Page 4 of The Mercy of Dawn

Her pasty, wan pallor wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, as much as it irked her to not have the same warm, sun-kissed complexion as Dion.

Her near-total lack of pigment was a gift from her mother’s half-nymph blood that never went away, despite her best efforts day in and out in the sun. Her borrowed uncles liked to say she looked like expensive porcelain or fresh snow. A sharp contrast to the townsfolk, who often wished her a speedy recovery.

Cyril dropped into the plush, welcoming embrace of her favorite burgundy armchair and pried the lid off the teapot to take a sniff. Whatever was in there burned and made her eyes water.

“Sebille said she brewed you something strong,” Dion chuckled.

Cyril sighed and stuffed the stopper back in, pouring herself a mug anyway. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“Well.” A single word and Dion’s voice had taken on that patronizing lilt that made her blood boil. “If you are so desperate to partake in adult activities, you should be prepared to deal with the repercussions.”

Cyril cast her uncle a withering glance as she piled a few bits of bread and cured meat on a plate.

“I’m twenty-one.” She slumped back in her chair, tossing her legs over the arm. “It’s not exactly like I’m a child anymore…”

Dion sighed and shook his head at her.

“A drop in the bucket, kiddo, and you know that as well as I do.”

“Tell that to my—”

“I did not come here to bicker with you.” Dion braced his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his palms over his face.

“Really?” Cyril scoffed and popped a piece of bacon into her mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Cyril.”

He fixed her with a flat, unimpressed gaze. Cyril sighed.

“Fine then, my dearest uncle, what did you come here to not bicker with me about?”

Dion closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving with a slow breath. Something they both had to do, often, to avoid strangling each other.

“I’ve accepted a contract that involves a bit of…traveling.” Dion spoke slowly when he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I hoped you didn’t have any grand plans here in Helia for the summer.”

Plans. What a laughable statement.

The Summer Solstice was still over a month away, and it wasn’t like Dion would let her celebrate anywhere other than under his watchful eye at the estate. Never mind the fact that going anywhere on her own outside the bounds of their property wasn’t something he let her do, ever.

“No, I don’t think so.” Cyril cocked her head. “By travel, you mean…”

Travel wasn’t exactly uncommon with the…variety of contracts that came through the Rogue’s Guild. Some liked to call them mercenaries or thieves or even headhunters—as if those titles were somehow insults—but their services were always in demand. Lords and ladies and folks from all walks of life in Helia, and their neighboring states of Southern Carinae, often hired the rogues to do their more nefarious or clandestine bidding. Trips lasting a few days to a few weeks were commonplace.

From Dion’s tone, though, this rang differently.

The mortal continent to the east would be the experience of a lifetime for Cyril. At least a handful of the rogues that passed through the estate worked over in the foreign lands at some point in their lives, and every story painted it as a lively place full of trade, art, and absurdly good food.

There were always the nymph lands to the west, but Cyril doubted her uncle would be overly enthused about sending his men to work in a land known for its bodily pleasures and little else.

Dion cleared his throat.

“We’re going to Reykr.”

“Reykr.” Cyril nearly choked on her tea. “Why the fuck would we want anything to do with helping those lunatics?”

“That mouth is going to get you into so much trouble one day.” Dion’s sigh carried palpable frustration as he raked a hand through his chestnut hair. “Those lunatics are technically your mother’s people, Cyril, and by proxy yours, too, in case you’ve forgotten. I hardly think you know enough about them to be slinging accusations like that.”

“They are not my people,” Cyril bit out. She wasn’t sure when she shot out of her chair, but pacing seemed like a better alternative to throwing a teacup. “And I know plenty about those oppressive, blood-sucking freaks, thank you.”