Page 4 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)
Elowyn
The Moonveil arcade was one of my mother’s most prized creations, and one of the few places in Shadowspire where twilight softened into something nearly gentle.
Glass panels arched overhead, etched with constellations that shimmered faintly with glamour, so the entire corridor seemed to glow as though lit from within.
Water whispered along channels cut into the floor, the streams weaving silver paths that caught the lanternlight.
Illusion and architecture bound together here, a constant reminder that Lunareth lived not only by shadow but by spectacle.
Nyssa walked at my side, her healer’s mask pale as bone, a tablet of parchment balanced against her arm.
She murmured the sequence of duties for the evening banquet: placements for nobles, music cues, the sequence of dances, which vintages of wine were expected at which hour.
I nodded in rhythm, only half listening, my thoughts still circling the wound of the night before.
Rhydor Aurelius’s words, the sight of Kyssa’s humiliation, Iriel’s cruel smile , they lingered like poison under my skin.
We turned a corner, our footsteps echoing against the mirrored glass, and came upon a knot of courtiers gathered like crows. Their laughter was sharp, cruel, and flavored with glamour that made it echo louder than it should.
At their center was a Namyr servant girl, scarcely more than fourteen.
A shimmer of silver magic clung to her body like chains, forcing her limbs into unnatural grace as she mimicked the gait of one of the noblewomen.
Her feet stumbled against the heated glass tiles, and she gasped, pain catching in her throat.
The courtiers laughed harder.
One lord leaned on his cane, his mask carved into the shape of a wolf’s sneer. “Almost convincing,” he drawled. “With a little more training, perhaps she could pass.”
“Training animals takes patience,” another replied. “And discipline.”
Laughter swelled, sharp as knives.
Heat flared in my chest. I quickened my pace, skirts whispering as I stepped directly into their circle. “Drop the glamour,” I said. My voice was formal, cool, giving no space for them to pretend I asked instead of commanded.
The glamour faltered, shimmered, then collapsed. The girl crumpled onto the glass, her bare feet blistered and red. She whimpered softly, curling against the pain.
“Soft princess,” one courtier muttered, disdain heavy.
“Queen’s pet,” another added, snapping his fan closed with a crack.
Nyssa dropped to her knees at once, cloth already in her hand. She pressed it against the girl’s burns, whispering comfort.
I gestured for the girl to rise. “Go,” I said quietly. “Rest.”
She hesitated, glancing between the nobles and me, fear wide in her eyes.
“Go,” I repeated, firmer.
She scrambled up, clutching Nyssa’s cloth, and fled down the corridor, her footsteps splashing faintly against the water channels.
The courtiers jeered, masks tilting with disdain. One raised a brow. “The Shroud is kept by masks, not mercy.”
I ignored him. I turned instead to the steward at the arcade’s end, who had frozen mid-step at the spectacle. “Record a stipend for the Namyr girl’s family,” I said, my voice sharp. “Two months’ wages. Signed under my seal.”
He blinked, startled, then hurried forward with ink and parchment. I pressed the seal against it firmly, letting the wax hiss.
The courtiers exchanged looks, amusement sharpening. To them, my gesture was weakness. To me, it was justice.
Movement stirred at the far end of the corridor. My mother.
Vaeloria glided toward us, her veil trailing like smoke, her mask gleaming beneath the lanterns. She had seen everything , she always did. She stopped before me, gaze sweeping the lingering courtiers into silence.
“Elowyn.” Her voice was quiet, but the weight of it filled the arcade. She beckoned me aside.
I followed.
We stepped into the alcove between two glass panels, the constellations glowing faintly above us. The water channels whispered at our feet. For a heartbeat, it was only her and me.
“Mercy weakens,” she said softly. Her eyes, pale silver, caught the light beneath her mask. “Masks keep peace.”
The words stung, sharper because I knew she believed them.
I inclined my head, accepting the rebuke without apology. If I spoke now, if I defended myself, it would only feed her judgment.
Her gaze lingered a moment longer, then she turned and drifted away, her silks whispering against the glass.
I stood still, breath held, until the sound of her steps faded.
The offense hit deep , the humiliation of being scolded before courtiers, of being reminded yet again that to her, compassion was failure.
But I would not let it hollow me. Pride stiffened my spine. I would win respect not through cruelty but through victories. On the floor, in the games of wit, in the battles they thought me too soft to fight.
I drew in a slow breath and turned back to Nyssa. “Give the servant two days to recover,” I told her quietly. “And send word to me which courtiers laughed.”
She nodded, mask hiding her expression but not her eyes, which glinted with quiet approval.
We walked on, the laughter of the nobles still echoing faintly behind us.
I told myself I did not care.
But as the lanternlight fractured across the mirrored floor and my own reflection stared back at me a dozen times, I swore I would not let them see me weak again.
Not in this arcade. Not in this court. Not ever.