Page 14 of The Mercy of Dawn

His eyes darted up to her, a flicker of gold in the cave’s dim firelight as she bit out a string of curses and settled down beside him.

“Is that so?” Dion chuckled.

“I’m sore,” Cyril sighed.

She let her head roll back against the cave wall with a groan. No matter how much she shifted or stretched, she couldn’t get any damn relief. Agony was a better word to describe what she felt, the dull twinges up her spine having settled into a persistent, throbbing pain.

“Your back?”

Dion didn’t bother to look up again from the blade he polished. The warm, orange glow of the firelight bounced off it as he tipped it this way and that, searching for flaws like the perfectionist he was.

“Yeah. I don’t know how you all seem fine. I’m not sure I’ll make it the rest of the way,” Cyril grumbled.

Dion chuckled, the insufferable arse.

“Ask Bron to wrap your back in the morning. He’s the best at it, and it’ll make a world of difference.” Dion tossed a glance in her direction before he started packing his supplies.

He slipped his blades back into their leather sheaths—near identical matches to the ones Cyril wore on her thighs—and tucked the cloth and oil back into a drawstring pouch. Not that there was much point in Cyril bearing her own weapons, with the zero opportunities Dion presented her with using them. Gods forbid Cyril and the possibility of danger ever be allowed to coexist.

“As for the rest of us,” he continued, leaning back and stretching his legs towards the fire, “it’s just experience and how we’re built, Cyr. We’ve spent a long fucking time putting our bodies through much worse.”

She knew it was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Just another way that she would always be inferior. No fire in her veins. No hundred and some years of training. No finely honed body of a fae male.

This entire trip was proving to be one long, painful reminder of it all.

Dion eyed Cyril warily.

“You know, you’ve done an abysmal job getting any information out of me about Reykr,” he said finally, and Cyril blinked. “Ask me something.”

She scoffed.

“What happened to not wasting my breath convincing you otherwise, hm?”

“I meant them”—Dion waved vaguely at the others, mulling about the other half of the cave—“and not you. They’re a lost cause, but there is still hope for you. So go on, ask me something.”

Cyril struggled to suppress a laugh.

Fae men were always quick to accuse women of never being able to make up their minds about things, but Dion was worse than most of the women she’d met combined. He was the living, breathing embodiment of consistent inconsistency, but gods forbid anyone ever tell him that.

Still, it wasn’t an opportunity to squander. Cyril had no short few things she wanted to know about the blood-sucking freaks.

“Who do you know in Reykr?” she asked. “You never explained your old ties or why they hired us.”

“I go back a long way with Lars and Runa Kallan,” he said, as if that meant anything to her. Dion let her blank stare hang before he added, “More commonly known as Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Reykr.”

Oh.

Fucking hells, that shed a little light on the situation.

“So, you just casually know a king and queen?”

Dion nodded, and Cyril knew she had to pick her questions with care now. She had no shortage of unsavory curiosities about the king and queen of such notorious people, but hesitated ever so slightly before asking, “What are they like?”

It was a monumental task to stuff down the urge to insinuate they must be the tolerant sort if they can put up with her uncle for any period. Truthfully, though, Cyril was more concerned with the stuffy formalities that awaited her, if her time spent with the nobility of the south taught her much…

“I would prefer you form your own opinions, based on your own experiences with them…” Dion looked over at her, brow raised.

Point taken.