Page 65 of Rhapsody of Ruin
“Rhydor!” he barked, grabbing my arm with too much force. “Finally. Where have you been while our people starve?”
“Securing trade,” I snapped back, wrenching free. “What have you been doing? Drinking yourself into stupor while Cindralith empties its stores?”
His mouth twisted, part snarl, part wounded pride. “I fight my battles my way.”
“Then you fight them poorly.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the scuff of Thariac’s boots as he stepped between us. “The ration stores, my lord,” he said pointedly.
I turned on my heel, forcing my fury down.
***
The stores were worse than I feared.
Barrels of grain stood half-empty. Casks of salted fish reeked of rot. Mothers lined the courtyard beyond, clutching children whose eyes were too wide, too thin. Their cries echoed in the stone, scraping raw against my chest.
In the great hall, the council bickered like carrion crows. Lords shouted of hoarding, of bandits, of Fae sabotage. Their masks of pride had cracked, revealing only hunger and desperation.
I strode into the hall, my cloak sweeping behind me, and the noise stilled.
“Silence,” I commanded. My voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. “You shame yourselves. You shame Drakaryn.”
A murmur rippled.
I raised a hand, pointing toward the grain ledgers sprawled across the table. “From this day forward, no wagons will travel without Ashenblade guard. Any lord caught hoarding will see his stores seized and redistributed. Any who spread rumor of surrender will find themselves stripped of title.”
One man bristled. “And if we resist?”
I let my eyes burn with dragonfire, heat licking my throat. “Then you resist your prince. And you know what becomes of traitors.”
The hall fell silent.
***
Valyn, ever eager, pressed forward when the session ended. His youth still clung to him, eyes too bright, hands too restless. “Brother, give me command of the patrols. Let me prove myself.”
I gripped his shoulder, steady but firm. “Your fire is not yet tempered. Wait.”
His jaw tightened, but he bowed.
Later, Eirik joined me, slower, deliberate. His scars caught the firelight, his eyes weary but sharp. “If you need a regent…”
I studied him. Eirik had fought in the Firestorm Campaign, had bled when I bled. He bore wounds that made him cautious, measured. Not eager like Valyn, not reckless like Kylian. Stable.
Torian’s voice echoed in my ear:Choose the one who steadies, not the one who burns.
That night, I convened the council again.
“Eirik will serve as regent,” I announced, my voice ringing through the hall. “His word is mine until I return.”
A murmur rose, some protest, some relief. Eirik bowed his head, solemn.
I laid my hand on the table, fingers splayed over the carved crest of Aurelius. “Drakaryn will not fall while I breathe. This is only a beginning. I will return in a fortnight. Until then, you will obey.”
***
The days that followed were a blur of steel and order. I walked the garrison, my boots crunching over frost, my eyes measuring every soldier. I barked drills, enforced discipline, remindedthem of who we were. The banner of Aurelius snapped in the cold wind once more, not limp but alive.
