Page 86 of Rhapsody of Ruin
The silence was its own betrayal.
Heat rose to my face, though my mask concealed most of it. The urge to look at Rhydor, at his fire, his steadiness, burned sharp, but I did not allow myself. If I faltered now, if I looked for salvation, they would call it proof of guilt.
I stood straighter, pulse drumming like the procession drums that had carried my mother’s bier.
“You may strip me of privilege,” I said, my voice low but clear, “but you will not strip me of truth. I will not bow.”
The chamber stilled, like the pause before lightning.
And then the Masks moved.
Their boots struck the marble in perfect rhythm, black lacquer gleaming. One step forward, then another. Their hands rose, gauntleted fingers flexing as if already prepared to seize me.
The crowd gasped, masks turning, jewels flashing. A noble’s fan clattered to the floor. Someone whispered my name as though it were already carved into stone.
I felt the heat of them, the inevitability of capture pressing in. The air thickened, every breath harder than the last.
But I did not step back.
I fixed my gaze upon the Masks, upon Maelith’s shadowed figure, upon my brother’s silent face. And I let my spine hold, let my chin lift, let them see that if they wanted to break me, they would have to do it in front of every mask in Lunareth.
My heart thundered, my throat dry as bone.
But I did not bow.
Not to them. Not ever.
And in the stillness before their hands reached me, I felt it: the weight of dragonfire at my side, coiled, waiting to ignite.
Chapter 41
Rhydor
The chamber quaked with anticipation, the scent of incense turned acrid in my throat, every heartbeat hammering like war drums inside my chest. Elowyn stood in the center of the council floor, chin lifted, eyes unflinching even as the Masks advanced with their lacquered gauntlets raised.
Enough.
I moved.
Boots cracked against marble as I strode across the floor, cutting through the charged silence, the crowd’s murmurs rising into a wave behind me. Cloaks flared, steel whispered, and nobles gasped as I crossed the sacred line that separated debate from execution.
I planted myself before her.
Her breath brushed the back of my neck, sharp and unsteady, but she didn’t touch me. She didn’t need to. Every nerve in my body thrummed with her presence. Twilight pressed against dragonfire, and it was enough to feel her there, unbowed, waiting for me to burn.
Behind me, my veterans moved as one.
At Torian’s sharp command, shields locked with a thunderous clap. The sound echoed like thunder beneath the vaulted ceiling, a wall of steel interposed between the crowd and my queen. Brenn’s grin flashed red in the lantern light as he shifted his shield into place, already cracking some half-formed jest. Draven tilted his head in challenge, his charm turned to menace now, ready to twist words into weapons if they came too close. Korrath tapped his cane once, steady as a heartbeat, ears tuned to every shuffle of masked feet.
Thariac stepped forward, iron hand flexing, his bulk a wall of fury. He squared himself against the flank of the advancing Masks, shoulders set, daring them to try.
The air snapped taut, charged with the promise of violence.
I reached into my sleeve, felt the cold weight there, and flung it down.
The favor token struck marble with a ringing note, skittered once, and spun until the sigil of Lunareth caught the lantern light. Its glow painted the floor in silver.
Gasps broke from the galleries. Fans snapped shut. The crowd’s whispers turned jagged, frantic.
