Page 69 of Rhapsody of Ruin
The veterans dispersed to set positions, leaving me a moment alone at the window.
The solar overlooked the inner courtyards of Shadowspire. Beyond the high walls, twilight pressed eternal, the Shroud rippling faintly as though strained by unseen hands. The air smelled of rain though no drops fell. Below, courtiers drifted in masked clusters, their voices rising like the buzz of flies.
I pressed a fist against the cold stone sill.
I thought of Emberhold’s banners, ragged but proud. Of the Fields of Bone where we had lost so much. Of the Hollowing, roiling black against the Obsidian Rise. In every battle, I had fought with fire and claw, with steel and blood. And now, now my weapon must be silence. Denial. A shield of words to keep her from ruin.
Whatever she had done, whatever she had hidden, none of it mattered.
I would stand for her.
Even if she hated me for it.
Even if the court believed neither of us.
Because the alternative, watching her dragged beneath the Masks, watching her shattered in ritual, was unthinkable.
I drew a long breath and straightened. The air tasted of iron, sharp in my lungs. The decision settled in me like cooled steel, heavy, unyielding.
When I turned back, Torian was waiting, a sheet of parchment in his hands. “Your words, if you choose them.”
I took it, scanning the lines: short, sharp, crafted to deny without defense.No betrayal. No heir concealed. Lunareth thrives only when Ash does. Our enemies are hunger and shadow, not lies.
It would do.
I set the parchment down and met my brother’s gaze. “Tomorrow, I stand.”
Chapter 32
Iriel
The chamber smelled of ink and smoke, and the hush of it suited me. The strategy room was small compared to the council floor, its walls paneled in pale wood carved with flowing script. Wards shimmered faintly across the grain, pulsing in rhythm with the Shroud outside. A table sat in the center, low and wide, strewn with scrolls, tablets, and wax seals. Candles dripped steadily, the wax pooling like blood on the polished surface.
I traced a finger along Vaeloria’s schedule, ink still fresh on the vellum. The council sessions, the feast of the Masks, the audience hours. The lines of her power laid bare in careful script. My mother had once ruled every hour of her day with precision, every gesture sharpened into spectacle. Now the cracks showed. Illness gnawed at her stamina, leaving gaps, lapses, weakness.
And weakness was a door, if one knew how to push it open.
I marked the moment. The Masking could be raised on the third hour of council, when the arcades would be full, when the weight of eyes pressed heaviest, when Rhydor’s denial would still hang raw in the air. To time it differently would invite resistance. To time it perfectly would make it inevitable.
Maelith cleared his throat softly. He stood across the table, tall and gaunt, his hair streaked with gray, his eyes dark as wet ink. He had served the crown for longer than I had lived, but tonight he served me. He drew a folded parchment from his sleeve, the silver wax seal glinting faintly.
“The petition,” he said, laying it flat. “Citing precedent from the Dusk Accords. Betrayal of vows, concealment of heirs, dereliction of royal duty. Signed by twelve noble houses. Enough to force a hearing.”
I let my eyes linger on the names scrawled in elegant script. Each signature a blade pointed not by me, but for me. That was the beauty of it.
Sylara leaned against the edge of the table, her fan half-open, her eyes bright with a predator’s delight. Her gown shimmered with starlight glamour, the fabric catching the faint silver glow of the wards. “And witnesses,” she said, her voice like honey cut with steel. “If you require them, I can provide. Servants saw her return at dawn. A knight escorted her. There are whispers enough to fill the arcades. I will see to it they are sharpened before morning.”
She snapped her fan shut, the sound sharp as a blade.
I inclined my head. “You will be helpful.”
She smiled. She knew the weight of that word in my mouth. Nottrusted,notbeloved,butuseful.
At the door, the Black Mask captain stood silent, his face hidden behind the lacquered helm that marked his station. His armor was dark as obsidian, polished until the candlelight slid across it without reflection. His presence filled the room with quiet menace.
“You will wait by the council doors,” I told him. “Not inside. Not yet. If the Masks are called, you enter only at the steward’s signal. Nothing more. You will not speak. You will not look at me. You will stand as the Shroud’s law made flesh.”
He bowed once, silent. The masks did not question. That was their strength, and their flaw.
