Page 38 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Elowyn

The birthing wing of Shadowspire was a place of whispers.

I had walked those halls once as a child, trailing after my mother while she inspected the chambers.

Even then I had felt the weight of it, the silence that was not reverence but control.

The corridors curved too perfectly, each corner calculated so that no one could walk them unseen.

The walls carried a faint hum from the wards embedded in their stone, like bees trapped in amber, always buzzing, never free.

Today, as I ascended the spiral stair that led to that wing, I felt those same vibrations crawl over my skin. The closer I drew to Amara’s chamber, the tighter the wards pressed, until it seemed the very stones whispered: Not yours. Not yours. Not yours.

My slippers clicked softly on the black marble steps.

Each sound echoed, too loud, too telling.

Above, I caught the faint glimmer of ward-light burning along the archways: pale silver threads woven into the air, each line pulsing faintly in rhythm with the Queen’s decree.

My mother had ordered this place sealed, controlled, suffocating.

Of course she had. Vaeloria could never allow life to come into this world without her hand on its first breath.

When I reached the birthing hall itself, two midwives stood guard before the door. They wore crescent-shaped masks of ivory, their mouths hidden, their eyes sharp as hawks. Their gowns were spotless, their hands folded with the stillness of women trained to obey orders, not instincts.

They bowed, stiff and shallow. One lifted her head again, eyes narrowing. “Your Highness.”

“I wish to see her,” I said. My voice was calm, the way my mother had trained me: cool and unyielding, polished into something that expected obedience without question.

The elder of the two inclined her head a fraction, her mask gleaming in the candlelight. “Her Majesty ordered rest. Her Highness Amara is not to be disturbed.”

The hum of the wards seemed to grow louder, pressing against my ears. I folded my hands in front of me, hiding the way my nails dug into my palms. “My mother ordered me to oversee her welfare. Shall I tell her midwives barred my way?”

A faint flicker crossed the woman’s gaze. But her spine remained straight. “The Queen’s instructions were explicit.”

I stepped closer, letting the sweep of my cloak whisper across the stone. “Then you put yourself between the Queen and her daughter. Are you prepared to defend that choice when she asks why I bring no report?”

The second midwife shifted. Their silence was not defiance but calculation. I could feel time slipping through my fingers, every heartbeat a risk that someone else might arrive, someone less willing to bend rules, someone loyal only to Vaeloria.

And then, salvation.

“Let her in,” a brisk voice said from behind me.

I turned to see Nyssa striding down the corridor, her basket hooked over one arm, steam rising from the pouch she carried. The sharp scent of herbs filled the air, bitter, earthy, commanding. Her gown was simple, her mask absent, her expression all cool practicality.

“The Princess comes with me,” she continued, not waiting for their reply. “Unless you’d prefer to tell the Queen that I was delayed while her healer was barred from her patient.”

The midwives stiffened. Their mouths hidden, their displeasure unreadable, but their eyes flashed before they stepped aside.

Nyssa brushed past them, skirts whispering, and murmured as she did, “Quickly.”

I followed. The door closed behind us with a heavy thud, the wards sealing us inside.

The chamber was dim, lit only by a trio of tall candles that burned blue-white with ward-flame. The air was thick with herbs, sweat, and the faint copper tang of blood. The stone walls swallowed sound; even my breath felt too loud.

Amara lay propped against pillows, her hair damp against her temples. Her skin gleamed pale with exertion, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing them. One hand rested on her swollen belly, protective and fierce.

When she saw me, her lips thinned. “Princess.”

I crossed to her bedside, lowering myself into the chair at her side. “How are you?”

Her mouth twisted. “As well as a prisoner who waits to give birth to a weapon can be.” Her gaze cut to Nyssa, who had begun unpacking her basket, laying out cloth and steaming bowls. “You risk much bringing her here.”

“Better to risk now than regret later,” Nyssa replied briskly. She poured something pungent into a cup and set it within Amara’s reach. “Drink.”

Amara ignored the cup, her eyes never leaving me. “What is it you want, Elowyn? To see me suffer? To reassure yourself that I am still penned like a lamb?”

“I came because you are not safe here,” I said.

Her laugh was bitter, short. “Safer here than wandering the woods heavy with child.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You are wrong. The danger is not outside these walls. It is within them.”

Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”

I hesitated, my throat dry. To speak the truth aloud was to give it power. But there was no choice. “I overheard my mother. She does not mean for your child to live.”

For the first time, fear cracked her composure. Her hand stilled over her belly. “What are you saying?”

“She intends to use the birth as sacrifice,” I whispered. My hand slipped into my sleeve and withdrew the folded scrap of parchment I had hidden there. I laid it across her lap. “See for yourself.”

She unfolded it slowly, her fingers trembling. The ink shimmered faintly, preserved by protective spell. The words were cramped but legible: Blood of dragon and necromancer, offered at threshold, will bind veil anew.

Amara’s lips parted. She inhaled sharply, a sound like breaking glass. Her head shook once, violently, as if denial alone could shatter the truth. “No. She needs him. She needs, ”

“She needs power,” I cut in. My voice was sharper than I intended, my nails digging crescents into my palm. “Not him. Not you. Only what you carry. Once it is taken, you will be nothing to her.”

She stared down at the parchment, her face drained of color. Her breath came too fast, shallow, uneven.

“No,” she whispered again, softer, desperate. “No.”

The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the crackle of candle-flame. I could see her fear wrestling with hope, denial strangling belief.

Finally she whispered, “There must be someone.”

“There is,” I said gently. “Your family. You are not forgotten.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and cutting. “You know nothing of my family.”

“Then tell me,” I urged, leaning closer. “If you want your child to live, you must tell me who can protect him.”

Her lips trembled. She looked away, to the dark corner of the chamber. When she spoke, it was barely audible.

“Mortaine.”

The name echoed in my chest like a bell. I had read it once in old court ledgers, long buried. A name tied to whispers of treachery and power.

“My mother’s sister,” Amara said, her voice steadier now, though her eyes glistened. “Lady Jolie Mortaine. If she lives, she will be near Grenoble. Near Greneford.”

“Then we will get him to her,” I promised. My hand slid over hers, covering it gently. “He will live.”

Her fingers clutched mine, desperate. “And me?”

The question tore through me. I had no answer.

Before I could try, Nyssa cleared her throat softly. “I can prepare supplies. Herbs for strength. Cloth for swaddling. Water. Quietly. No one will question me.”

Amara sagged against her pillows, the strength gone from her limbs. “Then it is decided.”

I rose, tucking the ledger scrap back into my sleeve, sealing the vow in ink and resolve. My legs shook beneath my gown, though I forced my steps to remain steady.

I slipped from the chamber while Nyssa busied herself with herbs. The door shut behind me with a soft click, the wards thrumming like a warning.

The corridor was not empty.

Kyssa Aurelius stood at the far end, her dark hair streaked with mahogany catching the candlelight. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger, her gaze sharp.

“Cousin,” I greeted, my voice smooth though my pulse thundered.

She inclined her head slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. She said nothing, but the weight of her stare was enough. She had seen me leave Amara’s chamber. She would not forget.

I glided past her, cloak trailing, face serene. Inside, my stomach churned.

At the base of the stair, Nyssa caught up to me. She pressed a folded scrap into my palm. “Supplies by nightfall,” she whispered.

I closed my fingers over hers in silent thanks.

And then I stepped into the bright cruelty of Shadowspire once more, my mask sliding back into place.

Everything had changed.

The child must live.

Even if it meant betraying my mother. Even if it meant lying to my husband. Even if it meant losing myself beneath the weight of my own masks.

I would do it.

For him.