Page 12 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Rhydor

The colonnades of Shadowspire were built to watch men falter.

I had known it from the first time I set foot here: the arches rose too high, the pillars too pale, the stone inlaid with veins of silver that pulsed faintly like veins in living flesh.

The whole place breathed around me. Ward-light shimmered in the grooves and painted the gardens in shifting glimmers.

Even walking here felt like stepping inside a ribcage.

I walked anyway. My boots rang hard against marble, the sound deliberate, a drumbeat through the hush of the inner gardens. My veterans paced with me, five shadows, five anchors I trusted in a world of masks.

Torian, always at my shoulder, quiet and sharp-eyed, calculating each angle like a strategist playing three games of stones at once.

Korrath, his cane tapping softly, one eye blind, the other sharp as a hawk’s, listening harder than most men saw.

Tharos, the iron-handed giant, grim silence his armor, every motion careful and weighted.

Draven, golden-haired, all languid charm and lazy posture, hiding the way his gaze darted like a blade seeking soft flesh.

And Brenn, flame-haired, loud, irreverent, humming a tavern song under his breath, the sound jarring in the cold air of Shadowspire.

They were all different kinds of fire, and tonight, the court wanted to douse us.

Masks turned toward us as we walked: feathers, jewels, silver filigree. Their whispers slithered, faint but sharp enough to sting. I caught only fragments, “beast prince,” “barbarian,” “dragon brutes.” The usual.

Brenn muttered loud enough for them to hear, “They stare as if they’ve never seen men before. Perhaps they haven’t.”

A few titters of laughter rose from the courtiers. Others stiffened, scandalized. Torian’s hand brushed mine briefly, a silent warning: do not take the bait. I breathed out slowly, controlled.

We rounded the curve of the colonnade. The gardens spread below, silver-lit ponds reflecting false stars, ivy-draped arches dripping with ward-fire, flowers that should not have bloomed at twilight glowing faintly with glamour. Beautiful. Hollow.

That was when the knot of nobles ahead pulled a boy into the open.

He was small, a Namyr servant, no older than twelve. Thin wrists, wide eyes, tray tumbling from his hands as a masked lord shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling. Wine spilled like blood across the pale stone.

“Insolence,” the noble hissed, his mask shaped like a fox, his voice smooth with cruelty. “He brushed my sleeve.”

The boy’s mouth moved in terrified apologies. Another lord flicked his fan sharply. “Mask him,” he said, and the chant began, ugly and eager. “Mask him. Mask him.”

The veterans stilled.

Tharos’s iron hand clenched, metal scraping faintly.

Brenn’s humming cut off, teeth bared in something that wanted to be a grin and wasn’t.

Korrath’s cane tapped twice, slow and deliberate.

Draven tilted his head, smiling lazily, but I saw the tension in his jaw.

Torian leaned toward me, his voice pitched low. “Restraint. Every action here is counted, brother.”

The boy whimpered as a noblewoman yanked him to his knees. His cheek struck the marble with a sharp crack. He cried out, high and thin, and the courtiers laughed.

I stopped walking. So did my men.

And then I felt her.

Elowyn stepped into the garden through the opposite arch. Twilight silk trailed behind her, her mask glinting like carved glass. She did not look at me. Not directly. But she tilted her mask a fraction, just enough that I knew: this is yours as much as mine .

The boy sobbed. A noble raised his hand to strike.

Elowyn’s voice sliced the air, cool and precise. “He obeyed the steward’s order. Service hierarchy is clear. He followed command.”

A ripple of murmurs swept the garden. She had invoked law.

My chest burned. I wanted to step in, to rip the boy from their grasp, to scorch the marble until the whole hall remembered what dragons were. But Torian’s hand brushed my arm. “Optics,” he murmured. “If you lose your temper now, they’ll make it proof of the beast.”

Korrath tapped his cane again. “Sometimes restraint cuts deeper.”

I clenched my fists. The boy whimpered again. Elowyn stood tall, her mask serene, every inch the queen she had been trained to be, but her voice held steel. She was daring me.

I stepped forward. My voice cracked like iron on stone. “Protocol stands. Envoys of the hall answer to captains, not nobles with idle hands. By your own law, the boy is faultless. The fault lies with you.”

Gasps. Whispers. Masks turned sharply toward me.

The fox-masked lord stiffened, fury trembling through his shoulders. The noblewoman who held the boy let her hand drop, reluctant.

And there, in the shadows, Maelith stood. Tall, gaunt, staff of black wood tipped with obsidian. His quill scratched faintly against parchment. He did not speak, but his eyes, dark, calculating, recorded every movement.

The courtiers released the boy, grudging, venom in every motion. He scrambled away, knees raw, tears streaking his face.

Elowyn did not move. Did not look at me. Did not thank me. She didn’t need to.

We both stepped back, retreating to opposite arches like duelists who had exchanged the first strike. The court buzzed like a hive disturbed.

Brenn muttered under his breath, “Well, that’ll give them something to chew.”

Draven chuckled softly. “He bit their law and spat it back at them. I almost enjoyed that.”

Tharos flexed his iron hand. “Almost?”

“Almost,” Draven said, smiling.

Korrath only shook his head. “Careful. A victory this early is bait.”

I said nothing. My eyes found Elowyn across the garden. She stood still, serene mask in place, but her hand twitched once against her gown before she stilled it.

Nyssa slipped through the crowd, swift as shadow, gathering the boy up, pulling him out of sight before the courtiers could change their minds.

Maelith closed his ledger with a snap. The sound echoed louder than it should have. He had seen. He had recorded. He would remember.

I folded my arms, forcing myself to stillness, even as fire roared in my chest. I wanted to storm across the garden, seize Elowyn’s hand, demand to know why she had pulled me in, why she kept standing against her own for me. But I stayed rooted.

Not yet.

I would not let them goad me into fire without fuel. I needed leverage. I needed the right moment.

So I bit down on my pride and stayed silent.

Elowyn’s mask tilted the faintest fraction, one last glance my way before she turned. Not gratitude. Not alliance. Something sharper.

Acknowledgment.

And acknowledgment could be more dangerous than either.