26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

C yril finished pulling the laces closed on the front of her bodice and twirled half a step in front of the tall mirror in her bathroom.

Things went so much better when she dressed herself.

The evening of Summer Solstice had finally arrived, and she picked a tried-and-true ensemble brought right from Helia—a minty-green dress with a fitted bodice, flowing skirt, and sheer sleeves that ended at her wrists in gold-embroidered cuffs. Simple, easy to maneuver in, and most of all? Comfortable .

She kept her hair and makeup simple too.

A hint of kohl around her eyes, a dab of rouge on her cheekbones, and she left her hair down. It desperately needed a break from the tight braid it’d spent the last three days living in while she wasted away in the archives.

Just once more—for good measure, not because she was preening—she ran a brush through her hair, from the crown of her head straight down to her waist, before she ran out to meet Dion and Runa where they waited in the hall.

Cyril hadn’t even shut her door all the way when Runa swept over, crooning, “Oh, you look lovely , sweetheart.”

The queen looked nothing like the conservative, matronly woman Cyril had grown accustomed to seeing.

A short-sleeved robe of sheer, midnight blue fabric clung to every single one of Runa’s ample curves, dipping to a dangerously low point on her chest. Cyril wasn’t sure if the geometric tattoos climbing up her sternum or her overflowing cleavage were more distracting.

“Thank you,” she said, looking Runa directly in her silver-blue eyes. “You look lovely as well.”

More like a gods damned vixen, but Cyril wasn’t going there.

“I told you Cyril cleans up nicely on her own,” Dion joked from where he leaned against the wall, looking…the same as usual. Fitted black on fitted black. Clean shaven, at least, and looking like he slept a few hours in recent days.

Runa laughed, and Cyril offered him a tight smile.

He was still bottom of the list of people she wanted to spend time with. They'd kept a safe distance from each other these last three days, and for that, Cyril was fucking grateful, especially because she knew she'd be stuck with him all night.

“Easy with the compliments. I’m still sober,” she grumbled.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll remedy that soon,” Runa chuckled as she linked arms with Cyril, motioning for Dion to take her other side, and led them out of the residential wing.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, Cyril had caught glimmers of the preparations being made for the celebrations out on the back lawns. Tables and chairs being hauled out from gods only know where, platters and linens and even damn pillows being carted out in wooden crates. But nothing quite compared to seeing it all as the sun went down, in the full swing of festivities.

Truthfully? It teetered on overwhelming.

Cyril’s eyes couldn’t settle on a single damn thing for more than a second or two as Runa tugged her and Dion down a sweeping pathway dotted with bobbing fae lights. Staff and revelers darted past them in every direction, with most of the commotion congregating around long tables adorned with flowers and food .

Cyril’s stomach started growling the moment the scent of warmed spices and grilled meat hit her nose.

In the balmy, summer air laced with those wholly delicious smells, came joyous noise too. From raucous laughter and shouting, to whistling and cheering for who knew what. The upbeat notes of a fiddle even carried through it all, though Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea where it came from.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Dion asked, his fond smile a startling thing to see.

“The people…” she breathed.

Decor and pageantry aside, it wasn’t just a party for the palace residents.

The revelers were dressed in garbs of all varieties, from fine silk dresses with jewels to uniforms to threadbare tunics that spoke to humble means, and they all mingled with each other. Passing around platters of food between one another, hugging and laughing, pouring potations and clinking glasses.

It made her heart ache a bit to see the revelry like that.

Solstice was something they did well in Helia, and it reminded her of it so damn much. It was hard to believe she hadn’t been home in over a month.

“Now, before I let the two of you loose…”

With a jarring tug, Runa brought Cyril and Dion over to one of the myriad of tables holding nothing but bottles upon bottles of spirits.

“This is a bit of a solstice tradition”—she picked up a narrow bottle with opalescent glass, uncorked it, and poured three short glasses of the clear liquid within—“that I know Dion is well acquainted with. Lockmead.”

Cyril took her glass for a cursory sniff, and it fucking burned .

Dion had the nerve to laugh at the wary look she gave him and the queen.

“Trust me, it tastes better than it smells. And I know it seems curious to have a drink made of something toxic to us, but there is just enough of a hint of faelock to make you feel good.” Runa’s smile was all pure amusement. “Just don’t overdo it. You’ll have a hell of a night tonight, but you’ll be certain you’ve landed in one of the actual hells tomorrow. Dion can attest to that, I’m sure.”

“I can,” Dion sighed. He shook his head like he just remembered something he seriously wanted to forget, and Cyril couldn’t help but laugh.

Runa laughed before she raised her glass and said, “Happy solstice, you two.”

A clink of three glasses, and Cyril followed the queen’s lead on shooting back her lockmead in one go. Somehow, it was bitter and sweet, and went down like roughed-up silk.

“That’s…” Cyril looked down at her empty glass.

“Dangerous?” Runa chuckled.

Dangerous put it lightly.

She was still looking down at her glass, processing what in the hells she just drank, when Runa added, “I should find my husband before he ends up in the lake or with a weapon. Make sure you both eat and drink your fill, and enjoy yourselves.”

Cyril didn’t even have a chance to ask if those were circumstances Lars often ended up in on the solstice before Runa was hugging and kissing both her and Dion. She vanished into the crowd after saying something to Dion that left him shaking his head.

“Food?” he asked Cyril, and he’d never suggested a better thing.

They grazed a few of the nearly dozen tables laid out, loading their plates with things both familiar from their meals at the palace, and things totally foreign to Cyril before they found a low table with cushions to settle in at.

Between what looked like a distant relative of a smile on Dion’s face and the relative peace they ate in, her uncle almost passed as happy . Like he was pleased with the attitude checking he so politely suggested she do when they got back from Brynnhold.

She would take what she could.

Even when they cleared their plates and got up to wander about the festivities, Dion just shoved a mug of spiced wine in her hand, linked arms with her, and made positively pleasant conversation. The food, the drink and decor, the damn weather .

It made her uneasy as all hell.

“You’ve been here for Summer Solstice a few times, I take it?” Cyril asked Dion as they drifted near a table piled with things that looked far too sweet. His mood seemed decent enough that he might entertain a few of her questions.

“Oh, gods,” he chuckled, “more than a few times, certainly. It’s hard to remember, truthfully, Lars and Runa host parties like this often. And, well, after a hundred-and-some-odd years…”

“It all blends together?”

She knew Dion’s tried and true answer whenever he was asked to recall anything from more than a decade or two ago.

“Something like that.” He smiled, genuinely. “You know, Cyr, I—”

“Dion. Fucking. Rhodea.”

Dion tensed and glanced around, stepping half in front of Cyril as he turned—damn protective asshole.

Cyril didn’t recognize the voice or its moon-fae bearer. But the lithe man approaching them was a shade away from being downright ethereal. He had hair nearly as dark as Cyril’s own, grazing the shoulders of a burgundy tunic so well fitted it looked like it was painted on. His eyes, silver like moonlight, sat locked on Dion.

Double canines gleamed as he grinned at her uncle.

“Well, fuck me…” Dion muttered.

Cyril watched, fascinated, as Dion and the other man embraced each other.

Not a nod of acknowledgment or a firm handshake.

No.

They fucking hugged .

Not an activity Dion usually partook of willingly.

“I heard you might be back on business ,” the man said to Dion with his smooth, honey-like voice, “but I wasn’t sure if I’d—”

His eyes snagged on Cyril and he went deathly still.

“Nevermind you, fuck me . Is that…”

Dion glanced back at her and smiled. He took a step to the side and motioned to her as he said, “My niece. Hector and Malia’s daughter.”

Cyril’s chest ached in a way she had not been prepared for. Dion never said their names, ever . The man just stared at her though, blinking, with a look of disbelief on his face.

Cyril shoved aside that budding discomfort and extended her hand to him. “I’m Cyril, and you are…?”

That shook him out of his stupor.

He took her hand between both of his and, gods, they were soft. No calluses from wielding weapons, or from working hard labor. Nobility it was, then.

With a warm smile, he said, “Luca. It is so, so lovely to meet you, Cyril.”

Well, at least Dion’s friend was polite.

Luca gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he turned his attention back to Dion. He clasped Dion’s shoulder and tipped his head away, saying, “Can I steal you away from your lovely niece for a moment to chat?”

Dion eyed Cyril. “You’ll be alright on your own for a bit?”

“Go ahead.” Cyril schooled her grin into something polite. Dismissing Dion was not something she got to do, well…ever. “I’ll just stay here and eat. It was nice to meet you, Luca.”

Luca pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head before he led a begrudged looking Dion away.

True to her word, Cyril did a few laps of grazing around the amply stocked dessert tables. By the time she’d gorged herself on at least half a dozen miniature cakes layered with berries and cream, and started her second generous mug of wine, she realized Dion was not coming back.

This always happened at parties.

Dion would make some big show of being Cyril’s chaperone, wheel her around for an hour or two, then poof . Gone. Something shiny—and intoxicating, more often than not—would catch his eye, and he wouldn’t surface until morning.

At least it meant she could walk around and people-watch on her own.

She tried, honestly, to sort out a familiar face amongst the crowds—like Kaia, or even Ari and Gunner—but there were too many damn people moving about. The faces all blended into one another, the rumble of noise drowning out any one voice in particular, and Cyril realized her mission was a hopeless one.

Just another damn solstice spent wandering around on her own.

A table of young and bright-eyed mortal men invited her to sit with them, but Cyril politely declined the less than discreet gesturing one of them did at his lap, and she slipped back into the crowds.

She looped all the way back to the tables where Runa had given Cyril her introductory taste of lockmead when she finally found the first group of familiar faces all damn night—the stable staff.

“Lady Cyril!” exclaimed that sweet, beautiful woman whose name still eluded Cyril. “Come and have a drink with us?”

She waved a bottle of lockmead in her hand.

Cyril didn’t hesitate to join them.

The first heavy-handed pour from Boone went down rougher than she would have liked, but the second slid down like nothing.

And the third? Cyril had just raised the glass to her lips when she saw Dion.

Walking back to the palace.

With Luca, and…a woman. A nymph , with long, cherry-red hair.

And they all looked…comfortable.

Handsy.

Cyril shot back the lockmead to suppress the shudder that ran through her.

She was going to need an entire damn bottle to get that image out of her mind.