Page 1 of Rhapsody of Ruin
Chapter 1
Rhydor
Twilight never lifted in Lunareth. It pressed down like a veil that smothered the sun, steeped in silver haze that clung to every surface. To the Fae, it was beauty. To me, it was rot masquerading as glory. The air itself tasted of illusions, metallic and sharp, as if one could cut their tongue on the glamour.
The obsidian ramp to Shadowspire stretched before us, a jagged spine leading to the fortress carved from black stone and shadowlight. Our horses’ hooves struck the stone in a rhythm like drums of war. Ward-flames lined the ramp in long troughs, silver fire guttering low as though resisting our passage. With every step, they rippled in uneasy waves, their magic recoiling from the dragon blood in our veins. Reflections warped across the stone, shimmering doubles of us distorted, twisted, reminding me that in this kingdom we would never be seen as we were. Only as the masks they forced upon us.
Torian rode at my right, face set, eyes sharp. His gaze traced the battlements the way another man might scan a battlefield. He had likely already counted the archers, the choke points, the escape routes. My brother rarely wasted words. He calculated while I burned.
Behind us, the rest of our line followed. Lady Kyssa, my cousin, sat erect and unflinching, long black hair streaked with mahogany spilling down her back. Her dragonbone collar gleamed in the twilight, the one relic she refused to remove. Here, in a kingdom where the Fae prized pale hair like silver threads, her dark mane and defiant eyes marked her a foreign flame. They would notice her immediately. She wanted them to.
Korrath, old and scarred, rode steady beside her. His good eye swept the walls while his cane rested across his saddle. Where others saw weakness in his patch and limp, I knew better. His hearing was sharper than any man’s sight. He tapped the cane twice, soft but deliberate, signaling he’d already noted overlapping kill zones from the arrow slits above.
Tharos loomed beside him, his iron hand glinting in the lantern light, the heavy gauntlet forged after necromancer fire had ruined the flesh beneath. He said little, but his silence spoke of violence restrained.
Draven, golden-haired and maddeningly unbothered, slouched in his saddle as if riding to a feast rather than into the heart of enemy territory. He smiled at every servant and masked noble who dared peek down from the balconies above, his eyes glittering with a charm I knew he could turn to steel if pressed.
Brenn rode at the rear, flame-red hair bright as a brand. He laughed already, tossing insults at Tharos and humming a tavern tune under his breath, as though daring the Fae to try their illusions on him. He never could keep still.
They were all I had left of the strength Drakaryn once commanded. Not an army. Not a host. Just kin, veterans, and steel tempered in loss.
The gates yawned at the top of the ramp, tall as mountains, carved with runes that pulsed faintly with power. A wedge of Fae guards stood waiting, armor polished bright as moonlight, masks etched with curling vines and crescent moons. Their formation formed a sharp V, funneling us toward their captain.
“Halt,” the captain called, his voice ringing with glamour to carry across the courtyard. Masked nobles leaned over balconies above, eager eyes glimmering. To them, we were not envoys. We were a spectacle.
A herald stepped forward and recited our names like a litany of prey offered to gods.
“Rhydor Aurelius, son of Maelgor, Prince of Drakaryn. Torian Aurelius, strategist and brother. Lady Kyssa Aurelius, cousin. Their sworn: Korrath, Tharos, Draven, Brenn.”
Each name fell heavy, as if meant to remind us how few remained.
Brenn gave a low whistle. “Didn’t know we’d be introduced like prize horses.”
Korrath grunted, eye narrowing at the wall above. He tapped his cane again. Twice. Crossfire confirmed.
“Inspection,” the captain said smoothly. “All steel surrendered for safekeeping. Spears, blades, ceremonial steel.” His gaze slid to my chest. “The Aurelius crest.”
My crest. Dragon-forged, carried by my line since the beginning. His demand was not about steel. It was about stripping us bare of dignity before their court even let us step inside.
Tharos shifted forward, iron hand flexing audibly.
I swung out of my saddle, boots striking obsidian with a heavy echo. Dust swirled as I adjusted my cloak with deliberate slowness. Let them wait. Let them feel the weight of it.
A young guard stepped “too close” to Brenn, shoulder-checking him with feigned clumsiness.
Brenn barked a laugh and leaned back in the saddle. “Careful, silverling, or I’ll mistake you for a goat and toss you off the wall.”
Our veterans shifted half a step, ready. Spears dipped.
“Hold,” Torian murmured, hand raised. His voice was quiet, meant for me, not them. “Optics.”
I inclined my head once. I would not give the court the satisfaction of a brawl at their gate.
My voice carried, low and sharp. “Protocol states envoys retain ceremonial crests. Steel can be peace-wrapped at the portico. That is my offer.”
The captain’s mask tilted, mouth tightening. “Then a bow, Prince. To honor the Shroud.”
Kyssa’s knuckles whitened on her reins. Her jaw clenched so tight I could hear the grind of her teeth. Draven leaned lazily on his pommel, eyes half-lidded, though I saw how sharply they tracked the guards’ hands near Kyssa.
