Page 63 of The Mercy of Dawn

The arrogant prince spoke with a bit of conviction, at least, and the horde of trainees soaked up every word, hope written plainly on their faces.

It may have lit up a bit of warmth in her chest.

“Commander Kallan,” one of the King's Guard started. A woman whose name Cyril had already forgotten. “Should we introduce our guest before we start our warmup run?”

Cyril stiffened.

The few guards who served as the perfect barrier between her and the trainees each looked back at her and parted to either side.

Mikael looked amused.

“That wouldn’t hurt.” He gestured vaguely from Cyril to the trainees. “I’ll let you introduce yourself.”

The wave of far too many eyes settled on her, and she could hear her blood rushing behind her ears. This was not the sort of thing Cyril enjoyed in the least, but she’d be damned if she wasted the opportunity.

She took a couple of steps forward, a deep breath with each, and made a split-second decision as she placed her hand on her heart and said, “Cyril Rhodea. I’m from the Rogues’ Guild of Helia—”

Murmurs trickled through the bodies all around her, and Cyril schooled the grin that threatened to take over her face to something more demure. Casual. Like she’d done this a million times before.

“—and I am very much looking forward to taking part in your training.”

Mikael nodded as she spoke, and…was that a smile? If she hadn’t known better, it almost looked like the damn prince approved. Not that it mattered in the least what he thought, but that was a point for Cyril, and she’d happily take it.

“If everyone is ready?” Mikael looked about the group and eager nods rippled across. “We’ll start with our warmup run. I set the pace. You keep up with me, and we do not stop until I am tired, understood?”

The raucous salutes of, “Yes commander!” that broke the quiet calm of the morning were almost startling.

Cyril slotted herself in the middle of the group as they headed out behind the prince.

By the time Mikael decided he was tired of running, casualties rang high.

Two trainees were in tears, another had tripped on a root and rolled their ankle, and five others had veered into the bushes to void the contents of their stomachs. Cyril may have very well rounded that out to six if she hadn’t skipped breakfast before leaving her room.

Back in the main clearing, she braced her hands on her knees and struggled to catch her breath as the group gathered back up. There wasn’t an inch of her body that wasn’t soaked in sweat or aching, and it looked like everyone else—both trainees and guards alike—was just as bad off.

Except for Mikael, who looked like he barely broke a sweat. Not only was he insufferable, but had the stamina of a damn horse.

How fucking nice for him.

Running was something they did no small amount of at the guild. Dion and the others always said that a slow rogue was as good as a dead one, and Cyril had no reason to doubt that. But they focused on sprints and agility, to get out or up as fast as possible.

Endurance was important, but it came second to being able to get the fuck out. Especially enough endurance to get through nearly three damned hours of jogging without so much as even a passing thought about a break.

Cyril didn’t want to think about what was next if that was supposed to be their warmup.

A feminine voice had her looking up before she could dwell on it much longer.

“Here, Cyril. You look like you could use this.”

It was the same female guard from earlier, looking just as disheveled and sweat-soaked as Cyril felt, with a cup outstretched towards her. She would’ve hugged the woman if her base layers hadn’t felt like a swamp.

The water may have been the single most refreshing thing she’d consumed in her life so far. She tried not to guzzle it down like an animal.

“Gods, thank you—” Cyril winced. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

The tall, lean woman’s smile lifted the corners of her hazel eyes.

It was hard not to appreciate how striking she was, with stark white hair cut short and still feminine, and skin that was nearly as rich a shade of umber as Tyr’s. She lacked the wicked double canines that Cyril had grown accustomed to seeing, and it brought her no small amount of comfort.