Page 8 of Rhapsody of Ruin
I forced the fire back into its cage. I could not burn here. Not yet.
I bowed, minimally, no deeper than law required. “Then so be it,” I said, my voice steady.
When I straightened, my gaze locked with Elowyn’s. For a heartbeat, only that connection existed.
Her eyes were cool, but something sharp flickered behind them. Understanding. Injury. The knowledge that we were both trapped in her mother’s cage, and neither of us would escape unscathed.
I turned from the dais before the court could see more.
At the base of the steps, I flicked a glance to Torian. His jaw was tight, but he inclined his head, already reading my unspoken command. Gather the entourage.
Korrath straightened from his place against the wall, his cane tapping once, deliberate. He would map every vantage point in this hall before the night ended.
Brenn leaned close as I passed, his voice low but fierce. “Want me to start a rumor of my own?”
“Yes,” I said softly. “Listen. Find who repeats which line. Bring me their names.”
Draven stretched lazily, blond hair gleaming as he fell in step. “I’ll make sure the right ears hear the wrong things.”
The court still murmured behind us, savoring my humiliation. I let them. For now.
But as we passed beneath the silver chandelier, shards of fractured light dancing over my armor, I swore to myself: this cage would not hold me forever.
Not me. Not Elowyn. Not Drakaryn.
They would learn what it meant to bind a dragon.
Chapter 6
Elowyn
The Great Hall of Masks was a cathedral of hunger tonight. The chandeliers dripped silver light, each crystal prism pulsing faintly with glamour until the air itself shimmered. Illusions threaded through the space, woven with the precision of a spell: phantom birds with wings of starlight glided through the rafters; blossoms of silver unfurled and fell like drifting snow; mirrored floors reflected us all twice over, so every movement became a thousand. Perfume thickened the air, sharp florals laced with something richer, darker , the scent of enchantment meant to stir hearts and cloud judgment.
The courtiers gathered in their masks like carrion birds at a feast. Some wore delicate veils shaped like constellations, others great sweeping plumage that glinted with gemstones. All of them whispered, their words slithering through the air.
“The beast prince will break.”
“Or perhaps she will.”
I ignored them all. My face was hidden behind a mask of onyx edged with silver, my gown a waterfall of twilight silk. Every gesture was rehearsed, each step the echo of a lifetime of training to play the pawn. But my heart pounded hard enough to feel it in my fingertips. Tonight, I would be bound. Tonight, I would prove I was not disposable.
My mother presided at the dais, veil of silver trailing from her mask like liquid moonlight. Iriel lounged at her side, his mask leaving his smug smile visible. He looked at me with the satisfaction of a wolf circling a wounded deer.
And there, Rhydor.
The dragon prince stood at the far end of the hall, broad and unadorned, as though contempt alone shielded him from the glamour pressing down on the rest of us. His cloak was singed at the hem, his armor plain, his stance unyielding. He looked like he despised every inch of this hall. The courtiers whispered again, hungry.
The herald’s staff struck the floor. “Flame and twilight, bound for the survival of two realms.”
Rhydor was led to me at the center of the mirrored floor. Every mask tilted forward, breath held, as we faced one another. His eyes were storms, dark and searing.
“Clasp hands,” Vaeloria commanded.
I pressed my palm to his.
The world shattered.
A surge of energy roared through me, silver and fire colliding in a torrent that burned and froze all at once. My breath caught. His did too. Sparks leapt from our joined skin, crackling in the air. Glamour faltered; illusions warped, fracturing as though unable to hold steady around us.
