4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

W ith their dried rations stored for the morning, Cyril headed back to where Dion had settled on a folded bedroll in front of the fire to clean his blades.

His eyes darted up to her, a flicker of gold in the cave’s dim firelight as she bit out a string of curses and settled down beside him.

“Is that so?” Dion chuckled.

“I’m sore,” Cyril sighed.

She let her head roll back against the cave wall with a groan. No matter how much she shifted or stretched, she couldn’t get any damn relief. Agony was a better word to describe what she felt, the dull twinges up her spine having settled into a persistent, throbbing pain.

“Your back?”

Dion didn’t bother to look up again from the blade he polished. The warm, orange glow of the firelight bounced off it as he tipped it this way and that, searching for flaws like the perfectionist he was.

“Yeah. I don’t know how you all seem fine. I’m not sure I’ll make it the rest of the way,” Cyril grumbled.

Dion chuckled, the insufferable arse.

“Ask Bron to wrap your back in the morning. He’s the best at it, and it’ll make a world of difference.” Dion tossed a glance in her direction before he started packing his supplies.

He slipped his blades back into their leather sheaths—near identical matches to the ones Cyril wore on her thighs—and tucked the cloth and oil back into a drawstring pouch. Not that there was much point in Cyril bearing her own weapons, with the zero opportunities Dion presented her with using them. Gods forbid Cyril and the possibility of danger ever be allowed to coexist.

“As for the rest of us,” he continued, leaning back and stretching his legs towards the fire, “it’s just experience and how we’re built, Cyr. We’ve spent a long fucking time putting our bodies through much worse.”

She knew it was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Just another way that she would always be inferior. No fire in her veins. No hundred and some years of training. No finely honed body of a fae male.

This entire trip was proving to be one long, painful reminder of it all.

Dion eyed Cyril warily.

“You know, you’ve done an abysmal job getting any information out of me about Reykr,” he said finally, and Cyril blinked. “Ask me something.”

She scoffed.

“What happened to not wasting my breath convincing you otherwise , hm?”

“I meant them”—Dion waved vaguely at the others, mulling about the other half of the cave—“and not you. They’re a lost cause, but there is still hope for you. So go on, ask me something.”

Cyril struggled to suppress a laugh.

Fae men were always quick to accuse women of never being able to make up their minds about things, but Dion was worse than most of the women she’d met combined. He was the living, breathing embodiment of consistent inconsistency, but gods forbid anyone ever tell him that.

Still, it wasn’t an opportunity to squander. Cyril had no short few things she wanted to know about the blood-sucking freaks.

“Who do you know in Reykr?” she asked. “You never explained your old ties or why they hired us.”

“I go back a long way with Lars and Runa Kallan,” he said, as if that meant anything to her. Dion let her blank stare hang before he added, “More commonly known as Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Reykr.”

Oh .

Fucking hells, that shed a little light on the situation.

“So, you just casually know a king and queen?”

Dion nodded, and Cyril knew she had to pick her questions with care now. She had no shortage of unsavory curiosities about the king and queen of such notorious people, but hesitated ever so slightly before asking, “What are they like?”

It was a monumental task to stuff down the urge to insinuate they must be the tolerant sort if they can put up with her uncle for any period. Truthfully, though, Cyril was more concerned with the stuffy formalities that awaited her, if her time spent with the nobility of the south taught her much…

“I would prefer you form your own opinions, based on your own experiences with them…” Dion looked over at her, brow raised.

Point taken.

“Runa is lovely,” he continued. “She fusses endlessly over everyone. Warmer, and more free-spirited than you’d expect from her position. I just never wish to be on the receiving end of her ire.”

Dion blew out a breath, and it took effort to school the surprise in Cyril’s face. She was certain her uncle had never said so many complementary things about a single person in one go.

“And Lars, well…” Dion sighed in a foreign, wistful sort of way. “His duties don’t allow him to be as casual day-to-day, but he still detests unnecessary displays of decorum. And the man has one hells of a bawdy sense of humor once you get him liquored.”

Cyril cast him a wary, side-long glance before closing her eyes.

Dion liked these people. Truly, it seemed, and she wasn’t sure why it made her feel so uneasy.

“I’m not entirely convinced that you aren’t making this all up,” she said, and she did not need her vision to know Dion rolled his eyes at her.

“I’m flattered you think I’m that creative, kiddo, but you know as well as I do I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. Lars and Runa are good people, and you’ll see that when you meet them and their boys.”

Cyril blinked and looked over at Dion.

“ Boys ? As in, more than one?”

He nodded. “Two. Both men now, I suppose. Not boys.”

For a fae couple to have even one child? A blessing. But two ? Exceptionally rare, and just one of the many prices they paid for their lengthy life spans.

“And let me guess.” Cyril forced an unimpressed sigh. “They are two of the most outstanding men you’ve ever met?”

Dion laughed dryly.

“Funny, Cyr. I know it may come as a shock, but children raised by loving, level-headed parents often turn out alright.”

Of course her uncle would find a way to turn someone else's praise into a backhanded comment about her. Gods forbid they manage more than a day or two without a sharp stab of a reminder of the loving, level-headed parents she was robbed of. She was regretting this conversation already.

“Like I’d know,” Cyril muttered.

Dion ignored that.

“Astor is their oldest. Quiet, academic, well-mannered. Everything you could want in a crown prince, really. And his wife, Reyna, is much the same as…”

King. Queen. Crown prince. This all felt fucking weird.

“…and then they had Mikael. He’s a bit older than you, but I haven’t seen him since he was maybe ten or twelve. Complete opposite of Astor, though. Poor Runa couldn’t get him to sit down with a book to save her life. He was nothing but brute force…”

To hear Dion speak with such fondness for people she didn’t even know made her chest tight. And she couldn't be certain if it was that or the fact that Dion never spoke of her in such a way that made it hard to breathe.

“…Cyril, are you listening?”

Shit .

Cyril picked at her nails. “I’m just tired.”

That much was true. Heaviness tugged on every fiber of her being, but it was an excuse Dion would have no patience for. He opened his mouth—to scold her, no doubt—but Cyril cut in before he had a chance.

“You stopped going to see them all because of me?”

Dion sighed through his nose, and tension flickered in his jaw. She was treading dangerous water now, but that pull was too strong to resist.

“What are you getting at?” he asked slowly.

Bron and Ren watched them with caution from across the fire, where they had just settled onto their own bedrolls.

Just in time.

“Do I owe you an apology? For ripping you away from the people that evidently made you far happier than we ever seem to?” Dion cursed under his breath but Cyril’s blood ran hot, and she continued, “It’s not like it’s a well-kept secret that my entire existence has been a burden to your lifestyle , but I hadn’t realized—”

Cyril choked on her words as Dion gripped her by the arm and wrenched her up to her feet. She couldn’t suppress the whine that left her as pain lanced up her back.

“Dion, that hurts —”

Ren issued a low warning of Dion’s name as he rose, Bron only a second behind him.

“Not another fucking word from you tonight,” Dion growled, his eyes lit with fury as he shoved her away. The cragged stone bit into her shoulder with enough force that Cyril knew she’d bruise, but she could only stare at Dion in disbelief as he bit out, “You’re taking the first watch with Tyriel. Go .”

Shouting broke out behind her, but it didn’t register as much more than muffled noises over the frantic pounding of her heart. She staggered toward the cave’s opening. Attie nuzzled her as she passed, but Cyril just kept walking.

If it wasn’t for Tyr grabbing her and forcing her down onto the pack he’d just occupied, Cyril may have very well wandered straight out into the rift.

Truthfully, it might have been the best for all of them if she had.

Her hands shook so badly she didn’t know what to do with them, where to put them. A sour, sick feeling crept up her throat that she struggled to swallow down in a painful lump.

Dion had never…

They’d argued and screamed, and slammed doors, but he…

“Dove, breathe,” Tyr murmured, and a shaky rush of air filled her lungs.

It left her with a quiet sob.

Tyriel sat down beside Cyril, putting himself between her and the roiling echo of arguing still spilling out from deeper in the cave. He splayed his hand over her back, rubbing slow, soothing circles as Cyril drew her knees up and tucked her head down. Tyr could see her unravel, but she would never give Dion the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

The pack Cyril dozed off on shifted suddenly and her eyes shot open.

Dion.

She wasn’t sure when Tyriel let her fall asleep, or what shift of watch they were on now, but seeing Dion sit down beside her was not what she wanted to wake up to.

More often than not, he’d come back after they fought and slammed doors in each other’s faces, but she could never be sure if he was coming back for a second round or for a half-assed patch up.

Cyril assessed the softness in the golden eyes that studied her, and the prominent slouch in his usually refined posture.

Half-assed patch up it was.

“I never should have grabbed you like that. Never. I just…” Dion sighed and slumped back against the wall. He scrubbed his palms over his face. “When you say shit like that, it strikes a fucking nerve, Cyr.”

Cyril knew it did.

She knew exactly how to provoke him to incite the most explosive reaction, and she always had known. As for why she always felt so inclined to do so, well…that wasn’t something either of them likely ever wanted to unpack.

Cyril rested her head against his shoulder.

“It’s alright.”

It had to be.

Cyril didn’t have another option. She had no place to run to or person to turn to if it wasn’t alright. All she had was Dion, and…it had to be alright.

She felt Dion sigh as he leaned his head on top of hers.

“You know I love you more than anything.” He drew out that last word like it had some meaning. “And you have never been a burden to me. Ever.”

Debatable, but Cyril didn’t feel like arguing anymore. She’d let Dion speak his piece, if only because it wouldn’t end well otherwise.

“I’ll admit, our situation isn’t exactly…usual.” Dion breathed a laugh that held little humor. “And yes, my lifestyle changed drastically after, well, everything . But that does not mean for a moment that I never wanted you around. I always have, and I always will.”

Dion was never so generous with his sentimental words. Cyril almost wanted to believe he felt an ounce of remorse for the earlier…incident. She would take what she could, anything to lessen the tension between them even a bit for the back half of their trip.

“I know,” she said quietly, and Dion eased his arm around her, rubbing the shoulder that ached from her collision with the cave wall.

“Go get some sleep, kiddo. We’ll be leaving in a few hours and our next day of riding won’t be easy.”

Even though it pained her to admit, Cyril was almost looking forward to making it to the palace. If only it meant she could spend a few days not being bumped around on the back of a horse.

Turned out Dion was right about one thing.

Bron had a knack for wrapping backs and Cyril was annoyed that no one thought to make mention of his handy little skill set sooner. Like, as soon as they left the estate.

They were halfway through the day and the thick cloth he bound around her lower back did wonders at easing the jarring jolts of pain she suffered through the days past. Not perfect by any means, but tolerable. Bron was even kind enough to dig out an extra blanket to pad his delicate little dove’s saddle with when she grumbled about how numb her ass still was.

All boons that Cyril would take, because Dion had not been kidding when he said their ride wouldn’t be easy today.

Ever since she and her cabal of uncles set out at dawn’s first light, a frigid, moisture-laced wind howled down the mountain channel at them from Reykr’s end of the rift. Where the bend in the passage had provided a welcome barrier to the elements the day before, today it only trapped and swirled the frosty gale right back at them from behind.

Cyril donned every damn bit of layers she’d packed in her saddlebag, and was naught but a strip of pale skin and golden eyes peering out from her hood by the time they departed. Of course, the weather hadn’t fussed her uncles.

It was laughable how fast Cyril had gone from dreading this entire trip to being eager to make it to the palace, if only for the worldly comforts she might have access to again.

The dried rations of jerky and fruit that made up their breakfast had been the furthest thing from satisfying, and Cyril hadn’t the gall to tell Dion she accidentally chugged back the rest of her waterskin when she was half asleep. Despite the abysmal turn of their evening, he seemed in good spirits today, and Cyril was determined to not ruffle that. She just had to hope they’d find a creek sooner rather than later.

As they rode, the howl of the wind left little room for conversation. So Cyril preoccupied herself in the best way she knew, and she let her eyes wander, studying the veining of obsidian through the rift.

In the absence of glittering sunlight, the veining looked like enormous splotches of wet ink on gray parchment, with grand sweeping whorls shooting out from them in all directions. Whorls that sometimes tapered and slipped away into nothing, while others expanded, warping and bursting into jagged bolts of black lightning.

Cyril decided, after countless hours, that she loved those bolts the most. They gave her a faint, yet warm, reminder of home.

Wicked and sweeping thunderstorms rolled through Helia’s southern flatlands often in the late summer and, ever since she could remember, Dion would always drag her outside to watch them. The covered terrace at the back of the estate often served as their impromptu theater box, or the stables did if they felt like braving a run in the rain to get to them.

Sometimes, they would spend hours out there. Just watching and listening as brilliant flashes of lightning tore through the sky and the thunder rattled everything around them, and it was something she realized might not happen at all this summer.

Cyril heard Reykr could be a wet and harshly cold place, especially compared to what she was accustomed to in Helia. But she hadn’t the faintest clue if they experienced the same sort of storms that rolled through to the south of the mountains. Not like Dion bothered to tell her much of anything useful about the damn place.

Maybe once they cleared the rift and these brutal winds, she could ask him what summer in Reykr would be like, and if the jagged veins of obsidian reminded him of anything from—

A petulant snort left Attie as she came to a jarring stop behind Dion’s horse. Cyril cursed as a twinge of pain ran up her spine.

“Daydreaming?” her uncle chuckled.

“I…”

Cyril’s rebuttal dissipated.

They had reached the end of the rift.

And, gods …

Dion grinned back at her as he said, “Welcome to Reykr.”