Page 2 of Rhapsody of Ruin
I stepped into the space between their reaching fingers and the crest over my heart. “No.”
The word cracked like iron on stone.
A guard reached for Kyssa’s collar, his gloved fingers brushing dragonbone.
Kyssa’s hand shot up, slapping his wrist away. The sound snapped through the courtyard like a whipcrack.
The air thrummed. The kind of tension that ends in blood.
“Enough,” came a new voice, smooth but firm.
A knight stepped from the shadows of the arch. Sir Thalen Morwyn, if my memory served from the dossiers Torian had drilled into me. His armor was plain, his mask unadorned, but he carried authority. “Visitor clause,” he said evenly. “Ceremonial crests remain with envoys. That is law.”
The captain hesitated, pride straining against law. Thalen inclined his head just enough to give him an out.
“Peace-wrap the steel at the inner portico,” the captain snapped. “Then you may pass.”
We moved as a unit. Mocking comments hissed from the guards.
Brenn laughed back, louder than them all. “Silver tongues, soft hands. Gods help you if you ever meet a real fight.” Somelaughter broke from the balconies, quick and nervous. The guards stiffened.
I signaled with two fingers. Veterans filed in pairs. Kyssa between Korrath and Tharos. Torian at the rear, scanning constantly.
At the inner portico, Thalen met me again. His eyes were sharp, assessing. “Restraint,” he said quietly.
I gave him a curt nod. Not thanks. Not yet.
Inside the walls, the air pressed heavier, silver glamour thick against my skin. The veterans exhaled together, relief and tension mingling.
Not me.
The sting of humiliation seared deeper than the wards. They had demanded my crest. Demanded my bow. Had tried to strip me in front of their court.
I would not yield.
Not the crest. Not my blood. Not my fire.
I glanced once to Torian. Flicked two fingers low. Map their routine. Count their guards. Mark their choke points.
If they thought me caged, they were wrong.
I still had fire.
Chapter 2
Elowyn
The Great Hall of Masks was a jewel box carved out of shadow and deceit. Silver lanterns floated high above the mirrored floor, their light fracturing into a thousand shards that made every step, every movement, shimmer unnaturally. The walls themselves breathed illusions , trees that swayed when no wind moved, constellations painted on the vaulted ceiling that slowly shifted as though the sky itself rotated. Perfumed smoke curled from censers, thick with enchanted resin that left the tongue tasting sweet and bitter at once, like poisoned honey.
It was breathtaking. It was suffocating. It was the hall in which I had been born, raised, and honed into a pawn.
The procession of masked courtiers moved like a tide around me, their silks rustling, fans snapping, whispers darting faster than arrows. Music spiraled from the galleries , harps, flutes, and voices layered with glamour until each note pressed against my skin. A thousand eyes hid behind masks painted with moons, thorns, and silver birds. I could feel every one of them fixed on me.
My mother sat at the throne’s center, cool and commanding, silver veil sweeping from her mask to her shoulders. She gestured me to her right, her hand graceful as smoke. I obeyed, skirts whispering over glass, every movement trained to precision. On her left, my brother Iriel lounged with practiced arrogance, mask angled to leave most of his handsome face exposed. He wanted them to see him. He always had.
And below us, at the lower dais, stood the dragon prince.
Rhydor Aurelius. Broad-shouldered, storm-eyed, fire clinging to him even though he carried no visible flame. His cloak wasscorched at the hem, his armor practical and plain compared to the jewel-laden silks around him. He looked as though he despised every inch of this hall. The court wanted him to flinch. He did not.
