Page 39 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Rhydor

The clang of steel on steel rang across the practice yard, sharp and eager, carrying with it the scent of iron, sweat, and damp stone.

The yard was my refuge in Shadowspire, the only place that felt remotely familiar.

No illusions warped the ground here. No masks glittered with judgment.

Only bare stone, scarred with years of sparring, and the breath of men who knew the taste of real battle.

But that morning, the rhythm was off.

My veterans drilled in pairs, Brenn laughing too loudly as he slipped Tharos’s guard; Draven posturing, hair glinting in the half-light; Korrath watching with his blind eye turned toward danger because he liked the way it unsettled opponents.

Torian observed, silent and calculating, every movement recorded like lines in a ledger.

Their presence steadied me. But the tension beneath it all coiled like a drawn bowstring.

The gate guards stiffened.

Boots struck stone in heavy rhythm, too precise for Fae courtiers, too familiar to ignore. I turned toward the yard entrance, already knowing who it must be.

General Thariac.

He strode through the arch, his cloak still dusted with ash from travel, his armor plain but polished, the sigil of Emberhold burned black against the breastplate.

His presence carried the scent of home, smoke, steel, the faint sulfur tang of dragon forges.

For a moment, my chest tightened. Drakaryn had come to me, unbidden, demanding I face what I had tried to hold at a distance.

The guards shifted nervously, spears lowering instinctively as if they weren’t sure whether to treat him as ally or threat. Shadowspire had no patience for unannounced arrivals.

“Stand down,” I called, my voice cutting across the yard.

They froze, then obeyed, though unease lingered in the set of their shoulders.

Thariac’s dark eyes swept the yard, assessing, as if cataloguing every scar, every man, every fault. When they landed on me, his jaw tightened.

“My prince,” he said, bowing his head just enough to respect the bond between us but not enough to flatter.

“General.” I stepped forward, keeping my voice steady, restrained. The sight of him pulled at something deep in me, memories of campaigns fought shoulder to shoulder, of nights by the forge, of the firestorm we had survived and the ghosts it left behind. “You come without summons.”

“Drakaryn cannot wait for summons,” he replied. His voice was gravel, worn by command. “Our stores thin. Our council fractures. And your brother…” He paused, the silence heavier than words. “Your brother is chaos incarnate.”

The yard stilled. Even Brenn, usually irrepressible, sobered, his laughter dying on his lips.

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. Kylian. Always Kylian. Reckless, impassioned, unable to see beyond his own wants. His absence gnawed at me like rot.

“Speak plainly,” I ordered.

Thariac’s gaze was unwavering. “The supply lines from Grenoble falter. Wagons vanish. Bandits, some say. Others whisper Fae interference. Rations run thin in Cindralith. Mothers water porridge so their children might eat. The council quarrels like dogs over scraps. Without your hand, they tear the kingdom apart. And Kylian…” His mouth twisted.

“He drinks, he rages, he locks himself in Emberhold and will not answer summons. The banner of Aurelius hangs over an empty hall.”

My chest burned with fury and shame. Fury at my brother for his dereliction. Shame that my kingdom starved while I sat in a palace of masks and illusions.

Torian stepped forward, ever the strategist. “We cannot ignore this,” he said sharply. “Every day we linger here, Drakaryn bleeds. You must return. Even a brief appearance will remind them who leads.”

Korrath tapped his cane against the stone, the sound deliberate, commanding attention.

“And yet,” he said, voice low, “if he abandons Shadowspire now, the Fae will smell weakness. They’ll whisper he cannot manage both kingdoms. They’ll take his absence as excuse to bind us tighter.

” His blind eye gleamed beneath the patch, unseeing yet sharper than most sight. “Optics matter.”

Draven flicked his golden hair back, smirking faintly though tension sharpened his eyes. “Better to starve prettily in Shadowspire than look desperate in Emberhold, eh?” His words were careless, but his hand tightened on the talisman at his throat, the one he claimed bound him to Ashura.

“Enough,” I snapped. The word cracked through the yard like a whip.

They fell silent, though the air still pulsed with unspoken argument.

I turned back to Thariac. “What would you have me do?”

“Come home,” he said simply. “Stand before them. Let them see their prince still breathes, still fights. The banner needs a face. Without it, all we built turns to ash.”

The weight of his words pressed against me, heavier than armor.

I wanted to go. Gods, I wanted it. To ride back through Emberhold’s gates, to breathe air that smelled of stone and smoke and not of perfumed deceit. To see my people, to remind them that dragons do not yield.

But another image rose, just as vivid: Elowyn’s face in the mountain dawn, her hand slipping into mine, her lips whispering together.

I was not only a prince of Ash. I was her husband, however reluctant, and leaving her now would fracture what we had only just begun to build.

Duty pulled at me from both sides, threatening to rip me in two.

“I cannot leave Shadowspire without consequence,” I said slowly.

“Consequences already bloom in Drakaryn,” Thariac countered. “Better to answer them than hide.”

The veterans watched me, their loyalty sharp as blades. Torian’s eyes demanded action. Korrath’s caution whispered restraint. Thariac’s presence shouted of home.

I turned away, striding toward the practice table where maps lay scattered. My hands moved before my thoughts caught up, pulling ink and quill, scratching directives onto parchment.

“Ravens,” I ordered. “One to each stronghold. Ration stores are to be guarded. Wagons escorted by Ashenblades. Hoarding punished swiftly. No council decrees without my seal.”

Brenn darted to obey, snatching the rolled messages as I sealed them with wax. The scent of hot resin filled the yard, sharp and binding.

Thariac watched, his jaw tight. “Words will not hold the kingdom, my prince. They need you.”

I pressed the final seal and looked up, meeting his stare. “I will not abandon what I build here.”

Silence.

Then, softer, “You will not abandon her,” Thariac said, his voice low with understanding.

I did not answer. Could not.

He bowed, sharp and respectful, then turned to the veterans. “Then prepare a kit. In case sense returns to him.”

The veterans moved with efficiency, each step echoing my divided heart. They packed as soldiers do, quiet, deliberate, weapons sharpened, cloaks folded for travel. The scrape of leather, the scent of oil, the clink of steel filled the yard like a drumbeat of inevitability.

I turned to Torian. “If I go, even briefly, you keep pressure on the trade asks. Push until the court bends. Remind them their survival is bound to ours.”

He inclined his head. “You have my word.”

I looked back toward the palace, its spires stabbing the Shroud like spears, its windows glowing faintly with glamour. Behind those walls waited Elowyn, my wife, my ally, my tether to a future I had not wanted but now could not ignore.

I clenched my fists, torn between two worlds, two duties, two hearts.

“I will speak with her first,” I said at last, voice rough.

Because whatever choice I made, it would not be mine alone.