Page 60 of Rhapsody of Ruin (Kingdoms of Ash and Wonder #1)

Kyssa

The coronation hall breathed with shadows and silver light, every torch bound in glamour so the flames bent and shimmered like crowns of ghostfire.

Incense curled up from braziers shaped like coiled serpents, heavy and cloying, its spice biting the back of my throat.

Masked courtiers lined the tiers in tiers of silk and iron, whispering like a hive.

All of Lunareth had gathered to see power shift, and I, a dragon in their midst, could not pretend this air was mine.

Iriel knelt at the dais, his silver mask polished to an impossible gleam, his head bowed before the priest who droned the rites of twilight.

Vaeloria’s bier lay only just removed from the chamber, yet the hall already dripped with triumph.

It was obscene, how quickly grief had been replaced with glitter and spectacle.

And still, I watched.

The crown of shadowed silver was lowered onto his head. It hissed faintly as the wards along the dais flared to receive him. He rose, taller than I remembered, eyes cold beneath the mask. Power had settled on him like an inheritance he’d always expected, and the court bowed.

Except Sylara.

She lingered at the edge of the dais, hunger plain in her eyes even through the delicate filigree of her mask.

A ladybird drawn to flame, wings ready to scorch.

But the stewards barred her with a gesture, denying her place near the throne.

She smiled anyway, lips sharp, and curtsied lower than dignity demanded.

Even banished from the dais, she was still circling.

A curl of disdain unfurled in my chest. This was not my fight, yet I felt its echo all the same.

I had fought at the Firestorm Stand, bled on blackened fields while these courtiers sipped wine and made wagers on our deaths.

And now they celebrated, as though the crown on Iriel’s head had been bought with their courage instead of ours.

A warm presence shifted at my side.

Draven.

He stood at attention in his ceremonial armor, golden hair spilling loose as though he’d refused the court’s order to braid it.

The medallion of Ashura glinted against his chest, a contradiction to the rakish curve of his smile.

He did not look at me directly, but his voice slipped toward me like smoke.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

My jaw tightened. “I am.”

He hummed softly, unconvinced. His nearness was a provocation, the scent of steel and smoke, the reminder of nights spent sparring in the forges, when sweat gleamed on his collarbones and my eyes betrayed me by noticing.

A ripple passed through the crowd as a Fae noble, draped in plum velvet, mask crusted with jewels, let his voice carry just loud enough to be heard.

“Strange, isn’t it? Dragons, once kings of their wastelands, now reduced to guards and wards of honor. How far the mighty fall.”

The words clawed down my spine. My hand curled into a fist before I thought better.

I turned, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Better a dragon on guard than a Fae rotting behind his mask, too cowardly to bare his own face.”

Gasps bloomed, delicious and damning. Heads swiveled, whispers rose like bees. The noble flushed beneath his jewels but did not respond, no need. My temper had already given them the story they wanted.

Draven’s hand closed around my elbow, firm but not cruel. His head dipped toward mine, his breath grazing the shell of my ear.

“Not here,” he whispered.

The heat of it shot through me, shaming me more than the court’s laughter. My pride faltered, unraveling under the weight of their stares. My chest tightened until I thought the seams of my gown might split.

And then, he drew me aside, away from the cruel light of the torches, into the shadow of a column where incense and dust dulled the noise.

His hands settled on my shoulders. I did not expect gentleness from him, not with the way he wielded his charm like a weapon, but it was there all the same, steady and unyielding.

My mask slipped. Not the porcelain, but the one I had worn since the campaign ended, the one that pretended dragons did not break.

A sound escaped me, small and fierce. He caught it with his chest as though it were his to bear. And before I could stop myself, I rose onto my toes and pressed my mouth to his.

The kiss was fire and ache, brief and consuming. His lips parted, answering with a hunger he had no right to hide. For a moment, the hall and the court and all its venom dissolved. There was only the taste of him, wine and steel, and the memory of battlefields where we had stood back to back.

Then he broke it.

His hands slid away as if scorched. His voice was low, ragged.

“You are royal, Kyssa. And I am not.”

The words struck harder than any blade.

I forced my chin high, spine stiffening against the weight of humiliation. The court would not see my shame. Not here. Not now.

Without another word, I stepped past him, gown whispering over stone, and walked from the shadow of that column as though I had never faltered. I did not look back.

The hall swallowed me again, its silver light merciless. I felt the burn of his gaze on my shoulders, but I refused it. My pride demanded nothing less.

And then, quiet as a secret, the signal reached me.

A servant brushed past, tray trembling in his hands. Folded beneath the rim of a goblet, I glimpsed it: Jolie Mortaine’s coded mark, the sign we had agreed upon.

Valimir was safe.

The breath I released carried everything, the fury, the grief, the longing. For the first time since this cursed court swallowed us, relief curled warm in my chest.

The Masks might circle. The crown might glitter on a head unworthy. My heart might be a ruin.

But the child lived.

And that, at least, was victory.