Page 58 of Rhapsody of Ruin
“Together,” she whispered.
And then she was gone, gliding down the eastern stair, her mask sliding back into place, every inch the dutiful princess once more.
I shifted back, pulling cloak and steel around me. Torian joined at my side, face hard. We descended the western stair, every step measured, every glance calculated.
The court would see composure. They would not see the pact forged on a mountain ledge. They would not see the crack in the Shroud. They would not see the truth burning in my chest.
But I carried them all the same.
Chapter 26
Elowyn
The birthing wing of Shadowspire was a place of whispers. I had walked those halls once as a child, trailing after my mother while she inspected the chambers. Even then I had felt the weight of it, the silence that was not reverence but control. The corridors curved too perfectly, each corner calculated so that no one could walk them unseen. The walls carried a faint hum from the wards embedded in their stone, like bees trapped in amber, always buzzing, never free.
Today, as I ascended the spiral stair that led to that wing, I felt those same vibrations crawl over my skin. The closer I drew to Amara’s chamber, the tighter the wards pressed, until it seemed the very stones whispered:Not yours. Not yours. Not yours.
My slippers clicked softly on the black marble steps. Each sound echoed, too loud, too telling. Above, I caught the faint glimmer of ward-light burning along the archways: pale silver threads woven into the air, each line pulsing faintly in rhythm with the Queen’s decree. My mother had ordered this place sealed, controlled, suffocating. Of course she had. Vaeloria could never allow life to come into this world without her hand on its first breath.
When I reached the birthing hall itself, two midwives stood guard before the door. They wore crescent-shaped masks of ivory, their mouths hidden, their eyes sharp as hawks. Their gowns were spotless, their hands folded with the stillness of women trained to obey orders, not instincts.
They bowed, stiff and shallow. One lifted her head again, eyes narrowing. “Your Highness.”
“I wish to see her,” I said. My voice was calm, the way my mother had trained me: cool and unyielding, polished into something that expected obedience without question.
The elder of the two inclined her head a fraction, her mask gleaming in the candlelight. “Her Majesty ordered rest. Her Highness Amara is not to be disturbed.”
The hum of the wards seemed to grow louder, pressing against my ears. I folded my hands in front of me, hiding the way my nails dug into my palms. “My mother ordered me to oversee her welfare. Shall I tell her midwives barred my way?”
A faint flicker crossed the woman’s gaze. But her spine remained straight. “The Queen’s instructions were explicit.”
I stepped closer, letting the sweep of my cloak whisper across the stone. “Then you put yourself between the Queen and her daughter. Are you prepared to defend that choice when she asks why I bring no report?”
The second midwife shifted. Their silence was not defiance but calculation. I could feel time slipping through my fingers, every heartbeat a risk that someone else might arrive, someone less willing to bend rules, someone loyal only to Vaeloria.
And then, salvation.
“Let her in,” a brisk voice said from behind me.
I turned to see Nyssa striding down the corridor, her basket hooked over one arm, steam rising from the pouch she carried. The sharp scent of herbs filled the air, bitter, earthy, commanding. Her gown was simple, her mask absent, her expression all cool practicality.
“The Princess comes with me,” she continued, not waiting for their reply. “Unless you’d prefer to tell the Queen that I was delayed while her healer was barred from her patient.”
The midwives stiffened. Their mouths hidden, their displeasure unreadable, but their eyes flashed before they stepped aside.
Nyssa brushed past them, skirts whispering, and murmured as she did, “Quickly.”
I followed. The door closed behind us with a heavy thud, the wards sealing us inside.
The chamber was dim, lit only by a trio of tall candles that burned blue-white with ward-flame. The air was thick with herbs, sweat, and the faint copper tang of blood. The stone walls swallowed sound; even my breath felt too loud.
Amara lay propped against pillows, her hair damp against her temples. Her skin gleamed pale with exertion, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing them. One hand rested on her swollen belly, protective and fierce.
When she saw me, her lips thinned. “Princess.”
I crossed to her bedside, lowering myself into the chair at her side. “How are you?”
Her mouth twisted. “As well as a prisoner who waits to give birth to a weapon can be.” Her gaze cut to Nyssa, who had begun unpacking her basket, laying out cloth and steaming bowls. “You risk much bringing her here.”
