Page 63 of Rhapsody of Ruin
I layered a neutral cloak beside it, lined in charcoal, the hood deep enough to shadow my face. No one would mark me as a princess if I kept to the roads by night.
Behind me, Nyssa murmured as she arranged her herbs, their scents filling the room: sharp mint, bitter angelica, the soft cloy of feverfew. She glanced at me once, her eyes unreadable.
“This is a dangerous path,” she said at last.
“All paths are dangerous now.” My voice was quiet, but it did not shake.
A knock stirred the silence. Light, hesitant.
“Enter,” I called.
Amara shuffled in, her gown loose, her belly heavy before her. Her hair clung damp against her temples; exhaustion lined her face, but her eyes burned sharp.
“You should be resting,” I said, guiding her to the chair by the hearth.
Her lips curved bitterly. “Rest is for those who trust the ground beneath them.”
I knelt beside her, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was cold despite the fire. “The timing must be exact. No delays once the child is born.”
Her grip tightened. “You would do this alone?”
“Yes.” My throat ached. “No one else can risk it. Not Rhydor. Not even Nyssa. Only me.”
Her gaze pierced me. “And if you are caught?”
I held her eyes, though the weight of it threatened to crush me. “Then I will not be. He must live. That is all that matters.”
For a long moment, silence stretched. The fire crackled, its scent of cedar mingling with bitter herbs. Finally, Amara nodded, her shoulders sagging. “Then so be it.”
When she had gone, I set to work.
On my writing table, I laid a ledger, thick, bound in leather, inked with careful columns of temple dues and ritual notes. A forgery, but precise. If Vaeloria or her stewards searched my chamber, they would find only devotion.
I dipped my quill, the ink smelling faintly metallic, and scrawled a notice to the steward:
By command of the veil and the rites of Moonshrine, I, Elowyn Thalassa, enter seclusion at Veilturn. My absence will last three days. Let no summons disturb my vigil.
Each stroke of the quill cut like betrayal.
When the letter dried, I pressed my signet into wax and sealed it. The symbol gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a crescent bound in flame. A lie wrapped in devotion.
I folded the notice, sliding it into the courier’s slot by the door. My hand lingered on the wood, trembling.
Behind me, Nyssa’s voice was soft. “You could still tell him.”
I closed my eyes. The image rose unbidden, Rhydor’s hands on mine atop the mountain, his lips murmuringtogether.The way he had looked at me, as though my defiance made me strong, not weak.
“He would never allow it,” I whispered. “He would fight for the child, yes. But not like this. Not in secret. He would face my mother in open war, and all would be lost before the babe ever drew breath.”
Nyssa said nothing, but the silence pressed judgment heavier than words.
The final piece was the escort.
I drew fresh parchment and penned the summons in careful script:
Sir Thalen Morwyn, you are commanded to accompany Princess Elowyn to Moonshrine at Veilturn for rites of seclusion. You will serve as escort and guard for the duration, and none but you will be permitted attendance.
The ink gleamed. My chest tightened. Choosing Thalen meant no Aurelius veterans, no dragonborn to betray the path. Only one Fae knight, bound to my command. It was dangerous. But his fascination with dragons made him pliable, and his sense of honor might keep him silent.
