Page 7 of Rhapsody of Ruin
Chapter 5
Rhydor
The throne hall of Shadowspire was designed to break men long before they reached the queen. Tiered steps climbed toward the dais where Vaeloria sat like the moon incarnate, her silver mask gleaming beneath a chandelier that dripped with a hundred crystal teardrops. Each prism caught the twilight lanterns and fractured them until the hall seemed spun from cold fire. The pillars that lined the chamber were inlaid with the tablets of Shroud Law, etched in silver so fine it glowed faintly on its own. Every word of it was a weapon, ready to be unsheathed at her command.
The courtiers gathered in clusters along the lower tiers, their masks elaborate, feathers, thorns, half-faces glimmering with gemstones. They murmured like crows, their voices carrying easily in the enchanted acoustics of the chamber. The air tasted faintly metallic, glamour thickening it until even breath felt measured.
The herald’s staff struck once, twice, thrice. “Prince Rhydor Aurelius, of House Aurelius of Drakaryn, son of Maelgor.” His voice rang against the stone like judgment.
I stepped forward, boots echoing as I mounted the first steps. My veterans remained at the base, lined against the walls, dragon steel sealed in wrappings as commanded. Torian’s gaze flicked up to me, sharp and watchful, before he folded his arms across his chest. Kyssa sat rigid among them, dragonbone collar gleaming, defiance painted in every line of her posture.
At the dais, Elowyn sat at her mother’s right hand. Her gown was woven of twilight silk that shimmered faintly as though it drank the lanternlight. Her mask was simpler than most, but itdid nothing to hide the sharp cut of her cheekbones or the cool precision of her gaze. She sat as if carved from glass, her hands folded neatly, her spine unyielding.
For a moment, our eyes met. Only a flicker, only long enough for the edges of the room to blur around me. The memory of her voice the night before, calm even under ridicule, tightened something low in my chest. She hated me. Perhaps she should. And still, I wanted her to see me not only as the dragon prince forced into her mother’s cage, but as a man who did not break.
Vaeloria lifted her hand. The murmurs quieted. “Prince Rhydor.”
I stopped at the foot of the dais, standing tall beneath her gaze. The silver chandelier painted my armor in shards of light.
“I have heard your arguments,” she said, voice like velvet drawn taut across a blade. “Now, before this court, speak your decision.”
Every mask tilted toward me. Every breath hung waiting.
I drew mine slowly, feeling the burn of my pride against the inside of my ribs. Then I said, “I will accept the marriage.”
A ripple of whispers shivered through the hall. The words tasted like ash on my tongue, but I spoke them clearly, without hesitation.
“To secure peace between Ash and Wonder,” I continued, “I will take Princess Elowyn as my wife.”
Her name left my mouth like a spark in dry tinder. My gaze flicked to her again. She did not move, did not speak. But her hands twitched once against her gown before she stilled them.
“But there is one stipulation.” I let my voice cut across the chamber, sharper now. “We will reside in Emberhold, the seat of House Aurelius. It is precedent that foreign consorts live withintheir spouse’s domain. Such has been recorded in the annals of both Drakaryn and Valliere. This marriage will be no different.”
A hush fell, sharp and anticipatory.
Sylara’s laughter broke it, soft and sharp as the slice of a knife. She raised her fan to her lips, hiding a smile that still reached her eyes. “Novel,” Maelith murmured into his ledger as he dipped his quill, the word echoing through the hall like a cough wrapped in disdain.
Iriel leaned forward, mask gleaming faintly. His smile was thin, his voice purring with amusement. “Residing in Ash… might be educational.” He let the pause linger, smirk tilting. “Imagine what our people could learn, watching a dragon attempt diplomacy in his own nest.”
Titters broke among the nobles, silks rustling as fans fluttered.
I did not look away.
And then Vaeloria spoke, her voice ringing with finality. “No.”
The word cracked through the hall, echoing against stone and silver.
Her mask tilted, and I felt her eyes behind it, cold and unyielding. “Forever in Shadowspire.”
The words fell heavy as chains.
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall, rising like a tide. Some nobles bowed their heads toward her, reverent. Others whispered sharp delight. The trap snapped shut, and the court reveled in the sound of it.
Elowyn’s face remained serene, but her hands tightened once, hidden within her sleeves.
Heat flared in my chest, rage and humiliation twisting together. I had offered compromise. She had made a prison.
My gaze swept the hall. I counted allies, fence-sitters, wolves. Sylara, smiling behind her fan, watching me with interest. Maelith, already writing, each stroke of his quill sealing precedent. Iriel, lounging with satisfaction, his smirk daring me to rage.
