7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

B athing chamber— what an understatement. It was bigger than any bloody bathing chamber Cyril had seen in her entire life.

And the tub— gods , if it could even be called something as simple as that—had her somewhat frantically trying to sling off her weapons and leathers and base layers. She’d apologize later about leaving it all in a damp heap on the floor.

Tantalizing steam scented like sweet jasmine rose out from the pearlescent stone basin built down into the very floor itself. Neatly carved steps, inlaid with more strips of decorative obsidian, beckoned her down into the waters.

She could inspect the well-stocked vanity afterward.

Cyril was glad no one was around to witness the involuntary mewl of a noise that left her when she reached the last step and sank to her shoulders. The achy cold that had been her constant companion the last week washed away in an instant.

The bath was large enough that she could swim a few strides to the far end, where stone trays housed soaps and oils and hair tonics—a somewhat daunting task she’d face in a bit. For the time being, Cyril folded her arms on the edge of the tub and nestled her head on top. She felt her sigh down to her damn toes.

No matter how hospitable and disarming it was all proving to be, Bron was right. It would be unwise for Cyril to trust anyone here, and awareness of her surroundings was paramount to her safety. Unlike her uncles, however, Cyril could not rely on intimidation and brute force to fulfill any work issued to her by Dion. If he even bothered to issue her anything meaningful, that was.

Cyril would have to mingle, if only a bit, and build a few false relationships if she had any hope of gathering information.

But for the night ahead, she would attempt to enjoy dinner with the Kallans, if only to appease Dion. Getting acquainted with her surroundings and any strategizing could wait until the next day, when her uncles were back and they’d all spent an evening unwinding.

A long night’s rest and a hot meal would do them all good.

“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m really not,” Dion mused from Cyril’s doorway.

She shrugged and finished lacing her boots.

“Runa told me to come dressed comfortably, and you know I don’t place dresses high on my list of comforts.”

Dion didn’t even need words to express his displeasure at seeing the white blouse and dark pants Cyril wore—hand-picked by Rika—instead of whatever sort of elegant ensemble he’d foolishly hoped she’d wear. His eyes said everything.

Cyril didn’t care. He had such uncontested control over every other aspect of her life, but her choice of attire would never be one of them.

Dion sighed his annoyance, but let that thread of conversation die. Instead, he offered her his arm and led her out of the residential wing. They had descended halfway down the sweeping staircase in the heart of the palace when he turned to her and asked, “What did Reyna give you?”

Cyril blinked.

“Shit.” She winced. “I put it down and forgot.”

“Of course you did.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she grumbled. “Like you weren’t just as eager to get in a hot bath.”

Dion’s lips quirked.

“You look…refreshed at least.”

Cyril snorted. An indignant sound in such a refined place.

“I know I looked shit earlier. Thank you so much for the reminder.”

His eyes widened. “Cyr, that is not what I—”

“You don’t even want to know how long it took me to wash that many days of grime out of my hair,” she chuckled, and Dion only shook his head.

He led Cyril through hallways that felt endless, with the sort of ease that came with someone who traveled them many times. Something told her he wouldn’t appreciate questions about just how many times he’d been a personal guest of Lars and Runa though.

Lars .

Cyril tugged Dion to a stop a few feet from a door he seemed intent on leading her straight to.

“Wait. With the king—”

“Lars, you mean?”

Cyril sighed. A few hours away from him was nowhere near enough.

“Yes, Lars , do I have to…do anything?”

“What, like get on your knees and offer yourself as a sacrifice?” He raised a brow at her, the insufferable arse, and Cyril smacked his arm. Dion only laughed. “No, nothing like that. Lars detests formality in private. He’ll have my head if I let you do anything like that.”

A small comfort she would take gladly.

Dion didn’t give her a second more to dwell before he was tugging her through the door and down another damned hallway. This time, though, it was narrow and carried the sound of casual chatter, and something that made Cyril’s stomach growl.

Food .

The smell of charred meats and spices hit her nose, and her mouth watered like she’d never fucking eaten before.

Cyril hadn't been sure what to expect when they rounded the last corner through an open doorway, but a dining room with wood-trimmed accents, lit by the soft glow of candles and sconces, certainly wasn't it.

Warm, cozy, and intimate, it reminded her of the estate in a way that hurt.

Fuck.

She missed home already.

Across the room near a sideboard plied with wine and spirits, the two princes held some sort of quiet conversation as Runa fussed over place settings and covered dishes. Beside the crown prince, his wife stood quietly, and they seemed to be missing any semblance of a king .

Cyril also hadn’t expected each one of them to turn their attention on her and Dion the moment they stepped through the door.

She gripped her uncle’s arm a bit more tightly.

“Oh, good!” Runa swept over to them with a look of pleasant surprise. “I’d started to wonder if you’d changed your mind about joining us.”

“I was going to blame Cyr’s primping for us running late,” Dion chuckled and Cyril shot him a narrowed look, “but truthfully, I fell asleep.”

“You take longer to primp than I do anyway,” Cyril grumbled.

Her uncle didn’t look amused, but the queen did.

“I’m glad some things haven’t changed.” Runa gave Cyril a knowing smile before she looked past her, and warmth sparkled in her eyes. “There you are, my love.”

The voice that came from behind Cyril was a low, rich rumble.

“Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting. You know how Matthias can be sometimes.”

Cyril turned slowly with Dion’s guidance. She knew he told her not to do anything, but she felt obligated to at least dip her head in acknowledgment.

Lars was an imposing man, almost Rendall’s height if she had to guess, with shoulders that commanded every bit of space in the entryway. She understood quickly where the streak of wildness she saw in the arrogant prince came from.

He grinned at Dion, gleaming white double canines a stark contrast to the deep olive tone of his skin, as he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. The fine lines and creases that formed around his eyes spoke to just how often happiness gripped his features. Far more warmth existed in the midnight-blue depths of those eyes, too, than she ever would have thought to find in a king. Especially one ruling a place of such nefarious reputation.

“I’m glad to see you looking well, my friend.”

Lars embraced her uncle—still a strange thing for her to see him doing so freely.

“Likewise.”

Dion clasped Cyril’s shoulder and the king’s attention slid to her. His feral grin slipped into something a bit more refined. Far more kingly .

“And you must be the young Lady Cyril?”

She nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

“I'm glad to finally meet you. We’re happy to have both of you here, truthfully, despite the circumstances.”

Right . Murders. The contract. How quickly had that all slipped from her mind?

“Thank you,” she managed—awkwardly, if the amusement gracing both mens faces said anything.

Lars, thankfully, rounded them and headed straight for his wife. He took her delicate, freckled face in his palms and kissed her with such intensity that the queen made a quiet, protesting noise and pushed him away.

“ Lars, ” she intoned, as he swept her back into his arms.

“I haven’t seen you all day…” he murmured, though it was plenty loud for them all to hear.

No one else seemed the least bit phased. Cyril was the only one who took a sudden interest in the floral pattern woven into the dining chair upholstery.

“You heathen ,” Runa laughed as she broke free again. She pointed at the chair at the head of the table. “Sit, my love. And as for the rest of you…”

Her appraising glance slid around the room as she tapped her finger on her lip and then herded them all like cattle.

Dion and Astor she sat on either side of the king, followed by herself and Mikael opposite each other, and finally Reyna and Cyril across from each other at the end. Meaning Cyril was stuck beside the unsettling prince for their entire meal.

Fucking wonderful.

Mikael looked a little less feral than he had earlier, clean shaven with his auburn hair tied back. If someone told her that he and Dion shared a tailor with the dark, well-fitted tunic he wore, she’d believe them.

What hadn't changed, though, was the way his eyes roamed with unearned comfort as she settled into her seat beside him. It made her fucking skin crawl.

“Wine?” he asked, the bottle in his hand already tipped towards her glass.

Cyril hoped the prince had a heavy pour, because she was going to need it.

“So you don’t paint, sew, or play an instrument…”

“No, I do not,” Cyril sighed, “and if this is just some ploy to get me to ask you about yourself, you can stop. I’m not interested.”

Mikael’s third attempt at uncovering what ladies of the south do for fun had gone just as poorly as the first and the second. Cyril’s patience was stretched so fucking thin she was certain there was nothing left to it.

She could only explain so many times that, yes, it was possible for her to be that pale and have hobbies outside, and, yes, she knew how to use each of the weapons she arrived with.

The prince just would not stop.

All Cyril wanted was to eat the rest of her meal in peace, but all the wild, auburn-haired prince wanted to do was listen to himself talk. Cyril even tried to catch the eye of Reyna sitting opposite her, but her attention never strayed from her plate or husband.

Mikael’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“I’m sure they briefed you on everything you needed to know about me before my arrival.” Cyril took a small sip of her wine. And then a longer one, thinking. “Unless, of course, Reykr’s intelligence from outside its borders is so lacking that you did not receive a briefing. Or maybe commanders aren’t important enough to receive briefings here?”

Cyril kept her voice low, but that didn’t stop her from drawing out her amusement with his title.

If Dion overheard a word of her speaking to the prince like that, he’d have her head. But for better or worse, he hadn’t even bothered to look at her end of the table for their entire meal.

“Am I not allowed to take an interest in a guest from a foreign land?” Mikael said cooly, his jaw tense

Cyril stifled her laughter into a quiet snort.

“Not when it’s some shitty ploy to talk about yourself. I have no interest in your rank, or title, or hobbies, Your Highness, and best of luck finding someone at this table who does.”

The sidelong glance Mikael leveled at her was chilling. She clearly struck a nerve, but he said nothing and Cyril started back at her food.

A small win to shut the arrogant arse up.

“Lady Cyril Rhodea, age twenty-one. Unwed and childless,” Mikael started suddenly, his voice low, some few minutes later.

Cyril blinked at him.

“Daughter of Hector and Malia Rhodea, both deceased. Malia lost to childbirth and Hector to a suspected self-inflicted injury two years later.”

Her utensils clattered against the plate as she set them down. Runa’s attention snapped over, but Cyril avoided eye contact like her fucking life depended on it.

“Ward of Lord Dionysus Rhodea, with no known attachments outside of the Rogues’ Guild of Helia,” Mikael continued, leaning into Cyril’s space to top off her wine, like they were a couple of friends catching up. “She has thus far shown no affinity towards any known magics, elemental or otherwise, and, outside of receiving base rogue training, is an otherwise unremarkable fae of mixed race.”

Any lingering wisps of Cyril’s appetite were gone.

Cyril knew she wasn’t anything special, and always had, but to know it was so plainly written in the records of a foreign court was just fucking lovely. As if she hadn’t been through enough reminders of that on their trip.

Mikael eyed her with a look that dripped smug satisfaction, like he enjoyed being cruel. The prince and her uncle were going to get along perfectly.

“Was that everything? Or is there something missing from our intelligence that might make you remarkable, Lady Cyril? I’m just dying to know.”

Cyril could think of about a dozen remarkable ways to tell him to fuck right off.

Instead, she called across the table, “Dion?”

His eyes found hers, a flicker of gold in the room’s dim candlelight. He only looked somewhat irritated that she’d interrupted whatever enthralling conversation he’d been having with Lars.

“May I be excused?”

Dion’s gaze narrowed. “Is everything alright?”

Her responding smile was tight, and the prince rolled his eyes beside her.

“I think—”

The queen cut her uncle off.

“Of course you may, and never worry about asking for such a thing.” Runa smiled at her, radiating a warmth that Cyril still wasn’t sure how to handle. “You must be eager to get some proper rest after such an arduous trip.”

“Thank you for dinner,” was all Cyril said as she pushed back from the table and exited the dining room. She didn’t give the prince, her uncle, or anyone else the benefit of a look back.

The path she walked back to her room was a determined one, full of slow and steady breaths to ease her racing heart. She ignored the curious gazes and the nagging pull to wander in this unfamiliar place.

Upstairs, she bid both of the guards outside the royal residences a polite goodnight—two fresh faces from the pair standing watch earlier—before she slipped through the double doors and down the hall.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to see Rika standing beside her door, rocking on her heels as she hummed to herself, but the entire notion of someone waiting on her was still weird as fuck.

She met Cyril halfway down the hall, her eyes lit with hope. “Did you have a nice dinner, Lady Cyril?”

A solid fuck no almost clawed its way out of Cyril.

“I did,” she said instead, forcing a tight smile. “It was nice to eat some proper food after that long.”

“Oh, good.” Rika smiled. Then she looked at Cyril’s door and hesitated before she said, “I’ve turned down your bed, and left some nightclothes out. I tidied up your things—”

Fuck. Cyril knew full well she left the room in a half-disastrous state when she headed for dinner with Dion and, frankly, this was embarrassing as all hell.

“—from earlier, as well, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted the drapes closed or not, so I left them open. I hope that’s all alright?”

“That’s perfect, honestly.” Cyril winced. “I’m sorry it was such a mess. I usually—”

Rika shook her head and laughed .

“It is my job , Lady Cyril, and truthfully, I have had to clean much, much worse many times before. So please don’t worry about that.”

“Are guests usually a lot of work?”

Rika’s eyes flared, and she nodded.

“Just the other week Their Majesties had a guest from the city.” She took a step closer to Cyril, lowering her already soft voice. “She wanted someone in her room at sunrise every day to put on her slippers for her before she got out of bed.”

Cyril blinked.

“Are you serious?”

Rika’s little chuckle brought a smile to Cyril’s own face.

“Painfully so. She would never sip from the same glass twice, either, and always wanted every one of her dozen dresses laid out every day to pick from.”

“She sounds awful .”

“A peculiar woman. But that is all to say, please do not worry about being a bother. We deal with worse regularly and—”

Rika’s eyes snagged over Cyril’s shoulder and she stilled. Just like that, her smile vanished, and she dropped her attention to the floor, her hands clenched in front of her.

“What is—” Cyril turned. “ Oh .”

Hand in hand, the crown prince and his wife strode down from the doors. At least Cyril wasn’t the only one turning in early.

“Have a good night, Lady Cyril,” Astor said as they approached, wearing the same reserved smile that Cyril had yet to see leave his face. Reyna looked like she just wanted to go to bed, and Cyril appreciated that sentiment.

“Ah, you too!”

She looked back at Rika, whose eyes still hadn't left the ground, ready to ask what in the hells spooked her like that when she had an abrupt realization—the fucking gift.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for the gift!” Cyril called out down the hall, to where Astor and Reyna were nearly at their suite. She still didn’t know what the fuck the gift even was, but… “That was very thoughtful of you!”

From this far away, Cyril could only see Reyna dip her head in acknowledgment before Astor was opening their door and leading his wife in.

“I won’t keep you from your rest any longer, Lady Cyril,” Rika said, and it was like the casual playfulness Cyril had just heard in her voice never existed. “I’ll come by in the afternoon tomorrow to see if you need anything.”

Cyril blinked.

These people were fucking strange. Talk about hot one minute and cold the next. At least when Dion wanted nothing to do with her, it lasted a few hours at a minimum.

Rika was halfway back to the main doors before Cyril could think of anything to say. Instead, she shook her head and opened her door.

Inside her suite—now tidied and turned down as promised—Cyril pulled every drape shut, left her clothes piled on the floor, and crawled right into bed. The duvet’s weighty press and crisp, clean scent that saturated her senses had her lulled halfway to sleep in a matter of minutes.

She hoped the morning wouldn’t come anytime soon.