5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

R eykr was lush and green and beautiful for as far as Cyril’s dry and weary eyes could see. She couldn’t believe they were still in Carinae.

Even with a heavy, milk-white fog obscuring the finer details of her first view of the foreign land, Cyril knew it was unlike anything she had ever laid eyes on.

The tree canopy sprawling in all directions was impossibly dense. Its rich, verdant shades interrupted only by a handful of roads twisting and curving between settlements that rose from the trees and the haze.

Off in the distance that she had to squint almost painfully to see, Cyril could just barely make out what had to be the palace. An expansive compound built of pale stone nestled into a valley, with spires and towers peaking through the fog that settled into the valley floor. At least a few long days away still, if she had to guess.

Back in Northern Helia, they had their fair share of forests and greenery, but where she frolicked as a child seemed like some sort of sad mockery of the landscape laid out before her. At home, the forests were painfully sparse by comparison, and quickly gave way to the plains and grasslands that encompassed most of the other territories of Southern Carinae, the dry and usually hot place that it was.

“It's beautiful, isn’t it?” Dion mused to no one in particular.

Ren and Tyr said nothing, their eyes wandering through neutral masks.

Bron gave a mildly conflicted hmph .

She was supposed to hate Reykr, Cyril reminded herself, as she fought to clamp down on the awe that pulled at her face beneath her cowl.

The moon-fae were lunatics.

Reykr was full of moon-fae.

Reykr was a dangerous place full of lunatics.

Cyril repeated those words to herself for the next few hours as they worked through the cragged descent of the northern face of the Stygias. Just because she found herself weary did not mean she could let her guard down.

Even over the winds that still howled, Cyril could hear the grumbling of her stomach. The itch to dig through her saddlebag for remnants of dried fruit was hard to ignore, tempered only by the amount of effort it took to peel her damn tongue off the roof of her mouth.

With more hospitable terrain so fucking close, she didn’t want to risk anything that might slow them down for a moment, and the I accidentally drank all of my water conversation definitely would have.

One of her uncle’s curses of relief overtook her whimper when their descent finally brought them below the tree canopy. The crude, loose rock beneath them yielded to a mixture of stone and packed earth. Those merciless, high-altitude winds ceased almost entirely, with the temperature settling into something cool but comfortable.

Cyril would have been perfectly happy if they stopped right here and let her sleep in the dirt. The side of the trail looked awfully inviting. But they continued for another short distance until a marker of civilization came into view—gates.

Just as the last ragged remnants of the mountains mixed with trees yielded to the dense forest, the looming steel and stone structure halted their group. Dion seemed unfussed, but her other uncles bitched and grumbled under their breath.

“Dion—” Cyril started, but the grating squeal of metal on metal had her clenching her teeth.

“Lord Rhodea! You made good time. The road treated you well?”

A man wearing a black military uniform with accents of rich royal blue and silver pushed the gate open the rest of the way. The short, neat cut of his sandy-brown hair left the elongated points of his ears well on display, and his eyes were dark enough that she couldn’t quite make out what color they were. A deep green, or hazel maybe.

Whatever they were, Cyril lost every bit of focus when he grinned at Dion.

She knew double canine teeth were a defining trait of the moon-fae—hells, she even had a scaled-down set herself—but she had never seen them on anyone else before. Especially someone who had to be a full-blooded moon-fae. They looked sharp and vicious and left no questions about the blood-drinking Cyril’s governess taught her about.

“Weather cooperated, half-decent riders.” Dion tossed a look back at her and the others. Cyril scoffed. “Our early arrival won't be an issue, I hope?”

“Not at all! I’ll send word to the palace so they are ready for you.”

The guardsman studied the group for a moment before he turned back to Dion.

“In a couple of hours, straight down this road, you’ll want to fall off to your right at a warped, old willow tree. There will be a glen a few dozen feet in that should serve you well for camp tonight. If you leave at first light on the morrow, you’ll be at the palace in two, three days at most.”

Three days at the most . Relief sagged through Cyril’s body.

Part of her wasn’t convinced they would actually make it to the palace when they left their estate…six days ago. Or was it seven? She wasn’t even sure how long they’d been on the road anymore.

“Much appreciated.” Dion inclined his head in thanks.

The guard smiled again and stepped to the side, waving them through with his other hand pressed to his chest. “May the rest of your travels be safe and swift.”

After the days spent traversing the mountains, and a night spent camping in the rift, their first night in Reykr almost felt luxurious. Almost.

They had a roaring fire, a belly full of boar that Dion hunted, and a flowing, freshwater creek nearby.

Nearly three full waterskins later, Cyril had to wander out into the darkness of the trees to relieve herself.

Twice.

Beyond sated and content for the first time in days, fatigue knocked Cyril’s feet right out from under her. She wasn’t sure when she dozed off against Ren in front of the fire, or how long he let her use him as a pillow for, but she only stirred to a minute level of consciousness when he carried her over to her bedroll and tucked her in.

Most of their camp was already packed by the time Cyril woke up the next morning.

She had finished working her hair back into a tight braid and was starting on the sheathes for her knives when Dion approached her. A bundle of rich red fabric sat in his hands.

“Ready to assume the role of Lady Cyril Rhodea?” he asked with a wry smile.

Cyril had forgotten his promise when they departed.

“As soon as I’m done getting these stupid…” Cyril grumbled as she fought with the last strap of her back sheath. Leather on leather was truly a bitch, nevermind the stiff ache lingering in her shoulder that she refused to pay much heed to.

Dion cast her an appraising glance as he shook out the cloak.

“I’m not sure how many young, respectable ladies show up at a foreign court armed to the teeth,” he murmured, tugging the red fabric around her shoulders.

Cyril did not exactly consider two short swords and a few daggers to be armed to the teeth , especially compared to her travel companions. And besides, Dion was always the first to preach about safety, especially on the road.

“There.” Dion pulled the two ends of the fabric together and fastened Cyril’s brooch just above her heart. “That’ll do.”

This brooch had been a gift for her eighteenth birthday from Dion. Several of them were made for her throughout her life as she grew and grew, but always made of thinner metals and colored glass.

A sensible decision, given how prone she was to beating them to hell.

Or simply leaving them places.

Or breaking them in two.

But the one now clasped at her chest was crafted of solid, polished steel and inlaid with fine gemstones. Garnets and rubies and some sort of rare orange jade from the mortal lands, Dion told her when she opened the box that day and gawked at it. Fancy enough that it spent most of its time living locked away with other family heirlooms, only brought out for occasions that her uncle deemed worthy enough.

Like visiting the court of the moon-fae freaks, apparently.

“You almost look respectable.” Dion chuckled and flicked her chin.

She opened her mouth to spit back a snide comment, but a fierce rumble of thunder tore through the sky above them.

Dion looked at her and winced. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Two and a half days of torrential rain accompanied Cyril and her uncles on the last stretch of their journey to the palace. Fitting, she supposed, that these last days would prove to be the most miserable.

She hadn’t even enjoyed wearing her brooch and finery for more than an hour the other morning before the skies opened up and she was scrambling to wrangle thicker layers from her saddlebags.

Thicker layers that were now beyond soaked.

And heavy.

And cold.

Cyril felt terrible for Attie and the other horses for bearing the extra weight of their waterlogged belongings, even though they didn’t seem to mind. A step up from the treacherous mountain trails, she supposed.

Gone was her curiosity, too, about the sort of weather that was common in Reykr. Wet and cold had proven to be painfully accurate. Cyril had to turn down Dion twice now when he’d caught her clutching her hands and offered to warm them. She appreciated the offer, but another reminder of her inferiority was not what she needed.

The only silver lining to the abysmal weather was the nostalgia it treated her to at camp the night before.

Beneath a piece of waxed canvas strung between trees for shelter, Cyril sat wedged between all of her uncles and watched lightning rip across the sky. Together in silence, save for the rumble of thunder and heavy patter of rain, they peered through the holes in the forest canopy to catch glimpses of the brilliant white bolts, near and far. A small comfort from home she’d gladly take.

Especially as the first view of the gates of Reykr’s royal palace came into sight and reminded her just how impossibly far she was from Helia.

On the road up ahead, two looming, wrought-iron gates sat anchored by a pair of white stone pillars that looked like buildings themselves. On either side, dense hedges sprawled out from the pillars, interspersed by smaller support posts that Cyril lost track of as the surrounding forest consumed each side.

Twisted and woven to mimic vines and tree branches, the black metal decorating the front of the gates circled two staggered birds, shooting upward in flight. The same birds, she realized, that the guardsman at the last gate bore on a patch on his chest.

Reykr’s sigil was…simple. Subtle, maybe?

Cyril expected more from the notorious fae.

The feeling in her gut was strange as they cleared the last stretch of road to the palace. The prospect of a hot bath and dry clothes, and a meal of something other than dried rations and game meat, thrilled her . As was the entire notion of their trip finally ending.

There was just the matter of where—and who —that hot bath and meal would come from that smothered her excitement into unease and even a pinch of nausea. Not that having only eaten a measly breakfast would have anything to do with that.

That unease swelled into something far more akin to fear as they closed in on the gates and Cyril felt the air around them shift. As if a giant ripple of something just tore through it. Like thunder almost, except not a single sound cut through the torrent of rain.

Every instinct in her body screamed danger.

Cyril tugged her hood and cowl down, fighting back wet strands of hair that clung to her face. She opened her mouth to ask Dion what in the ever-loving fuck just happened when a groan echoed out and the gates pulled inward.

A group of guards, dressed in the same black and silver and blue uniform, gathered just past the threshold.

“You felt it too?” Bron slowed to her side, wariness written plainly in his green eyes. She could see a glimmer of distrust in Tyr and Ren’s faces as well, despite their masks of neutrality.

“What in the hells was that?” she hissed through gritted teeth. Somehow, she was infinitely colder than just a few minutes prior. As if that were possible after nearly three damned days in the rain.

“Magic. Old and fucking dark.” Bron glanced at Dion, riding well ahead of them, then back to Cyril. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. “I don’t give a shit about what he’s said. Something fucking reeks here, and I do not like it.”

Well, at least she wasn’t the only one feeling off-put.

“Do not trust anyone here, dove, and use every damn thing we’ve taught you to keep yourself safe. Understood?”

Cyril nodded.

“Observe and assess everyone . Who they talk to. Where they go. What they will or won’t eat and drink. And for the love of the gods, dove, do not go alone with anyone, anywhere .”

Of all her uncles, Bron was the second most overbearing. After Dion, of course. Ren took on a very ‘ toss her into the rapids and she’ll figure out how to swim ’ approach for most of Cyril’s life, and Tyr usually watched at his side. Even if there was always a little quiet uncertainty in his eyes.

But at least Bron’s worry always came as harsh warnings, of things she knew had roots in his personal experiences, and laced with reminders of the skill set she possessed.

After all, one didn’t get raised by an entire guild of rogues without picking up a few useful tricks along the way.

“I understand.” Cyril leaned towards Bron and raised her brow. “The same goes for you.”

He set his hand on his heart, and his chuckle was the most pleasant noise she’d heard in a while. “As my lady wishes.”

Ahead of them, Dion already cleared the gates and was dismounting his horse at the group of guards. Cyril watched with bewilderment as he grinned and clasped hands with these men, flaunting the sort of casual ease he typically reserved for only his most trusted inner circle.

Something definitely reeked about this place.

“They’ll deal with the horses so we can walk the rest of the way,” Dion said as he extended a hand to Cyril and helped her dismount Attie. “Thought you might enjoy stretching your legs.”

“Immensely,” she replied with a smile that stemmed from a place of genuine relief. Dion didn’t need any reason to suspect she and Bron were conspiring.

And truthfully, with how her hips ached after being saddle bound for so long, the prospect of walking sounded fucking amazing . Even if it was still pouring and the soles of her boots squelched miserably with each step along the soaked gravel roadway.

Ren and Tyr got a laugh out of that, at least.

Dion hung by her side as they walked, surrounded by shrubbery and potted plants galore. She was sure it all must look lovely when it wasn’t pissing rain. A disarming front to whatever debauchery happened within the palace proper, Cyril forced herself to remember, because the moon-fae were notorious for a reason.

Despite all this talk of the palace , Cyril couldn’t help but think that compound may have been a more apt description.

The white stone building that came up to meet them looked to be maybe three stories tall, with a few spire-tipped towers shooting up from its black slate roof, but it was sprawling .

From the wood and iron doors that somehow dwarfed the main gate, she had to turn her head to glimpse the end of the stately main building, where covered walkways connected it to smaller stone buildings that traveled out of sight.

Plenty of opportunity to stretch her legs, she supposed.

“You’re thinking,” Dion said to her quietly, as if that was something she rarely did.

Cyril scoffed.

“All of this”—she waved at the potted plants and ivy adorning every window on the front of the palace—“reminded me I didn’t ask anyone to take care of the plants.”

“What a tragedy,” he chuckled.

A tragedy indeed, for those two miniature trees and three flower pots that Dion finally conceded to letting her scatter through the foyer at the estate. They’d be nothing but kindling by the time she’d make it back to Helia.

Another eerie pulse rippled through the air—magic, she understood now thanks to Bron—and a wave of nausea washed over Cyril. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

Bron’s attention snapped over to her, and Dion noticed.

“Everything alright?” her uncle asked.

Cyril nodded. The urge to void the contents of her stomach eased as quickly as it came. “Did you not feel that? The air, it—”

Dion looked at her curiously.

“Nevermind,” she sighed, “I think I’m just worn out.”

There was nothing but empathy in Dion’s smile as he set his arm across her shoulders and drew her closer, their soaked outer layers pressing together.

“You’ve done well. That trip can be taxing.”

A compliment? Gods…

By the time Cyril looked up, Dion’s attention was already elsewhere.

The doors to the palace sat wide open, and they had an audience.