Page 40 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Elowyn

The Whitewood archive had always unsettled me.

The walls breathed with silence, carved from pale timber bleached almost silver, veined faintly as if the wood still carried memory.

Candles guttered along the alcoves, their light muted by spells so that flames never wavered enough to betray a reader’s expression.

The scent of dust and resin filled the air, sharp as memory.

Even the floor seemed to hush underfoot, every step softened by centuries of use.

I pressed deeper into the stacks, my palms clammy despite the chill. At my hip, a folded scrap of parchment burned like contraband. The coded route to Greneford, the lifeline that would carry Amara’s child away from Shadowspire, waited to be sealed, hidden, committed.

Nyssa lingered near the entrance, feigning interest in a shelf of herbals.

Her basket dangled from her arm, filled with the familiar scent of sage, rue, and bitterwood.

Her presence steadied me. But it also reminded me how thin this line was.

If she faltered, if I faltered, if anyone looked too closely, everything would collapse.

I slipped between shelves until I reached the small desk tucked against the northern wall. No one favored this alcove; the wards hummed faintly out of tune, their silver script flaking in places where centuries of scholars had traced them. Perfect for secrets.

I pulled the folded parchment from my sleeve. My heart thudded, loud as a war drum. Carefully, I slid the scrap into the hidden slot carved beneath the desk’s surface, a hollow so narrow my nails scraped wood. The page slid home with a whisper.

Done.

A breath escaped me, shaky. My hand lingered on the wood as though pressing it flat would press fate itself.

When I turned, Nyssa had drifted closer, her eyes sharp. “Sealed?”

“Yes.” My voice was lower than I intended. I forced steadiness into it. “No one will find it unless they already know.”

“Good.” She adjusted her basket, the herbs’ fragrance shifting with the motion. “Then all that remains is your cover.”

The cover. The mask I must wear even as the truth threatened to split me in two.

I straightened, pulling the calm mask of Vaeloria’s daughter over my face. “Moonshrine rites,” I said. “The Veilturn is approaching. Three days in seclusion. No one questions a princess who honors the veil.”

Nyssa’s lips thinned. “And Rhydor?”

The question landed like a blade between my ribs. I swallowed hard. “He will believe it. He must.”

“You underestimate him,” she murmured.

“Or overestimate myself.” My laugh was brittle.

I turned from the desk, my skirts whispering against the pale floor, and led us out of the archive. Every step carried the weight of duplicity.

In my private rooms, the air shifted.

Here, the glamour of Shadowspire’s halls softened.

Curtains of twilight silk filtered the ever-present glow of the Shroud outside, muting it into silver shadow.

The hearth whispered with low flames, scented faintly of cedar.

My writing table stood neat, scrolls aligned, quills trimmed to identical points, appearances mattered, even in solitude.

But tonight appearances must do more than soothe. They must deceive.

Nyssa set her basket on the table and immediately drew a warding line across my door with powdered salt and rue. The symbols glowed faintly, a shimmer like dragon’s breath, before fading invisible. “No caller will press past this without stalling. Long enough for you to hide what must be hidden.”

“Good,” I said softly, though my throat was tight.

I crossed to the wardrobe and drew out the gown I had prepared in secret, a simple traveling dress, pale gray, woven of sturdy wool that would not draw attention.

No court silks. No embroidered crests. I laid it across my bed and slid my hand along the hem where I had stitched a hidden pocket.

The cloth bulged faintly where a small blade could rest, or a coin purse, or both.

I layered a neutral cloak beside it, lined in charcoal, the hood deep enough to shadow my face. No one would mark me as a princess if I kept to the roads by night.

Behind me, Nyssa murmured as she arranged her herbs, their scents filling the room: sharp mint, bitter angelica, the soft cloy of feverfew. She glanced at me once, her eyes unreadable.

“This is a dangerous path,” she said at last.

“All paths are dangerous now.” My voice was quiet, but it did not shake.

A knock stirred the silence. Light, hesitant.

“Enter,” I called.

Amara shuffled in, her gown loose, her belly heavy before her. Her hair clung damp against her temples; exhaustion lined her face, but her eyes burned sharp.

“You should be resting,” I said, guiding her to the chair by the hearth.

Her lips curved bitterly. “Rest is for those who trust the ground beneath them.”

I knelt beside her, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was cold despite the fire. “The timing must be exact. No delays once the child is born.”

Her grip tightened. “You would do this alone?”

“Yes.” My throat ached. “No one else can risk it. Not Rhydor. Not even Nyssa. Only me.”

Her gaze pierced me. “And if you are caught?”

I held her eyes, though the weight of it threatened to crush me. “Then I will not be. He must live. That is all that matters.”

For a long moment, silence stretched. The fire crackled, its scent of cedar mingling with bitter herbs. Finally, Amara nodded, her shoulders sagging. “Then so be it.”

When she had gone, I set to work.

On my writing table, I laid a ledger, thick, bound in leather, inked with careful columns of temple dues and ritual notes. A forgery, but precise. If Vaeloria or her stewards searched my chamber, they would find only devotion.

I dipped my quill, the ink smelling faintly metallic, and scrawled a notice to the steward:

By command of the veil and the rites of Moonshrine, I, Elowyn Thalassa, enter seclusion at Veilturn. My absence will last three days. Let no summons disturb my vigil.

Each stroke of the quill cut like betrayal.

When the letter dried, I pressed my signet into wax and sealed it. The symbol gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a crescent bound in flame. A lie wrapped in devotion.

I folded the notice, sliding it into the courier’s slot by the door. My hand lingered on the wood, trembling.

Behind me, Nyssa’s voice was soft. “You could still tell him.”

I closed my eyes. The image rose unbidden, Rhydor’s hands on mine atop the mountain, his lips murmuring together. The way he had looked at me, as though my defiance made me strong, not weak.

“He would never allow it,” I whispered. “He would fight for the child, yes. But not like this. Not in secret. He would face my mother in open war, and all would be lost before the babe ever drew breath.”

Nyssa said nothing, but the silence pressed judgment heavier than words.

The final piece was the escort.

I drew fresh parchment and penned the summons in careful script:

Sir Thalen Morwyn, you are commanded to accompany Princess Elowyn to Moonshrine at Veilturn for rites of seclusion. You will serve as escort and guard for the duration, and none but you will be permitted attendance.

The ink gleamed. My chest tightened. Choosing Thalen meant no Aurelius veterans, no dragonborn to betray the path. Only one Fae knight, bound to my command. It was dangerous. But his fascination with dragons made him pliable, and his sense of honor might keep him silent.

I sealed the letter and laid it beside the steward’s notice. Two slips of parchment. Two lies made solid.

The room smelled thick with wax, herbs, cedar. My throat burned.

I turned to Nyssa, my mask slipping only enough to let her see the crack beneath. “It is done.”

She nodded once. “Then all that remains is to survive it.”

I glanced toward the window where the Shroud glowed faintly over Shadowspire, silver stretched thin, trembling with unseen cracks. My reflection in the glass wore serenity, but beneath it, I shook.

I whispered to the empty room, “Forgive me, Rhydor.”

Because when the time came, he would see my absence not as devotion to ritual but as betrayal.

And still, I would do it.

For the child.