57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

C yril was going to die here, afraid and alone, and freezing , in this filthy pit of a cellar.

Just another abrupt dead end of the Rhodea family tree.

And, truthfully? The thought of Dion finding her here like this, broken and bled out to the whims of her stupidity, hurt more than she ever thought possible.

Even after everything, she didn’t want that for him.

But by the time Mikael and the others realized she hadn’t made it to their rendezvous spot… Those were hours she just didn’t have.

Whatever happened to her body down here, whatever surge of blinding adrenaline pushed her beyond limits she could not comprehend, it drained her completely. That usual thrum of life beneath her skin, the dull buzz of fae strength that always simmered through her being? It was gone, and the quiet it left was deafening.

The damp, decay-laced air filling every crumbling corner of the cellar sat heavy in Cyril’s lungs, and every breath she struggled to draw sent an ache of pain through her side. She tried to grip the gaping wound, to put some kind of pressure on it, but her fingers were stiff and her body was shaking and it had become just too hard to care.

Every little shift of her body sent more blood weeping out of her wounds, little rushes of warmth before the painful cold set back in. Even if she tried to move again, she’d never make it up the stairs with her leg mangled like it was.

Cyril’s head settled against the rotted wooden post that provided her only means of support, and she swallowed down the bitter, metallic taste in her mouth.

This…

This was it.

The bloody massacre painted on every surface of the room slipped from focus as a dark haze settled in the edges of her vision, her eyes drifting of their own free will. The flames in the sconces flickered a bit more dimly now, too.

If luck deigned to toss her a favor for once, death would come on swift wings.

Or, in the more likely case, the hours Cyril had left would be lonely and cold, and full of thoughts that would bring her no comfort.

Cyril wanted to go home .

She missed her cobbled-together family.

She missed the great hall, and her bed, and the apple trees.

She missed…Dion, more than she ever thought she could, or should.

Would he even bring her ashes back to Helia, and lay her to rest with her parents?

And Attie? Fuck. The poor horse.

Would she think Cyril just up and abandoned her, after every ride and adventure they’d taken in these abysmal months?

Gods, how long until Mi—

Thump. Thump.

Cyril huffed a sad mockery of a laugh.

Death would see fit to play one last act of cruelty on her. Fool her ears into thinking someone would really pull her out of this fucking hellhole.

Thump. Thump.

Bang.

Her eyes drifted shut, hand dropping from her side to the gritty, blood-soaked stone below. This fool’s hope of her mind was not something she’d let herself entertain.

Cyril was so…tired.

Icy pinpricks clawed up her fingers and arms, and her legs felt like nothing but dead weight. She was ready for this to be over, ready to yield, ready to find out if there was anything after.

Thump. Thump.

“ Cyril?!”

Cyril’s eyes flew open.

No. No, there was no fucking way that—

“Cyril?” The echoing voice—no, voices —sounded like they were getting closer. Like she could almost hear the scrape of boots on crumbled stones. “Cyril? Are you down here?”

That voice. It was so familiar.

A choked, broken noise left her lips. It was cruel of death to play her like this, but the footsteps and commotion kept getting louder.

Closer .

The cellar flooded with a blistering light that had Cyril groaning in discomfort, winking out a moment later

“Cyril? Oh, thank the fucking gods.” That voice carried so much relief. “Are you—oh fuck. Fuck .”

Her eyes drifted up, and she sobbed.

Gunner.

“Gods fucking dammit— Ari ?!” he shouted back out the door. “She’s down here.”

He dropped to his knees beside Cyril and started prodding her—lifting her arms, shifting her leg, tugging her blouse around through all the dirt and gore. She could only grit her teeth through the pain.

“ Shit , Cyril. How long have you been here?”

“I-I…don’t—” Cyril hissed through her teeth.

Gunner started tearing away at her already ragged pants, bearing the full length of the wound on her thigh, and it sent bolts of fucking agony up her leg.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said, possibly more to himself than anything else. “I-I’m sorry Cyril, this is going to really fucking hurt, okay? But we need to close this up, stop the bleeding.”

Cyril groaned. Everything already really fucking hurt .

Gunner cast her an appraising glance, a flicker of empathy in his eyes before he tugged off his leather gloves. He stacked them together and held them up to Cyril’s mouth. “Bite down on these, okay?”

Cyril obliged, even as the sour taste of bile climbed up her throat.

A quiet curse and an “I’m sorry, Cyril” was all the warning Gunner gave her before his hands touched her wound and a blast of flame rolled off of them.

A ragged cry left her lungs as skin and blood and gods knows what else sizzled, and the acrid smell of her burning flesh filled the air. The searing, aching pain radiated straight down to her bones.

Gunner apologized over and over as he lifted his hands, but the burning wouldn’t fucking stop .

She had little control over the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she sobbed quietly, the gloves between her teeth dropping to the floor.

“I know, I know. Fuck. We’re almost done, alright? Just one more.” Gunner eased up the side of her blouse, the warmth of his fingers almost painful against her skin, but Cyril pushed at him with every bit of her fleeting might.

“No more,” she whispered harshly. “I can’t …”

Gunner didn’t move away from her.

“ Please Cyril,” he sighed, “I know it’s bad, I know—oh thank fuck , there you are.”

Hurried footsteps crunching on gravel came to an abrupt stop.

Cyril tilted her head towards the doorway and, through the tears half-clouding her vision, there stood Ari.

The horror on his face was unmistakable.

The blood, the bodies. Their massacred men.

Ari looked at them suddenly, as if he only just processed the words Gunner said. “What—what can I do?”

“Just hold her steady while I cauterize her side.” Gunner tugged up her blouse again and Cyril whined. She didn’t have any strength left to fight him. “Then fly as fast as you fucking can for Wren. She’s been bleeding out down here for gods fucking knows how long.”

Ari was already moving before Gunner even finished, kneeling at her other side and easing Cyril towards him. He took one of her battered and bloody hands in his, splaying his other across her shoulders.

It felt infinitely worse the second time around.

The captain’s chest dampened her ragged, raw cries as the flames seared her skin again. Desperate for something to tether herself to, Cyril’s fingers grappled with Ari’s uniform, but she was already being pulled away from him and leaned back against the wall.

“Just get Wren,” Gunner said to Ari, “and I’ll keep her comfortable.”

Cyril’s eyes slipped shut as the sound of the captain’s heavy footsteps trailed out of the cellar. She wasn’t sure if she was going to pass out or puke, but Gunner just wouldn’t give her a fucking break.

He tipped her head back, pressing something smooth and cold to her lips as he said, “Now I need you to drink this for me, Cyril. It’s not much, but it’ll help your pain a bit, maybe stop some of the bleeding.”

The sharp, pine-like scent that filled her nose was something she wanted little to do with, but Gunner squeezed her jaw open and tipped it back into her mouth. For a moment, its sharp taste broke through the metallic tang of stale copper, making the coughing and sputtering it took to get it down worth it.

Coolness slid down her throat, and Cyril’s searing pain ebbed almost immediately, settling into a dull sort of ache that pulsed throughout her. Pressing her palms into the ground, she tried to shift, but she couldn’t move her damn body.

She was tired, so tired , and just wanted to lie down.

Preferably somewhere that wasn’t stone soaked in blood and gore and gods only know what else.

“Cyril. Look at me.” Two hands, warm and broad, gripped her face. Gunner’s pale green gaze sat level with hers when she fought to open her own eyes. “I need you to stay awake, okay? Just for a little while longer.”

“I’m so tired,” she rasped.

“I know, I know. And that's going to get worse before it gets better, okay?” He pushed her hair back from her face, a futile attempt with the blood-crusted mess it was. “So why don’t you tell me about Helia?”

“Why?” Cyril sighed—Gunner and his damn questions.

Most nights at the barracks he had at least a half-dozen ready for her, even more if Mikael was still working, and she was sure he’d already asked her about Helia more than once.

“I’ve never been there, and I don’t know much about it,” he said. “Where in Helia did you grow up?”

“The guild.”

“Right, of course you did. Remind me, was the guild house in a city, or—?”

Cyril shook her head. “The country.”

“Okay. And is it just one big house, or lots of little buildings?”

For longer than Cyril could keep track of, Gunner asked her questions about her home. The lands. The people. The food. The women even.

And for each thoughtful question, Cyril fought to muster up a meager answer.

More shakes and nods of her head than words as they went on, and Cyril couldn’t fight the pulling undertow of exhaustion anymore. Gunner squeezed her hands, even pinched her and patted her cheeks, when she struggled to answer him.

She was cold again, unbearably so, and even the jacket he wrapped around her did nothing to stave off the tremor that set into her limbs.

“Just a bit longer, okay?” he said when she made a quiet noise of discomfort.

Those same words had come out of his mouth so many times now that Cyril was certain no one was coming for them.

Gunner was rubbing some warmth into her hands when the building above them boomed and shuttered. She could only watch, helpless, as he eased away from her. His hand came to rest on the blades strapped across his chest, and he turned his ear to the door.

The booming echo settled into the sound of footsteps—dozens, or hundreds, maybe—and then came the sounds that made Cyril’s chest ache as she held back a sob.

“Gunner?! Cyril?!” A brief, agonizing pause. “Where the fuck is she?”

It was Mikael.

He came for them, came for her .

Gunner sagged with relief and stuck his head out into the hall, shouting something up the stairs that she was too distraught to make out.

That raucous commotion that traveled above them moved closer and closer, becoming so loud her ears rang until the sound flooded into the hallway outside. She could hear Mika’s voice commanding, directing, issuing orders.

It was then that a glimmer of stark reality clawed into the back of her mind.

Five people were dead in this room.

Three tragic, senseless deaths. Another two by her own hand.

And now Mika was going to see it all. See his men, slaughtered and—

“Mika… H-he can’t—” A vicious cough rattled her lungs and the tang of copper filled her mouth. “Don’t let him…”

It was too late.

Mika’s lean frame, still dressed in the black and blue of his finery, filled the doorway. There was not a trace of color left in his skin.

Cyril sobbed his name.