6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

D ion had the decency to wait until they cleared the overhanging roof to tug Cyril down with him as he lowered onto his knee. A sharp glance back toward Tyr, Bron, and Ren had them down on their own a heartbeat later.

And Cyril? She could have sobbed.

Warmth poured out from the open doors of the palace and, for the first time in two fucking days, she didn’t feel a drop of rain. Hells, she barely even registered the reverent murmur of “Your Majesty” that left Dion. Every bit of her focus had gone into trying to stop the incessant chatter of her teeth.

A swath of silver and blue robes hanging from a gracefully curved body swept down the steps in front of Cyril, and Dion hauled her upright with him.

Cyril couldn’t help but stare.

Rolling waves of copper-red hair framed the delicate face of the woman who approached her uncle. She beamed as she took Dion’s face in her hands and pulled him down to meet her short stature, kissing both of his cheeks.

“Oh, Dion .” The woman’s voice overflowed with fondness, reciprocated entirely with the smile on Dion’s face.

She moved to embrace him, but Dion took a step back.

“Runa, I am soaked—”

Runa, the Queen of Reykr.

She laughed at Dion.

“Like I care. Come here, you stubborn fool.”

Dion followed her order with so little resistance that Cyril just blinked at them. The man who never took an order, yielding with such ease to this soft-spoken woman.

“Miss. I’ll take your—”

Cyril went rigid when hands were suddenly on her, working at the clasps of her heavy over-cloak.

A slight woman, much shorter than herself, with hazel eyes and neatly tied blonde hair, eased the dripping cloak from her shoulders and slung it over her arm. She had to be staff, with the modest, pale blue dress and practical leather shoes she wore.

“Ah— Thank you. Oh, no . That’s—” The woman already had Cyril’s brooch undone, and she went stiff as a board. Handling by anyone, at any time, was not something Cyril enjoyed. “That needs to stay with—”

“Not a worry, miss. It is safe with me.” She smiled warmly at Cyril and dipped her head, taking a step back with an armful of sopping outer layers. “I will bring these to your room.”

Her room .

Cyril wasn’t sure if a whimper actually left her lips.

“And you …” The queen’s voice came from her right.

In hindsight, Dion may have had a point when they departed camp a few days prior. Now, facing the Queen of Reykr in her soft, flowing robes of silver and blue, Cyril’s fighting leathers and assortment of weapons may have been a poor choice of base layers.

If the queen took any offense, it didn’t show.

Runa stepped towards Cyril with that same grin still plastered to her face, double canines gleaming, and took Cyril’s hands in her own. They radiated warmth even through Cyril’s gloves. Eyes like fine crystal tinged with blue roved Cyril’s face, like Runa couldn’t take in the details fast enough.

“I have waited so long to meet you,” Runa said quietly, and something flickered in her eyes Cyril didn’t quite catch. She reached up and tucked a strand of dark, damp hair behind the point of Cyril’s ear.

The queen turned to her uncle. “She’s stunning, Dion.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Cyril felt her cheeks warm. Moon-fae were supposed to be dark and twisted people, but this woman exuded unsettling kindness.

Dion eyed her expectantly.

“It is nice to meet you, Your Majesty,” Cyril got out with no small amount of effort. It wouldn’t do well to piss off the royalty already.

“Likewise, dear.” Runa squeezed Cyril’s hands one last time before she stepped to the side and looked past them. “I did not want to make assumptions about where the three of you would like to stay. There are accommodations here and in the city, whichever you’d prefer.”

Cyril turned and watched as Tyr, Ren, and Bron glanced at each other, having one of those silent conversations that she fucking hated. Bron, as usual, spoke.

“The city, Your Majesty, will do us perfectly.”

“I thought that might be the case.” Runa smiled. “We’ll have your things brought down, and one of the guards can show you the way.”

Bron must have caught the pout that tugged at Cyril’s mouth, because he stepped up and squeezed her shoulders, saying, “Be good, dove. We’ll see you soon.”

At that, Cyril saw the queen’s smile grow.

“Now, before I send the two of you to your quarters,” she glanced between Cyril and Dion. “Come meet my family.”

With the thin strands of her attention tied up meeting a damn queen , Cyril failed to notice the modest crowd congregating in the palace entryway.

At the front of the group, standing atop the glittering, white stone steps, was a couple that oozed an air of composure and regality. Behind them stood nearly a dozen others—more staff, she assumed—who probably came to investigate the foreign arrivals. Truthfully, Cyril would have done the same at home.

“This is my firstborn, Astor, and his wife, Reyna,” Runa said quietly as she steered Cyril towards the couple.

Dion had already cleared the steps ahead of them, clasping hands with the crown prince. A man who, much to Cyril’s surprise, was remarkably plain-looking.

He had short and neat dark brown hair, a warm complexion, and sky-blue eyes. With his well-fitted cream tunic and black pants, Cyril was certain this was the same prince she’d read about in at least a dozen folktales as a child.

His wife, however, made up for any shortcomings in his appearance.

The silver-haired woman tethered to his side was nothing short of ethereal, with her own dark, sweeping robes and eyes of the lightest, opaque green Cyril had ever seen. She had skin as fair as Cyril’s own, but with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that added to the youthful air of her soft features.

The crown prince and princess inclined their heads at her, and Cyril did the same.

“This is Dion’s niece,” Runa said to her son. “Lady Cyril Rhodea of Helia.”

Astor’s smile was warm and welcoming.

“We’ve heard much about you, Lady Cyril,” he said, and just like Dion mentioned, the crown prince was soft-spoken. “Despite the circumstances, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, I hope so too. I— oh. Oh, thank you, that’s…”

Reyna had taken half a step forward and extended a small box wrapped in tan canvas towards her, a simple white bow tied around it. Cyril took it with a smile plastered on her face.

The entire display was so many levels of fucking awkward.

“A gift for your welcoming,” she said, with an unusual lilt to her voice. Reyna’s smile was small, and almost shy, as she stepped back beside her husband.

Cyril never considered that Reykr’s crown princess might not hail from Reykr.

“Thank you, that is very thoughtful.”

Mercifully, Runa splayed her hand on Cyril’s back and motioned towards the door. “Let’s get everyone in from the cold, shall we?”

The gathered crowd of staff scattered like mice as Astor and Reyna made their way back through the open doors, and Cyril was ecstatic to trail in behind them. The prospect of warmth, of soft surfaces, or gods , a bath had Cyril feeling more energetic than she had in days.

The only problem? Cyril and Dion didn’t even make it past the threshold before Runa stopped dead in her tracks and turned to them.

“Oh! I almost forgot. The council, unfortunately, has Lars all tied up this afternoon, but he asked me to send his regards to the two of you.” Runa gave them a tight, apologetic smile. As if it mattered that a man Cyril had never met wasn’t here to greet her. Honestly, she was thankful for one less set of appraising eyes. “I know he’d love it if you both joined us for dinner tonight, though, if you feel up to it.”

“Of course we will. We’ve got quite a bit to catch up on,” Dion chuckled.

Cyril cared little—not that Dion would give her a choice—as long as there was a hot bath and dry clothes between now and then.

“Gods, do we ever,” Runa sighed.

It was a wistful sound that made Cyril’s skin feel tight. This woman being a friend of Dion’s would never not be fucking strange.

“I’d hoped Mikael would be back in time to greet you both,” the queen continued, “but he is—”

“Right here?”

Runa’s eyes widened, and she spun around to face the man leaning against one of the open doors. Auburn-haired and with a predatory gleam in his ice-blue eyes, Reykr’s second prince looked nothing like his brother.

He must have known how to move quietly, because Cyril hadn’t noticed his arrival. If the flicker of surprise on Dion’s face said much, he hadn’t noticed either.

“My boy . Oh…” The queen pulled her towering son into a tight embrace, and whatever else she said was lost.

Where Astor was polished and refined, a streak of something wild glimmered in the crystalline depths of this man's eyes. Even his attire came as a stark contrast to the crown prince’s—a uniform almost identical to what the palace guards wore, with a few pieces of leather armor fashioned to look like scales.

This prince was also the first person Cyril had yet to witness in Reykr bearing more than a single weapon, with a baldric saddled with knives hanging off one shoulder, and the hilt of a short sword peeking up over the other.

“Were you already speaking ill of me to our guests, Mother?” he mused down at Runa with a feral grin.

Cyril wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the sharp gleam of full-blooded moon-fae canines.

Runa laughed at him, the sound soft and melodic.

“Only the necessities.” She reached up to cup his face in her hands and gave him one hell of a scrutinizing look. “When did you get back? You are never this scruffy, and gods , your hair—”

“I haven’t even been back for an hour.” He swatted his mother’s hands away as she tried to run her fingers through the auburn waves that hung just above his shoulders. “I’m in one piece, so you can stop fussing.”

The queen feigned a scandalized gasp. “ Fuss ? Mikael, I would never …”

The entire exchange was fascinating to Cyril, and Dion even looked pleasantly amused as he watched on beside her.

Was it…normal?

It wasn’t like Cyril exactly had, well…any true parental relationships to go off of, and the volatility of her interactions with Dion was something she hoped wasn’t normal for anyone.

“Our guests?” the prince murmured, glancing over his mother’s shoulders.

Fuck . His gaze was piercing in the sort of way that made Cyril shift a half-step closer to Dion, and the prince fucking smirked .

“Mikael, you remember Dion?”

Runa turned to stand between them, one hand resting on her son’s arm.

“Somewhat vaguely, but yes.”

He offered Dion a tight, polite smile and a nod as they clasped hands.

“You were young last time I came to Reykr, and much smaller,” Dion said.

The prince was at least a few inches taller than her uncle, but had the same lean sort of build as him. All practical, well-honed muscles.

Mikael laughed. “I seem to remember you being much larger.”

“He’s taller than Astor now,” Runa added, directed entirely at Dion, and he shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. Just another thing Cyril assumed had to be a normal conversation piece between normal parents.

The prince turned his unsettling attention back to Cyril, and every muscle in her back ached as she tensed.

“And you are…?”

Her lips parted, but, thank the fucking gods, the queen interjected.

“ This beautiful young woman is Lady Cyril Rhodea, Dion’s niece and his heir.”

Mikael cocked his head at her like a wolf would size up its prey, and his eyes roamed far too freely. Cyril wanted to crawl out of her skin.

“Do all ladies of the south travel so heavily armed, or…?”

Shit.

She swallowed down the lump creeping up her throat, but her voice still cracked as she said, “Ah, well…”

“Entirely unsurprising for the daughter of the Rogues’ Guild, Mika.” The queen came to her rescue again . “And I’m sure the two of you will have no shortage of things to discuss later , after our guests have had time to settle from their travels.”

Runa raised her brow at Mikael and he lowered his head, hands clasped behind his back. Cyril knew the queen’s move well from her own experiences with Dion—a silent dismissal.

“Welcome to Reykr,” was all the prince added in his rough timbre before he turned on his heels and headed back into the palace.

When he was well out of earshot, Runa sighed and looked at Cyril. “Mikael is the more… outgoing of my two children. I think the two of you will get along, though. Dion has mentioned how much you enjoy training, and not only is Mikael responsible for organizing most of the manpower here at the palace as commander of our resident contingent of the King's Guard, he oversees all of the training exercises as well.”

Outgoing was an interesting choice of words.

Cyril would’ve opted for several others that started with arrogant and ended somewhere around predatory, but it wasn’t her place to comment. The prince reminded her of too many of the young, foolhardy rogues that came through the guild, riding the high of whatever meager contract they butchered.

They never lasted long.

Cyril doubted she and the prince would do much getting along, but she offered the queen a tight smile and a nod anyway. Manners .

“Well, let’s get you both to your rooms.” Runa linked one of her arms through Cyril’s—only slightly fucking awkward, with a gift clasped in her hands and too much of this strange woman in her personal space—and motioned for Dion to come to her other side. “You must be weary from such a long trip.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

Guided along by Runa, they walked for what felt like forever.

Cyril was certain she had never seen so much moonstone in her life, and never would again. The glittering, iridescent stone made up nearly every interior surface of the damn palace—from the walls and archways to the floors and stairs. Save for strips of obsidian breaking up the sweeping tiles lining the halls and common areas, the moonstone stretched on without end.

Beautiful, but cold.

Nothing like the warm and well-loved wood paneling and plaster at the Rhodea estate.

For what had to be Cyril’s benefit, the queen pointed out her favourite parts of her humble home— the ballroom, archives, and royal gardens—as they trekked up to the royal residence. She pointed at doors and staircases, and through imposing, crystal clear windows as she talked, and Cyril fought a losing battle to keep track of it all.

A key tenet of the guild was to always be aware of your surroundings. It meant learning exits and entrances, mapping halls and stairways, and making sure you knew the best places to slip away unnoticed.

Not a simple task, when the palace faded into a blur of moonstone and rich, silver and blue wallpaper, and Cyril realized that damp and warm travel leathers were even worse than ones soaked through and cold.

After climbing a staircase tucked down the end of a hall, and leading Dion and Cyril across a catwalk overlooking the main atrium below, Runa stopped in front of a set of doors that were nearly double her height.

The face of the doors bore the same design of twisting greenery and soaring birds as the main gates—a common theme Cyril saw carried through the palace’s tapestries and wallpaper. Two guards, armed and dressed in blue and black finery, stood watch on either side of the doors.

“The private wing of our royal residences. Guarded at all hours, so you never have to worry, even if you’re stumbling in drunk at daybreak.” Runa’s eyes lingered pointedly on Dion and, gods , that said plenty. Dion didn’t even have a rebuttal for her outside of a half-shrug.

Runa pulled them half a step forward, but every fiber of muscle in Cyril’s body went rigid. That same eerie feeling rippled through the surrounding air, tying her stomach in knots.

The doors to the residences groaned open.

“Ah.” Runa gave her an empathetic smile. “You, my dear, haven’t spent much time around magic, have you?”

Cyril shook her head. “No—”

“We do not use it for frivolous convenience like you do, Runa.” Dion cut the queen a cool, sidelong glance.

It was the truth, even if Dion was less eloquent in his delivery.

The fae in Helia, and the other southern states, rarely spoke of their magic, and never used it in public. Hells, even broaching the subject of elemental affinity with someone you didn’t know well was an act considered offensive, as Cyril had learned no few times herself as a child. It was like people were ashamed of the gifts given to them by nature, and Cyril had never understood why.

“A pity, really.”

Runa squeezed Cyril’s arm and guided her down the hall.

More wallpaper, more moonstone, more obsidian. Planters and tapestries lined these walls, at least, in a greater density than the rest of the palace.

“Now, you’re the third door down there, Dion, like usual.” Runa gestured vaguely to the left. “And you, my dear, are the second door here on the right. Lovely views of the gardens and lake, but with a bit of privacy if you like to sit outside.”

“I…” All the generosity was making Cyril wary. “Thank you.”

Runa beamed at her.

“Of course. And if you need anything at all, we are all close by. Mikael is down there, and Astor and Reyna are just there.” She gestured at two doors opposite a seating alcove at the end of the hall, just before it turned and continued out of sight. “Lars and I are around that corner and down at the end.”

Cyril nodded along and made a mental note of each room as the last place she would turn if she needed anything. Thankfully, Dion’s room—that he was already making his way to without even saying goodbye—was closest to hers.

“Now, make yourself comfortable and get into something warm and dry.” Runa gave her arm one final, affectionate squeeze before she released her and started making her way out of the residences. “Dinner is not for a few hours, so take your time.”

Nothing but pure relief carried Cyril’s feet over to her suite door.

Well, maybe that and the prospect of the hot bath she knew must be waiting inside. A few hours to unthaw in a bit of luxury before an actual damned meal was something she’d dreamed of for days.

But a sliver of reality hit Cyril, and she spun around—Runa was just approaching the grand double doors.

“Your Majesty?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, dear?”

“Should I wear a dress to dinner, or…?”

Runa smiled.

“Only if you’d like to. Come in whatever you are most comfortable wearing.”

A minor victory that Cyril was glad to take.

She thanked the queen and headed into her room.

For the first time in almost ten days, Cyril was alone, and the solitude was blissful.

No uncles snoring and grunting and swearing at each other.

Or at her, for that matter.

No howling wind or pelting rain, or the unsettling rustle of bushes in the night.

Save for the soft crackle of logs in the hearth, her suite was silent.

And from a cursory glance, the Kallan’s spared no expense for the comfort of their guests.

Her assigned room was generous in its size and furnishings and, much to Cyril’s relief, an assortment of plush, patterned rugs sat overtop of the moonstone tile that continued through the room.

From the spacious, canopied bed tucked between two arched windows to the well-appointed sitting area nestled around a grand fireplace, the linens were all cream-colored and airy, accented with hints of silver and blue. Freshly washed too, based on the subtle scent of laundry soap that hung in the room.

Off to one wall was even a quaint writing desk, stocked with stationery and built from the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture, though Cyril doubted she would get much use of it. Not like she had anyone to write home to.

What held Cyril’s attention the firmest, though, of all the finery and comforts, was a set of ornate glass doors beside that little desk, and the view that she could glimpse beyond them.

Setting down the gift she’d clutched in her damp gloves for the duration of their tour, Cyril headed straight to the doors. Straps and fastenings of her leathers fell away as she went.

The torrent of rain had let up just enough that, as she nudged one door open, an unobstructed view of the palace gardens and the sweeping landscape beyond came up to greet her.

She stared for longer than she’d care to admit.

The balcony was covered and modest in size, with a matching set of table and chairs, and a chaise for lounging. They could have been dilapidated for all Cyril cared with the views they granted.

The palace gardens went on and on and on , full of hedges and trees, flowerbeds of every color imaginable, and dotted with bubbling fountains. Some plots were well manicured, while others were left to grow more wildly. Even through the smothering scent of rain that hung in the air outside, soft floral notes wove up through it.

If Reykr ever had warm and sunny days, Cyril was sure it would smell remarkable.

The lands were lush and green, and full of the sort of vibrancy that seemed to be commonplace if her few days in Reykr were anything to go off of. A hint of mystery hung in that vibrant greenery, too, from the lingering wisps of mist and fog that settled amongst the foliage.

On either side of the expansive gardens—originating from the palace itself, it looked like, as Cyril hung her head over the railing—wide walkways of gray flagstone set out down the terraced lands, until lawns gave way to a rocky backshore.

The lake Runa mentioned.

And what a wicked-looking thing it was, with black waters and jagged stone shores all the way around. Not a lake for leisurely activities. The dense forest that swept up the valley walls beyond it, rolling over hills and out of Cyril’s eyesight, came as no surprise.

What a strange and beautiful place.

It was a shame about its inhabitants, and their—

“Miss?”

Cyril nailed her knee on the stone railing and cursed. So much for awareness of her damn surroundings.

“Ah, sorry Miss, I didn't mean to startle you.” The same blonde maid who took her things earlier stood between the open balcony doors, smiling softly at her. “I only came to see if you require my help.”

“Your help…?” Cyril blinked, and the woman looked amused.

“With bathing and readying for dinner? Her Majesty asked that I see you taken care of during your stay.”

Oh.

“I…well.” A nervous laugh slipped out of Cyril. “I don’t usually have help with those things…”

Truthfully, she’d never had help like that. In Helia, the estate staff served only to keep the estate running and clean, and all the mouths within fed. She always bathed and dressed on her own—save for a time or two that Sebille helped lace her into a cumbersome gown—and the thought of someone bathing her felt intimate enough that her cheeks warmed.

“…and I would prefer to do them on my own.”

“Of course, Miss.” The maid gestured back in the room. “May I show you where we’ve put your things?”

Oh gods, her stuff.

Cyril didn’t have to be asked twice.

Off to the side of her bed was a short hall lined with cupboards and drawers that the woman walked her through one by one. Her shirts, pants, nightclothes, and underthings were all folded or hung and tucked away with care, with a tall cupboard at the end reserved for her few dresses and cloaks.

Cloaks that were dry already.

Frivolous magic, indeed.

“Her Majesty had more of the like ordered for you to be brought from the city,” the maid said, gesturing to the casual clothing Cyril brought. “But, ah, Miss… Do you not wear many dresses, or were you not able to pack them for the trip?”

“I only wear them if I have to. I usually just wear shirts with pants and boots like the men do.” Cyril smiled, and the maid nodded in understanding.

“Your bathing chamber is just through there”—she gestured to the closed door at the end of the hall of wardrobes—“and will have everything you need. I will ready your clothes for dinner if that is alright?”

Cyril’s instinct was to protest, but she nodded.

This woman had been nothing but polite so far, and Cyril knew at some point she’d have to forge relationships to gather information. No better place to start than with the woman who had access to her sleeping quarters, she supposed.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

The maid bowed her head as she turned back to the cupboards, and Cyril realized just how terrible she was at everything .

“Wait—what’s your name?”

Her hazel eyes widened a bit, and she smiled. “It’s Rika, miss.”

“Thank you, Rika.”