.

Neither she nor Bron bothered fighting with him about it.

Instead, they sat around one of the taproom tables and drank pints of lukewarm ale in fucking awkward silence before everyone broke away to turn in for the night.

Cyril’s door barely latched shut when Dion knocked once and opened it.

Standing in the middle of her cramped lodgings, she sighed. The last person she wanted to deal with right now.

“What?”

“ What ?” Dion scoffed. Clearly Cyril never had the right to be annoyed with him about anything. “Pack your shit up in the morning. We’re heading back after breakfast.”

She narrowed her eyes at Dion. “All of us?”

“Just you and I, we aren’t needed here anymore.”

Cyril barely suppressed her laugh. Like they even needed her here to begin with. Like they ever needed her anywhere .

“Do not sleep in,” Dion added, half his body already out the door.

Oh, her uncle was in a hurry. And he wasn’t wearing that jacket when they were downstairs minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he said and pulled her door shut. His footfalls echoed down the hall.

“Fucking arse,” Cyril grumbled.

She didn’t care if Dion heard her. He clearly didn't, though, because her door stayed firmly mounted on its hinges.

Wherever Dion went, it was hours before he came back.

Hours that Cyril spent lying in bed at first, then tossing and turning, stewing in her disdain. Stewing in her disbelief that even a world away from home, Dion was still finding ways to smother her. To keep her caged. The same man who, only days ago, was ready to cut her loose on her own in Reykr.

The dichotomy was sickening.

But it was during that fitful attempt at sleep that the most abrupt realization crossed Cyril’s mind.

She could leave.

She could get out of bed, throw her shit in a bag, and walk out of the inn.

No one would stop her in the middle of the night.

Not that she knew where she would even go, but she could leave .

She’d intended to use the gold coins stashed in her bag for a bit of city shopping, should the opportunity present itself, but they could also take her somewhere.

Anywhere.

One of the cargo ships docked at the far end of the bay would surely be willing to accept a stowaway with a flash of gold.

Her dream died, though, before it had a full breath of life.

When Cyril finally worked up the nerve to get out of bed and stuff half her clothes into her travel bag, footfalls echoed down the hall.

She froze, waiting.

The hinges of a door squealed and that heavy thud of boots continued into the room next to hers—Dion’s room.

Her bravery fizzled, and Cyril sank onto her bed.

Even though Dion would never admit it, their sleeping assignments were purposeful. Tyr, Bron, and Ren all had rooms nearest to the stairwell, to make their comings and goings as convenient as possible.

Cyril though?

The dead end of the hall, tucked right next to Dion’s room. Meaning she’d have to traverse the rickety, creaky floorboards right past her uncle’s room with her damn travel bag if she wanted to get out. There wasn’t a hope in the hells of her not rousing Dion’s attention, and that was not the sort of confrontation she was confident she could endure.

She opted to lay wide awake in bed and stew for another few hours instead.

When the first rays of morning light struggled to break through the cloudy, grime-coated window, she slipped out to the women’s bathing chamber across the hall. By the time Cyril washed and dressed and packed up the rest of her belongings, the inn was just beginning to stir to life.

One of the young, soft-spoken barmaids in the taproom brought Cyril a mug of tea and a couple of oven-fresh buns with berry jam—which she refused any damn payment for—and left her to wait in silence.

For two fucking hours.

Surprise graced Dion’s evidently wrung-out features when he finally carried his intolerable arse down the stairs.

“Should we just get on the road now, or…?” Dion didn’t bother setting down the travel bag slung over his shoulder when he came to a stop beside Cyril’s table. He cast a single, cursory glance around the lifeless taproom before he turned his attention back to her.

“I’d love that.” Cyril failed at tempering her tone into anything other than fucking annoyed as she gathered up her bag and stepped past Dion.

Fresh air would do her some good, right?

The cool morning breeze that—

“How long have you been down here?”

She glanced back at him. “Hours.”

“Cyr,” Dion sighed, “You could have come and—”

“It’s fine.”

Waking up Dion was not something she made a habit out of doing, ever . More often than not, he was up before her anyway, but on the rare chance that he wasn’t…Cyril knew better than to go knocking.

She had zero interest in seeing who might come stumbling out with him.

Cyril made it all of three steps outside the door—into the muggy and not-at-all-refreshing air—before Dion planted a hand on her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. His tired, tarnished gold eyes scoured her face.

“What is your problem?”

“Nothing.” She ducked out of his grasp and kept walking down the street to where the stables sat tucked behind the inn. “I just want to go.”

Dion said nothing.

Cyril didn't bother to look back and check if he was pissed off or not. He probably was, and she didn’t care. He came into the stables a few steps behind her, paid the half-awake stable hand, and did not utter a single word to Cyril as they saddled and packed up.

They spent the entire ride back in tense silence.

Dion brooded so far ahead of her on the road that she wasn’t sure he’d notice if she just led Attie into the woods and left.

Not that she wanted to risk that today.

Dion didn't bother speaking to her until after they dropped off the horses at the royal stables, and she wished he hadn’t.

In the bright and airy atrium, abuzz with morning activity, he turned to her and said with no amount of gentleness, “I’d highly recommend you get your attitude in check before Summer Solstice.”

Cyril stared at him, stalled dead in her tracks.

Was that a threat ?

Not like it would be the first time he held the prospect of barring her from celebrating as a behavioral condition. Cyril was fifteen the last time he tried, and it didn’t end well. She climbed out of her bedroom window and down to a second-floor balcony before she lost her footing on a drainpipe. She woke up hours later in Dion’s office with a hell of a sore back and confirmation that her bones would not break.

Cyril’s lips parted to fucking dare Dion to try locking her down, but she held her tongue, and it killed her.

The smirk that peeled across his face had Cyril balling her fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms.

“Smart choice,” he added, before turning and sauntering away in that infuriating, cocky way of his. Like the floors should be grateful he deigned to walk on them.

And Cyril?

She just stood there.

In the middle of the atrium.

Positively fuming .

She didn’t trust her own feet not to charge after Dion if she untethered them.

So she let everyone bustling about the atrium weave their way around her, their scoffs and sighs and dirty looks be damned. She fixed her eyes on a floral tapestry hung above an unoccupied seating alcove and she breathed, willing her heart to slow its pace.

“Uh…Cyril?”

She blinked—Kaia.

The guards woman ambled over from the open main doors, a glimmer of amusement lighting up her hazel eyes. She stopped beside Cyril, hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword, and said, “Just hanging out there with your bag, or…?”

Cyril gave Kaia a meek smile.

How fucking embarrassing.

“No, I just got back, and I…needed a minute.”

“I see that.” Kaia’s appraising gaze swept from Cyril to her bag and back. She tipped her head. “Why aren’t you on the hunt?”

“What hunt?”

“The solstice hunt? Did you not—” Kaia pursed her lips. “Mikael said his mother invited you all to go with them.”

“I had no idea.” The disappointing likelihood of why she had no idea about this hunt had her anger stirring to life again. Still, Cyril asked, “When did it start?”

“Oh, they all left yesterday afternoon. The family and their fancy guests”—Kaia waved her hand flippantly, oblivious to the turmoil that coursed through Cyril—“hunt all the game that we’ll eat on solstice night. They won’t be back until the morning of. It’s a shame that you didn’t get to go. It’s quite a production with the camp they set up for the guests.”

Fucking Dion.

“Sounds like it.” Cyril didn’t bother to mask the disappointment in her voice, and Kaia’s smile was empathetic.

“Well, I’m late for my meeting now.” She inclined her head across the atrium to where Captain Ari leaned against the wall. He waved, but did not look pleased. “Don’t be a stranger! I know His Highness isn’t around for you to kick his ass again, but you’re welcome to come down to the barracks if you have some free time.”

As much as Cyril appreciated the sentiment, if she was going to spend time at the barracks, it would be solely to get under Dion’s skin. But she needed the arrogant prince to be there for that, and for…

Well, there were other reasons, but she didn’t want to acknowledge that little kernel of interest right at this moment.

“I appreciate that. Thanks Kaia.”

Kaia offered her a grin and a half-assed curtsy before she went to join Ari and the two of them slipped down a hall to the royal offices.

Three days until Summer Solstice.

Three days that Cyril had to focus on keeping herself busy, and then she could indulge in a bit of fun. It was a good thing the archives were well stocked, and she had no shortage of research to do on purist uprisings in Reykr.

Dion be damned. Cyril would make herself useful.