Page 60 of Rhapsody of Ruin
The corridor was not empty.
Kyssa Aurelius stood at the far end, her dark hair streaked with mahogany catching the candlelight. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger, her gaze sharp.
“Cousin,” I greeted, my voice smooth though my pulse thundered.
She inclined her head slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. She said nothing, but the weight of her stare was enough. She had seen me leave Amara’s chamber. She would not forget.
I glided past her, cloak trailing, face serene. Inside, my stomach churned.
At the base of the stair, Nyssa caught up to me. She pressed a folded scrap into my palm. “Supplies by nightfall,” she whispered.
I closed my fingers over hers in silent thanks.
And then I stepped into the bright cruelty of Shadowspire once more, my mask sliding back into place.
Everything had changed.
The child must live.
Even if it meant betraying my mother. Even if it meant lying to my husband. Even if it meant losing myself beneath the weight of my own masks.
I would do it.
For him.
Chapter 27
Rhydor
The clang of steel on steel rang across the practice yard, sharp and eager, carrying with it the scent of iron, sweat, and damp stone. The yard was my refuge in Shadowspire, the only place that felt remotely familiar. No illusions warped the ground here. No masks glittered with judgment. Only bare stone, scarred with years of sparring, and the breath of men who knew the taste of real battle.
But that morning, the rhythm was off.
My veterans drilled in pairs, Brenn laughing too loudly as he slipped Tharos’s guard; Draven posturing, hair glinting in the half-light; Korrath watching with his blind eye turned toward danger because he liked the way it unsettled opponents. Torian observed, silent and calculating, every movement recorded like lines in a ledger. Their presence steadied me. But the tension beneath it all coiled like a drawn bowstring.
The gate guards stiffened.
Boots struck stone in heavy rhythm, too precise for Fae courtiers, too familiar to ignore. I turned toward the yard entrance, already knowing who it must be.
General Thariac.
He strode through the arch, his cloak still dusted with ash from travel, his armor plain but polished, the sigil of Emberhold burned black against the breastplate. His presence carried the scent of home, smoke, steel, the faint sulfur tang of dragon forges. For a moment, my chest tightened. Drakaryn had come to me, unbidden, demanding I face what I had tried to hold at a distance.
The guards shifted nervously, spears lowering instinctively as if they weren’t sure whether to treat him as ally or threat. Shadowspire had no patience for unannounced arrivals.
“Stand down,” I called, my voice cutting across the yard.
They froze, then obeyed, though unease lingered in the set of their shoulders.
Thariac’s dark eyes swept the yard, assessing, as if cataloguing every scar, every man, every fault. When they landed on me, his jaw tightened.
“My prince,” he said, bowing his head just enough to respect the bond between us but not enough to flatter.
“General.” I stepped forward, keeping my voice steady, restrained. The sight of him pulled at something deep in me, memories of campaigns fought shoulder to shoulder, of nights by the forge, of the firestorm we had survived and the ghosts it left behind. “You come without summons.”
“Drakaryn cannot wait for summons,” he replied. His voice was gravel, worn by command. “Our stores thin. Our council fractures. And your brother…” He paused, the silence heavier than words. “Your brother is chaos incarnate.”
The yard stilled. Even Brenn, usually irrepressible, sobered, his laughter dying on his lips.
