Page 59 of The Mercy of Dawn

Or at least she thought it did.

If the tomes were to be believed, it was uncommon, but not unheard of, for a fae’s moment of Ascension to be an explosive sort of thing. Like buildings leveled and mass casualties sort of explosive. Typically in fae that had strong affinities for magic before they even ascended.

She knew Dion fell into that category.

What made little sense was why it was such a sensitive topic for him. A fae’s moment of Ascension was supposed to be a point of pride, a crowning achievement in their life. She knew hers would be, if it ever came.

Dion could be embarrassed, she supposed, that he’d lost control and injured himself so grievously. He was a painfully proud man, after all.

Cyril slumped against the back of the sofa and rubbed her eyes until colors bloomed behind her eyelids.

She’d let herself get tied up in this for hours now, the fire long since dwindled and lamps running low, and hadn’t found a lick of what she actually wanted to find in these tomes.

The theorizing about Dion was fun, sure, but pointless when she would never get an ounce of truth from him. Just like she would never find the sort of reassurance she was seeking about herself.

A fool’s dream, she knew, to hope that one of these texts might conveniently contain an excerpt on Ascension for mixed fae of not entirely fae background. There were endless references to full sun-fae, full moon-fae, and fae that were a mix of both, but no mentions of what a pinch of nymph blood might do to complicate things.

At times like these, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if her mother was around, what sort of bits of knowledge she would have taught Cyril.

She didn’t let herself dwell on those thoughts for long.

Maybe she’d find time to ask Runa about it, discreetly. The woman seemed inclined to humor Cyril, and she had a feeling her knowledge was vast.

And maybe she might dig up a kernel of truth about Dion as well.

The next week blew by far faster than Cyril thought it would, as remarkably uneventful as it was. Not a bad thing, she supposed, even though there was no denying her disappointment with the lack of developments in the investigation.

At first, the prospect of it just being herself and Dion again after her other uncles headed back to Brynnhold had been a bit anxiety-inducing, but he made himself scarce. Thought it was best that he spend most of his time in the city with them, to help with the ongoing investigations.

Cyril didn’t question it, especially not after he was less than discreet in his dismissal of her own contributions to the investigation.

Truthfully, approaching Dion the morning after his little outburst in the dining room was the last thing Cyril wanted to do, but her fear over stoking his anger any further outweighed the overwhelming urge to steer clear of him. She thought giving him a heads up about her plans to join the guard with their training would be nonnegotiable, and that maybe he’d even appreciate the assurances she wanted to give him that she would still make time for her research in the archives.

How wrong she’d been, though, when Dion just smiled at her and said, “Don’t worry about it, Cyr. You missing a few days of reading won’t be what unravels the investigation.”

After that, Cyril didn’t bother trying to talk to Dion again before he left.

The good news was, things were peaceful at the palace with everyone away, and she would take every damned day of it she could get. The space to breathe finally gave her a chance to fall into her own routine.

Every morning at the bleary blink of dawn, Cyril would drag her sleepy self down to the stables to see Attie. The stable hands expected her now, too, and her saddle was always sitting outside Attie’s stall when she got there—usually with a couple of apples.

And every day they rode for hours.

Cyril learned quickly that she wanted nothing to do with the hot and muggy afternoons of late spring in Reykr, and much preferred to ride the trail when it was still laden with swathes of cool morning mist. It was a bit of a novelty for her, a daughter of the south and sun, to steep herself in the lush greenery and fog, but she told herself Attie preferred it too.

And when her thighs ached and her lungs burned ruthlessly, they called it a day. She’d wash up and eat quickly, then head to the archives.

Even though Dion had rendered her findings on elemental cleansing useless, and suggested she redirect her research, Cyril kept going back to it.

In part because she enjoyed going against his wishes, truthfully, and Bron’s encouragement might’ve had something to do with it too. The runes weren’t there for no reason, and she’d be damned if she didn’t find out why.

It helped that she enjoyed seeing the scribes. And if they had any displeasure with her visits, they certainly didn’t show it.

Most days, Isa would flat-out abandon whatever task she’d been doing to clear out a spot for Cyril and retrieve the file of notes they graciously agreed to store in the archives for her. She still hadn’t heard Konnor speak a single word, but he smiled and waved at her every day, and Isa assured her that was an exceptionally warm display for the muted man. Cyril took her word for it.

It was Tobias, though, that she spent the most one-on-one time with.

Despite her protests that he did not waste all of his time teaching her the intricacies of the old language, Tobias was the most fluent of the scribes, and the man did not take no for an answer.