Page 41 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Rhydor

The hardest part of leaving Shadowspire was not the weight of politics or the danger of optics.

It was leaving her.

I told myself the kingdom demanded it. That Emberhold needed its prince more than I needed to keep watch over a wife who could more than hold her own. But when I stood in her chamber and said the words aloud, I nearly faltered.

“Elowyn,” I began, my voice low, careful. The brazier in her room smoldered faintly, cedar smoke curling around her, the scent of her clinging even when she wore her mask of composure. “I must return to Emberhold. Only for a brief time. Thariac’s reports are too grim to ignore.”

Her eyes lifted from the parchment she’d been pretending to study. Silver-gray, sharp as moonlight on steel. “You will go yourself?”

“Yes.” I crossed the room, every step deliberate. “I would ask you to come. To see Drakaryn with your own eyes, not just hear of it in council chambers.”

For a moment, something flickered across her face, longing, perhaps, or the shadow of some truth she would not speak. Then it was gone.

“My mother’s health falters,” she said softly. Her hands tightened on the edge of the parchment. “If I leave now, whispers will call it abandonment. They will say I fled as the veil trembles. I cannot.”

It was reason enough. Sound, practical. And yet something in me bristled.

“I will not be gone long,” I said. “A fortnight at most. The banner must be steadied, and then I will return.”

She inclined her head, the movement smooth, regal. “Then go. Do what you must.”

Her words gave permission, but her eyes did not. They held something else, distance, maybe even defiance. It needled me as I left her chamber, my cloak whispering against the stone floor.

***

Thariac awaited me in the courtyard with a minimal guard: Torian, Korrath, and a pair of veterans handpicked for silence.

My dragon blood urged me to fly the whole distance, but the optics demanded some semblance of ceremony.

We rode until the Shadowspire spires vanished into mist, then shifted into dragon form, our wings tearing across the sky.

The flight to Emberhold cut through cold winds, the air sharp as knives against my scales. Below, the mountains stretched black and smoldering, valleys dotted with pale farms gone thin. Smoke curled from forges, but it was thin, meager. A starving kingdom does not waste coal.

When I landed at Emberhold’s gates, the sight nearly undid me.

The fortress that had been my cradle looked diminished. The banners hung limp, their edges frayed. The stones were scarred, not from battle but from neglect. And when the gates creaked open, the guards did not snap to attention as they once had. Their eyes were hollow, their armor dented.

Inside, chaos reigned.

Kylian stormed down the hall to meet me, his hair unkempt, his clothes rumpled. His eyes burned with that familiar reckless fire, but behind it I saw the fray of a man unraveling.

“Rhydor!” he barked, grabbing my arm with too much force. “Finally. Where have you been while our people starve?”

“Securing trade,” I snapped back, wrenching free. “What have you been doing? Drinking yourself into stupor while Cindralith empties its stores?”

His mouth twisted, part snarl, part wounded pride. “I fight my battles my way.”

“Then you fight them poorly.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the scuff of Thariac’s boots as he stepped between us. “The ration stores, my lord,” he said pointedly.

I turned on my heel, forcing my fury down.

***

The stores were worse than I feared.

Barrels of grain stood half-empty. Casks of salted fish reeked of rot. Mothers lined the courtyard beyond, clutching children whose eyes were too wide, too thin. Their cries echoed in the stone, scraping raw against my chest.

In the great hall, the council bickered like carrion crows. Lords shouted of hoarding, of bandits, of Fae sabotage. Their masks of pride had cracked, revealing only hunger and desperation.

I strode into the hall, my cloak sweeping behind me, and the noise stilled.

“Silence,” I commanded. My voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. “You shame yourselves. You shame Drakaryn.”

A murmur rippled.

I raised a hand, pointing toward the grain ledgers sprawled across the table. “From this day forward, no wagons will travel without Ashenblade guard. Any lord caught hoarding will see his stores seized and redistributed. Any who spread rumor of surrender will find themselves stripped of title.”

One man bristled. “And if we resist?”

I let my eyes burn with dragonfire, heat licking my throat. “Then you resist your prince. And you know what becomes of traitors.”

The hall fell silent.

***

Valyn, ever eager, pressed forward when the session ended. His youth still clung to him, eyes too bright, hands too restless. “Brother, give me command of the patrols. Let me prove myself.”

I gripped his shoulder, steady but firm. “Your fire is not yet tempered. Wait.”

His jaw tightened, but he bowed.

Later, Eirik joined me, slower, deliberate. His scars caught the firelight, his eyes weary but sharp. “If you need a regent…”

I studied him. Eirik had fought in the Firestorm Campaign, had bled when I bled. He bore wounds that made him cautious, measured. Not eager like Valyn, not reckless like Kylian. Stable.

Torian’s voice echoed in my ear: Choose the one who steadies, not the one who burns.

That night, I convened the council again.

“Eirik will serve as regent,” I announced, my voice ringing through the hall. “His word is mine until I return.”

A murmur rose, some protest, some relief. Eirik bowed his head, solemn.

I laid my hand on the table, fingers splayed over the carved crest of Aurelius. “Drakaryn will not fall while I breathe. This is only a beginning. I will return in a fortnight. Until then, you will obey.”

***

The days that followed were a blur of steel and order. I walked the garrison, my boots crunching over frost, my eyes measuring every soldier. I barked drills, enforced discipline, reminded them of who we were. The banner of Aurelius snapped in the cold wind once more, not limp but alive.

When I left Emberhold, it was steadier. Hungry still, but steadier.

I left with ravens dispatched carrying ration orders, patrol schedules, edicts sealed with my crest. I left with Eirik on the throne, Valyn waiting in the wings, Kylian sullen and silent in his chambers.

And I left with the hollow ache of absence.

Because the longer I stayed, the louder Shadowspire called.

I mounted the wall one last time, the wind biting, the mountains stretching endless. I looked east, toward the veil that shimmered faintly beyond the horizon. Toward her.

“Back to Shadowspire,” I ordered. My voice carried, but inside I whispered something else.

Back to her.