Page 7 of The Mercy of Dawn

Dion, who trotted back and forth with impatience in front of their struggling group, couldn’t be any further on the spectrum of appearance from Ren. Despite the often brutal environment he worked his way into, her uncle carried a certain air of regality to him that the other Rogues of Helia did not.

Everything from the neat trim of his dark, chestnut hair—always ‌longer on the top than the sides—to the immaculate tailoring of the clothes he wore left no doubt he bore his birthright title of Lord of Helia before any other mantle he earned. Dion’s head always sat high on his shoulders, his vocabulary and cadence of speech were that of a well-educated fae, and his list of fine tastes ran long.

A handsome man, in Cyril’s opinion, made even more so by the jagged scar that cut down the right side of his face. A slice of brutality through his regal mask.

The origins of the scar, Cyril never learned, and she spent most of her life being shut down by the residents of the estate whenever she tried to broach the subject. Something cruel happened to him, she figured by now, for the fast-healing body of an ascended fae like himself to bear such terrible marks. Something cruel that Cyril doubted she would ever learn.

With his titles and his legacy with the guild, Cyril could almost admit Dion was a respectable figure to look up to. If only he wasn’t such an overbearing asshole.

Tyr and Ren loved to argue that Cyril and her last living blood relative were just too similar, and knew how to rile each other up in just the right ways, but Cyril begged to differ. Dion treated her like she was a piece of priceless glass, and she did not reciprocate that sentiment with him.

“I didn’t realize the ride was supposed to be a formal affair.” Cyril, finally settled comfortably atop Attie, gestured to the ornate brooch holding Dion’s cloak closed in front of his heart.

The sigil of Helia—a rising sun inlaid with precious stones of warm yellow, red, and orange—was not something he usually wore when they traveled.

Cyril chose a simple metal pin to secure hers, solely for the peace of mind that it wouldn't be lost to the wind when Tyr inevitably raced her to wherever they would camp at night.

Dion raised a single, angular brow at her as he said, “And I did not realize we were on speaking terms again.”

Cyril opened her mouth to fumble something snarky and not fully thought out, but Dion didn’t give her a chance.

“For appearances’ sake, it’s more…palatable if the people of Reykr interpret our arrival as something more diplomatic in intent. A visiting lord is easier to digest than a band of rogues showing up at their doorstep.”

“I see.”

A visiting lord and his band of rogues?

Cyril sighed.

“That—”

“—is a wonderful idea, Uncle Dion? Yes. Thank you, kiddo.” Dion smirked. The arse. “I have your brooch as well. You can have it once we get through the mountains, lest you lose it somewhere in the rift.”

Cyril had no angle to protest that.

She avoided most finery out of a mix of personal taste and the fear she might misplace something priceless.

Again.

Six years since the incident with one of the Rhodea family circlets, and Dion wouldn’t let her live it down.

“Four days until we get to the rift?” Cyril asked, skirting around the business of lost heirlooms.

“Give or take if the weather cooperates. And—” Dion steered his horse around, assessing the rest of their entourage who were finally mounted and settled. “If we ever get our asses moving.”

Dion hooked his fingers in his mouth, and his piercing whistle shot through the murmured quiet of the courtyard.

“Are we ready?”

Nods and sighs, and a single “I fucking guess so” rolled through Cyril’s uncles.

“Good. Onwards to Reykr then.”

Cyril eased Attie into a slow trot, glancing back to take one long, last look at the limestone estate and its imposing oak doors. One last look at the sunrise colored segments of stained glass framing them, and the rising sun carved into the wood itself.

Home.

She couldn’t help but feel she wouldn’t see it again soon.