Page 22 of Rhapsody of Ruin
“On the contrary,” I said smoothly, “I was grateful to see our law upheld by both kingdoms.”
Whispers rippled. Masks tipped. Some narrowed their eyes. Others inclined their heads.
I gave them nothing more.
As I moved through the crowd, I set a ledger in my mind. Lord Arven had bowed slightly when I spoke, mark him down as one who backed me. Lady Isolde pressed her fan tighter, supportive, but cautious. Sylara’s fan snapped open in a sharp laugh, mockery. Half the Varcoran line stayed silent, waiting to see who prevailed. I counted them all.
The music swelled. My smile did not falter. My mask did not crack. Inside, my pulse thundered, but no one saw.
Tonight, I would perform perfectly.
But I would also watch.
Every glance, every whisper, every nod of approval or flicker of derision, I recorded. One day, I would need leverage strong enough to turn performance into power.
And when that day came, neither my mother nor my brother would see it until it was too late.
Chapter 13
Rhydor
The clang of iron against iron rang sharp in the training court, a rhythm I had grown up with, one that usually steadied me. Today, it grated.
The court had given us this space grudgingly, a square of warded marble tucked inside the side armory, open to the twilight sky through a balcony lined with balustrades. Silver fire guttered in braziers, throwing long shadows across the floor. The air smelled of steel polish and faint incense, two scents that did not belong together but had been forced to share the same air. Like us and them.
My veterans drilled in formation, sweat gleaming on their skin, movements measured. Torian watched from the corner, arms crossed, his gaze tracking every pivot and feint with a strategist’s eye. Tharos’s iron hand struck against a practice blade, the sound like a hammer ringing on an anvil. Draven leaned too much into his parries, always performing even when no one asked. Brenn laughed loud as he caught a thrust and twisted, flame-red hair damp with sweat. Korrath called counts from the sidelines, cane tapping with each rhythm.
Above us, on the balcony, a cluster of Fae pages lounged. They wore masks too large for their faces, their voices high with youth, sharp with cruelty. Their laughter dripped down like acid.
“Beasts on leashes,” one of them said, loud enough to carry.
Another wove glamour into the air, threads of shimmer pulling into shape. I stiffened as the illusion formed. A child’s laugh. Thin. Familiar.
The dragonborn sparring in the center froze. His spear lowered an inch. His eyes widened, horror and recognition shattering his focus.
The glamour sharpened into a face. A little girl, her braids crooked, her eyes bright. The exact image of the child he had buried two winters ago when the Hollowing still clawed at our borders.
The retainer roared and lunged, spear driving upward, aimed not at the illusion but at the laughing page behind it.
I moved.
My boots struck marble hard. My hand shot out, catching the shaft of his spear before it left the ground. The weight jolted through my arm, the force of his grief nearly ripping free. “Stand down,” I snapped, fire snapping at the edges of my voice.
His chest heaved. His eyes burned with anguish, locked on the illusion even as it dissolved into silver smoke.
“Now,” I barked.
His hands shook, but he obeyed, loosening his grip. The spear clattered to the marble. He bowed his head, shame thick on his shoulders.
I turned, slow, deliberate, to the pages above. “Protocol of the hall requires apology when offense is given,” I said, my voice carrying. “By your own house codes, you will speak it now.”
They shifted, uneasy under my stare, but none moved.
And then a slow clap broke the silence.
Iriel stepped from the archway, his mask gleaming faintly, his smile sharp. “Sport,” he drawled. “Surely you don’t begrudge boys their games?”
“Games,” I said flatly, “do not dig up the dead.”
