Page 54 of Rhapsody of Ruin
“Tomorrow,” I said back, and went to sharpen the blade that would make grammar bleed.
Chapter 24
Elowyn
The first thing I felt was cold. The mountain air licked over my skin like teeth, sinking through the layers of wool and silk until it reached bone. I curled tighter beneath my cloak, but the chill had already claimed me. Then another sensation cut through it, steady, searing warmth pressed against my back, a line of heat running shoulder to hip, anchoring me against the frost.
Rhydor.
I kept my eyes closed for a moment longer, savoring the simple weight of his body beside mine. His arm was draped around my waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep, and his breath ghosted over the crown of my head in slow, unhurried rhythm. Dragons were supposed to be merciless, but he held me with the care of a man who feared I might vanish if he let go.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself pretend. Pretend I was only a woman waking to her husband on a mountain ledge, not a pawn shackled by politics, not a princess raised to be used. Pretend this warmth, this quiet, this closeness, was mine to keep.
The brazier we’d tended last night had burned to ash. The coals were dark, dusted white, no heat left to give. Mist curled over the edge of the ledge, seeping around us like breath from some ancient mouth. Above, the Shroud hung low across the sky, a bandage stretched too thin. It pulsed faintly, as if restless.
But none of it mattered compared to the steady hold he had on me.
I turned carefully in his arms, afraid to wake him, and found myself staring at him in profile. Rhydor Aurelius, eldest son of House Aurelius, prince of a kingdom starving after a century of ruin, looked nothing like the man who ruled council chamberswith steel in his voice. In sleep, the edges of him softened. The stern line of his jaw relaxed, his lips parted just enough to reveal the barest glint of teeth, his lashes casting shadows across sharp cheekbones.
He was beautiful. Terrifyingly so. A weapon at rest.
A thought came unbidden, one that made my chest ache: what would it be like if this was all he ever was with me? No pride, no fire, no weight of crown, just a man. My man.
The fantasy unraveled as quickly as it had come. I was too well trained to let it linger.
Still, my hand betrayed me. It lifted of its own accord, hovering just above his cheek, aching to touch. To feel the heat of him without gloves, without armor. I stopped myself a breath before contact. Touching him like this, uninvited, felt too much like claiming something that wasn’t mine.
As if sensing my hesitation, his grip tightened around my waist. He pulled me flush against him, his heat wrapping me whole. I froze, breath caught, until his eyes fluttered open.
Steel-gray irises, sharp even with sleep, locked on mine.
“You’re freezing,” he rasped, voice rough from slumber.
“You’re scalding,” I countered softly.
The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile but enough to weaken my resolve. “Then stay close. We balance each other.”
I should have pulled away. Instead, I tucked myself against his chest, feeling his body surround mine, and for once I let myself believe him.
We sat up when the cold demanded it. Rhydor reached into Torian’s satchel and pulled free a small parcel of bread. It was coarse, thick with grain, and smelled faintly of smoke from where it had been baked over open fire. He tore it into pieces with his strong fingers and handed one to me without flourish.
No servants. No ceremony. Just survival.
I bit into it. The taste was plain but real, grounding me in a way the feasts of Shadowspire never could. I chewed slowly, letting the silence stretch, the quiet between us companionable.
“Tell me something true,” I said at last, voice low, daring.
His eyes flicked to the horizon, where dawn strained against the Shroud. The line between night and day blurred, silver bleeding into gray.
“When I was a boy,” he said slowly, “I believed dragonfire could solve anything. If I burned bright enough, no one could touch me. No one could take what was mine.” He broke another piece of bread, his jaw tightening. “The Firestorm Campaign taught me different. Fire wins battles. It cannot feed a kingdom. It cannot bring back the dead.”
I swallowed hard. I had seen glimpses of that war in the eyes of every Drakaryn veteran who shadowed him. This was the first time I heard it in his voice.
My turn.
“When I was a child,” I said, “my mother told me masks kept us safe. That to be untouchable, we must never be known. I believed her. I clung to it, even when I hated the weight of the mask against my skin. But the longer I wear them, the less I know who I am beneath.”
He studied me as if the truth of me was something he could carve into memory. “You’re braver without one.”
