Page 44 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Iriel

The chamber smelled of ink and smoke, and the hush of it suited me.

The strategy room was small compared to the council floor, its walls paneled in pale wood carved with flowing script.

Wards shimmered faintly across the grain, pulsing in rhythm with the Shroud outside.

A table sat in the center, low and wide, strewn with scrolls, tablets, and wax seals.

Candles dripped steadily, the wax pooling like blood on the polished surface.

I traced a finger along Vaeloria’s schedule, ink still fresh on the vellum.

The council sessions, the feast of the Masks, the audience hours.

The lines of her power laid bare in careful script.

My mother had once ruled every hour of her day with precision, every gesture sharpened into spectacle.

Now the cracks showed. Illness gnawed at her stamina, leaving gaps, lapses, weakness.

And weakness was a door, if one knew how to push it open.

I marked the moment. The Masking could be raised on the third hour of council, when the arcades would be full, when the weight of eyes pressed heaviest, when Rhydor’s denial would still hang raw in the air.

To time it differently would invite resistance.

To time it perfectly would make it inevitable.

Maelith cleared his throat softly. He stood across the table, tall and gaunt, his hair streaked with gray, his eyes dark as wet ink. He had served the crown for longer than I had lived, but tonight he served me. He drew a folded parchment from his sleeve, the silver wax seal glinting faintly.

“The petition,” he said, laying it flat. “Citing precedent from the Dusk Accords. Betrayal of vows, concealment of heirs, dereliction of royal duty. Signed by twelve noble houses. Enough to force a hearing.”

I let my eyes linger on the names scrawled in elegant script. Each signature a blade pointed not by me, but for me. That was the beauty of it.

Sylara leaned against the edge of the table, her fan half-open, her eyes bright with a predator’s delight.

Her gown shimmered with starlight glamour, the fabric catching the faint silver glow of the wards.

“And witnesses,” she said, her voice like honey cut with steel.

“If you require them, I can provide. Servants saw her return at dawn. A knight escorted her. There are whispers enough to fill the arcades. I will see to it they are sharpened before morning.”

She snapped her fan shut, the sound sharp as a blade.

I inclined my head. “You will be helpful.”

She smiled. She knew the weight of that word in my mouth. Not trusted, not beloved, but useful.

At the door, the Black Mask captain stood silent, his face hidden behind the lacquered helm that marked his station. His armor was dark as obsidian, polished until the candlelight slid across it without reflection. His presence filled the room with quiet menace.

“You will wait by the council doors,” I told him. “Not inside. Not yet. If the Masks are called, you enter only at the steward’s signal. Nothing more. You will not speak. You will not look at me. You will stand as the Shroud’s law made flesh.”

He bowed once, silent. The masks did not question. That was their strength, and their flaw.

I turned back to the table, smoothing the parchment flat with one hand. The wax gleamed under my palm, the seal of inevitability pressed into its surface.

“Maelith, you will present it. Your voice carries the weight of tradition.”

The old man inclined his head. “As you wish, my prince.”

“And Sylara, ” I let my gaze drift to her, watching the curve of her lips, the satisfaction glittering in her eyes. “You will speak as witness. You will sharpen the whispers into a blade. Make it appear as concern, not malice. You are skilled at that.”

She laughed softly, fanning herself. “And you, Iriel? What role will you play?”

I moved to the mirror set into the far wall. Its frame was carved of silver branches, its surface catching more than reflection, it shimmered faintly, the glamour within it stirring. I looked into it and saw myself: tall, masked in shadowlight, every angle honed, every line deliberate.

My face gave nothing.

“I will not speak,” I said. “Not a word. I will sit in silence, as though the council’s work pains me. Let Maelith call for order, let Sylara paint the story, let the petition carry its own weight. I will not bloody my hands. They will do it for me.”

I studied my reflection, the stillness of my expression, the neutral mask I had practiced for years. Satisfaction curled beneath it, quiet and sharp, but the mirror showed nothing but calm.

The key was silence. Silence let others twist themselves into ropes. Silence let the law appear untainted by ambition.

And when the Masks dragged my sister to the floor, when Rhydor burned in rage but could not stop it, no one would look to me as architect. They would look to law. To tradition. To inevitability.

I reached out, tracing the cold surface of the mirror. My face did not change.

Neutral. Controlled. Above reproach.

The perfect heir.

Behind me, Maelith gathered the scrolls, Sylara whispered to the captain, the candles hissed and burned lower.

The pieces were set.

All that remained was to watch them fall.