Chapter 2 Zephyros
Zephyros
Zephyros cuts through the sky, wings slicing the air as he keeps pace with Heratrix—not an easy thing to do considering the enormous span of her wings.
Her massive form blocks the sun, casting a shadow that stretches across the land below.
He should feel exuberant in this moment, should he not?
But no, all he feels is confusion and… betrayal.
His silver eyes fix on Rhealyn's small form atop the iridescent beast. She looks so fragile there, a dark speck against lustrous hide and the strange man that came to claim her… Tahranis. Curse him. In all the chaos, the one thing Zephyros is sure of is that he does not like him. Not one bit.
Little one, what are you doing? What does all of this mean? He does not project his thoughts toward her, though. He is afraid of the answer.
The wind howls between them as they travel east toward Emberton.
The jagged scar over his right eye throbs with phantom pain.
Memories surge unbidden… his lost offspring, abandoned centuries ago when Fragor left him to fight alone.
Is history repeating itself? Has Rhealyn chosen Heratrix over their bond?
No.
—I’m still your rider. Forever your rider. But Heratrix is awakened now, and everything changes. Please trust me. There’s so much you don’t understand.
That was what Rhealyn said when she first mounted the dragoness. It is the only reason Zephyros flies alongside them now.
Landscapes blur beneath him, forests and fields smudged into meaningless color. The wind shifts, carrying scents of ash and smoke from somewhere in the south. Humans and their fires. Always destroying what they cannot control.
Oh, Rhealyn. We have flown through storms together. I have caught you when you fell.
More memories pierce through his consciousness: Rhealyn's first flight, her laughter echoing through their mental bond, the trust in her eyes when she'd leapt from his back during combat, knowing he would catch her.
But who is she now? This stranger wearing his rider's face?
The Rhealyn who returned from that wyrm-infested mountain was not the same woman who Tahranis took in the first place, the woman who kept Zephyros in the dark all these past weeks.
Well, not really.
She was the same. His little one.
Since her return from the mountains, Zephyros had run through Rhealyn's memories like a mouse in a labyrinth, searching for answers in the tangled web of her thoughts. What he found wasn't deception. It was confusion and empty halls where whole memories should have been.
No, she hadn't meant to deceive. She'd been as lost as he was, fumbling through the fog, reaching for truth only to grasp smoke. He'd felt her frustration, her fear as she tried to make sense of the visions that plagued her.
But the Rhealyn who lived under the Flametop Mountains for a year… that was a different story. She had concocted this lie, a lie that returned her to the very man she feared.
His scales bristle with agitation. There is trickery here, woven so tightly that even he couldn't detect it.
The Rhealyn he cherishes could not have orchestrated such cruel deception.
She was not capable of it. Not the human who wept for his offspring when she saw them slain.
Not the human who cares so deeply for Embernia.
His Rhealyn would never break Stormsong's heart so thoroughly.
Irritating as that whelp is with his rigid rules and insufferable honor, she loves him.
Zephyros has felt it through their bond—her pulse quickening whenever the High Prime enters a room, her thoughts scattering like startled birds when their eyes meet.
Then there is the dragoness. Queen Heratrix.
The mother of all. Ha! Where was she when his offspring needed protection?
Where was she during centuries of bloodshed?
They were mates once—weren't they?—and yet she might as well be a stranger.
Zephyros squints at her, searching for any flicker of recognition as he studies her, but nothing stirs within him.
No ancient memories. No hint of recognition.
What curse is this? I should feel something.
He banks left, putting distance between himself and the massive queen.
Heratrix's presence grates against his senses.
There are gaps in his memories where she should be, holes he never noticed until Rhealyn went digging and unsettled something inside him with her prying.
Someone took those memories from him. Someone made him forget.
And that leaves Tahranis. The man who calls her Omneira, as if she belongs to him. As if she's someone else entirely.
Omneira. What does it mean? He should know, but if he ever did, the knowledge was stolen.
From across the distance separating him from Heratrix, Rhealyn's gaze meets his briefly before turning away. There's something there. Fear? Determination? Impossible to tell. This Rhealyn masks herself too well.
You will explain yourself, Rhealyn, he thinks. Or we will have words that burn hotter than any dragon's flame.
A growl builds in his throat. Whoever tampered with his mind, whoever turned his rider into this stranger will taste his fury if their explanations do not satisfy him.
Because no primeval dragoness—Goddess or otherwise—nor pale-faced Skyrider will take her from him.
Moreover, no one will tamper with his memories again.
He has reinforced his defenses to make sure of that.
Yet, Zephyros knows that what matters is the girl. His girl. The one who understood his pain, who shared her secrets. Who is now perched on the back of the very creature who abandoned dragonkind a millennium ago.
No. The true reason he follows is because he doesn't have another choice. He cannot leave her, the foolish human. He loves her too much. So he flies on, a silent guardian to a rider who may no longer want his protection or bond.