Page 134 of The Mercy of Dawn

“You’re positive you don’t want me to leave?”

That was the second time now that he asked if she was sure. After the other two times he clarified he had no problems leaving them on their own, to give Cyril and his mother some privacy.

He was uncomfortable about it, apparently, and Cyril may have taken an ounce of enjoyment in that. His mother may have as well.

“I’m sure.” She smiled at him and looked back at Runa. “I’m ready.”

Runa reached for her, brushing her thumbs across Cyril’s temples and slipping her fingers through Cyril’s hair to cradle her head. That pungent, minty, and medicinal scent flooded her nose.

“Close your eyes, and just focus on breathing. I’ll guide you through the rest.”

Cyril let her eyes fall shut, but she was not prepared for the immediate brush of something cold and otherworldly up her spine.

She tensed, making a soft noise, and the cold withdrew.

“I know it’s strange, but just relax and breathe.” Runa sounded distant, quiet.

Cyril took a slow breath, and the cold started to climb again.

From her tailbone to the base of her neck, it came in like a slow tide.

Waves of it lapped at her, ebbing and flowing as they built with persistence. That ethereal cold rose and rose until it crested and breached some invisible dam inside of her, flooding into her limbs with a heavy, pulling weight.

Then came the pain.

Sharp and sudden, pressure bloomed behind her eyes. It pulled a ragged, heavy breath from her and was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Show me your home, Cyril. Think about Helia.”

Runa sounded so far away, but thoughts of the grasslands came tumbling in.

Days spent cooling off in the creek behind the estate house when the summer sun hit its blistering peak. Climbing the apple trees for Sebille while she waited on the ground with a basket. The great hall, packed for a meal and rumbling with the raucous noise of rogues well into their ales.

Gods, she missed home.

“I know you do,” Runa said softly, and Cyril felt the shift in control. A quiet, soothing sort of darkness settled into her mind that she had no sway over, pushing out those longing memories of her home. “I’ll start with something familiar.”

Dion.

Much, much younger.

Sitting outside somewhere with Lars, with no trace of the fine lines that settled around his eyes in recent years, or that persistent crease between his brows.

His hair was longer and shaggier than she ever remembered seeing it too. He ran a hand through it and laughed at something Lars said. When he turned to look at her—at Runa—that’s when Cyril saw his scar. It had a pinkish tone to it, like it was still settling.

This was an exceedingly long time ago.

“Now, maybe a little less familiar…”

Cyril didn’t want to stop looking at Dion, at the youthful glint in his eyes she never knew existed, but the memory blew away like mist.

And then her father filled her vision.

He looked so much like Dion.

She knew that too, and had always told herself that from the vague, fleeting memories she had of him, but nothing compared to seeing them stand side by side. He was a couple of inches taller than Dion—and towered over Runa, looking up at him—and he was broader in the shoulders. But there was a softness to him too, that she hadn’t glimpsed even in a young Dion.

Her whole physical being ached with the want to reach out and touch him, feel what it was like to hug her father again. But Runa’s hands moved of their own accord, gesturing and flowing as she spoke muffled words to them.