Chapter 17
In her chambers, Ellaryn stared at the dress laid carefully across her bed.
Beautiful—so beautiful that it made her stomach twist with disgust. It had been made by one of the top designers in Cinders.
Dressmaking and fashion had been among the few trades left untouched when the King took the city; he loved clothes, always wore the finest capes and designs.
In a crumbling city, his fashion made him look untouchable, powerful.
The black velvet caught the little light spilling through her window, its embroidered mesh sleeves threaded with rubies that gleamed like fresh wounds. Every stitch spoke of intention—of ownership.
The King wanted her adorned. Presentable. A jewel to display before his guests.
The thought made her hate the dress all the more.
But she wore it regardless and made her way down to where the King had beckoned her.
Ellaryn glanced at herself in the tall mirror lining the banquet hall wall.
She despised the reflection staring back.
Her updo, fashioned by one of the servants, sat in a tight bun atop her head, her fringe swept to one side and tucked behind her ear, held in place by sparkling diamond clips.
Her cheeks were flushed with a rosy tint; her lips were coloured to appear more appealing.
And yet, despite the careful hair and makeup, she could see nothing beyond the ugliness of her own actions.
They had fused to her, carved into her in sharp angles and invisible scars.
No amount of scrubbing could cleanse the blood from her hands.
No amount of crying could dull the grief that lived behind her eyes.
And yet the woman staring back at her was a stranger.
A blade dressed in roses.
Her waist looked impossibly small, the velvet clinging to her form as though it had been sewn directly onto her skin.
Rubies caught the low light like drops of fresh blood.
The sword was still there—always there—slipped neatly into a fitted belt that cinched her middle like a corset, elegance and violence bound together.
Beauty weaponised.
She looked every bit the King’s Ruin.
And that disturbed her more than the blood ever had.
Even dressed in silk and jewels, they avoided her. No amount of fabric could dull the edge of a blade—a rose, no matter how carefully cultivated, still bore thorns.
The great banquet table had been shoved against the far wall, groaning beneath platters of food, while the rest of the hall belonged to the Councilmen, the King, a few established Knights and the city’s wealthiest parasites.
They glittered in finery much like hers—polished, decadent, obscene—the women not so afraid of her that they couldn’t cast side glances and smouldering looks over their sparkling wines.
This was the sickness of the city made flesh.
They lived high on clean hills, untouched by cinders, never knowing the pleasure of lungs burning black with ash.
Some were ladies of the night, dressed up but never enough. Their clothes betrayed them—thinner, cheaper, meant to be discarded by morning. They clung to the King, draping themselves across his arms and throne.
Bile crawled up Ellaryn’s throat each time his breath lingered on their skin.
Even surrounded by music and laughter, the room reeked of rot.
She moved through the space with measured ease, offering polite nods, careful smiles—never lingering long enough to invite suspicion.
Listening without appearing to listen was a skill the King had honed into her bones.
“Knowledge is just as important as power,” he would say.
Her attention snagged on Chancellor Morvan. He governed the left side of the city—the very district Magnus’ shop resided in. That alone made her pause.
She drifted closer and leaned against the wall, a chalice balanced loosely in her hand.
She never drank the wine. Intoxication in a room like this, beneath the King’s watchful eye, made her stomach churn.
Instead, she mimed sips and, when no one noticed, fed the dark liquid to the potted plants lining the hall.
Musicians drew their bows across the violin strings, coaxing out bright, uplifting melodies, while the piano keys danced through the room with a cheerfulness far too jarring for Ellaryn’s mood.
She weaved between the guests, her heart jolting against her ribs each time she overheard the expansion being mentioned. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being called the advance on Velaviere.
Now, it was simply the taking.
The words made her stomach twist.
The Knights spoke eagerly of fresh women and fresh bodies to claim, while the Chancellors discussed new workers to feed into the coal mines, already treating the people of Velaviere as though they were spoils waiting to be divided.
Ellaryn moved past them, her expression carefully composed.
They spoke of conquest as though it were a celebration.
She heard only suffering.
Up here, away from the smoke and embers the dwellers bathed in, it was easy to forget the wrongness of Cinders. Easy to forget that freedom existed just beyond the shadow wall, waiting for someone brave enough to reach for it.
These people didn’t want change.
Why would they?
They lived in comfort, drank from crystal glasses and dressed in finery the dwellers could only dream of, while the rest of the city choked on smoke, starved beneath the weight of the mines, and scraped together whatever scraps they could find.
Up here, Cinders felt almost like a kingdom.
Down there, it was a prison.
And perhaps that was the King’s greatest victory of all—he had made those who benefited from his rule so comfortable that they no longer cared about the people suffering beneath them.
Her gaze flicked towards the King.
He sat comfortably upon his throne, a goblet of red liquid resting between his fingers, staining the teeth that were already rotting. A black silk cape draped from his shoulders, threaded with onyx gems that caught the light whenever he moved.
The ladies surrounding him fawned over every inch of it, delicate fingers teasing the fabric of his cloak as though they were touching something precious.
At his command, the girls began to dance for him.
They pressed against his legs, hands roaming over his chest, laughter spilling too easily from their lips.
Their gazes never left him.
They looked at him as though he were the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.
Ellaryn knew better.
The hem of her gown whispered across the marble as she made her way outside.
Defiers stood at the double doors, holding them open as part of their duty for the evening.
Ellaryn gave them no acknowledgement as she crossed the threshold and made her way towards the edge of the balcony, resting both hands upon the cold stone ledge.
Up here, the air was different.
That, too, was deceiving.
It felt fuller, less suffocating, almost fresh. But it had been so long since Ellaryn had breathed anything truly clean—air untouched by smoke, suffering and ash—that she wasn’t sure her lungs remembered what it was supposed to feel like.
She remembered other things, though.
Dew kissing the grass in the early mornings.
Birdsong drifting through open windows and waking those still lost in sleep.
The slow descent of the sun, sinking lazily beneath the horizon and painting the sky in colours Cinders no longer knew.
Here, night came quickly.
When the sun dipped behind the Shadow Wall, its light was swallowed almost instantly, darkness pouring over the city as though someone had thrown a veil across the sky. There was no gradual sunset, no fading gold, no lingering twilight to soften the transition between day and night.
And when morning came, it was no kinder.
The sun appeared above the wall all at once, spilling harsh light across the city without warning, dragging the city from darkness before most of its people had even realised dawn had arrived.
Ellaryn stretched her gaze as far as she could.
There was nothing.
No trees silhouetted against the horizon.
No glimmer of water catching the moonlight.
No distant hills or mountains to break the endless expanse.
Only darkness.
It seemed almost tangible from up here, thick and impenetrable, like a black cloud pressing down upon the city.
Embers drifted through the night, carried lazily by the breeze, their tiny sparks dancing in time with the distant music spilling from the castle behind her.
The only sparks to break up the endless dark.
And it really was endless.
No horizon. No promise of anything beyond—just blackness stretching infinitely into the distance, as though Cinders had been built at the very edge of the world, and the world had decided to leave it there.
“You clean up nice,” a voice chimed.
Chancellor Bane had ambushed her, one hand braced against the pillar beside her head, his body crowding her space. Ellaryn stilled, every instinct screaming as his shadow swallowed her.
“Thank you,” she replied evenly, the words tasting sour on her tongue.
She thought of the King’s command—be invisible—and forced herself not to react, even though every muscle in her leg ached to drive her knee upward and end the interaction swiftly.
Bane smiled, running a hand through his shoulder-length hair as he leaned in too close, as though the space between them belonged to him by right.
He was not much older than Ellaryn, but there was a confidence about him that came from a life untouched by consequence—a man born into riches, raised on the quiet certainty that the world would yield when he reached for it.
He was dressed to make that certainty visible.
His blue-and-black tunic was tailored within an inch of perfection, every seam precise, every silver fastening polished, his matching trousers sitting neatly against his frame.
Nothing about him had been left to chance; even his appearance seemed carefully curated for admiration.