Chapter 4 Zephyros #2
Zephyros watches through Heratrix's memories as mother and daughter circle each other, two celestial bodies locked in combat. The mental war escalates beyond anything he has witnessed in five millennia of existence. Thoughts become weapons, memories become battlegrounds.
—Surrender what was never yours to hold, Vestra commands, her consciousness battering against her mother's defenses.
—You know nothing of rulership, hatchling, Heratrix counters, her tone carrying the weight of ages. Power is burden, not prize.
The air between them distorts with the intensity of their exchange. Invisible forces clash and rebound. Neither gains true advantage. For each mental assault Vestra launches, Heratrix constructs an impenetrable barrier. For each counterattack the Queen attempts, her offspring slips away like smoke.
Exhaustion creeps through their massive frames, their wings struggling against gravity's pull.
Their flight paths falter. The mountains rise to meet them as they spiral downward in their deadly dance.
Their massive bodies crash against stone, talons scrambling for purchase on unforgiving rock. Even grounded, neither relents.
Desperation feeds their conflict now. The black dragon's eyes glow with fanatical hatred as she launches another assault at her mother, no longer bothering with subtlety.
—DIE! Vestra's command slams into Heratrix's consciousness like a battering ram.
The Queen doesn't flinch. —You cannot command death upon your creator.
Zephyros feels Heratrix's sorrow through the memory. Not for herself, but for what her daughter became. For what she had to do.
The air grows heavy, charged with primal energy as both dragons gather their remaining strength for one final assault. They lock eyes across the scarred mountainside, their bodies heaving with exertion, their minds razor-sharp despite their physical fatigue.
They strike simultaneously.
Heratrix's command cuts through the air with lethal precision. —Heart of my heart, cease your beating.
A killing blow meant to end this madness swiftly, mercifully.
But Vestra's attack comes just as fast, just as vicious. —Sleep beneath stone, mother. Sleep and never wake.
The commands collide in the space between them, Vestra's never fully reaching its target, yet neither entirely failing, while Heratrix's hits head on.
Vestra recoils, heartbeat stuttering, slowing...
Heratrix sways, eyes growing distant. Her claws drag against stone as she turns toward the mountain's heart.
The last image burns itself into Zephyros's consciousness: Heratrix disappearing into darkness, scales fading to the gray of cold stone as the mountain swallows her whole.
The vision fractures, dissolving into nothingness, leaving Zephyros trembling with rage and grief for what was lost, what was stolen from all dragonkind, by an egotistical hatchling.
The roaring in his head subsides like a receding tide, leaving him disoriented in its wake.
He blinks rapidly, adjusting to the present as the ghost-images of the past blur and fade.
The clearing materializes around him. Trees, sky, earth beneath his talons.
Rhealyn stands nearby, her face a canvas of worry, arms wrapped tight around herself.
Pain lances through him. Not physical—the memories aren't his wounds to bear—but the weight of truth crushes, nonetheless. Vestra. A daughter. A betrayal so profound it altered dragon history. And Fragor, that pompous fool, somehow involved in the greatest catastrophe their kind has ever known.
"Zephyros?" Rhealyn's voice sounds small, uncertain.
He cannot look at her yet. His thoughts are a tempest, fragments of Heratrix's memories tangled with his own.
Rage for what was stolen. Grief for what never was.
But even with all the memories Heratrix has given him, there is still a hole in his mind.
His own recollections of the past are not there.
And who is he without the memories that should have defined him?
A puppet, carved out and refilled with someone else's facts. He does not like it.
Heratrix steps back, her massive form creating distance between them. —I know you still have questions. It will take time. I understand.
He snorts and cannot stop his animosity. —How generous of you.
—Your rider awaits, she continues, ignoring his barb. You chose well, old friend. There could be no better vessel for the Omneira than your Rhealyn.
—What is this Omneira nonsense? Zephyros growls, head snapping toward the Queen. Another secret you've kept?
But Heratrix has already turned, her attention shifting to Tahranis as they engage in silent communion.
Convenient.
Rhealyn approaches cautiously, each step measured as though approaching a wounded animal. He supposes that's what he is, a beast licking wounds he did not know he had until moments ago.
—Are you all right? she asks.
The question nearly pulls a bitter laugh from him. All right? When has he ever been all right? When has she?
—What did she show you? Rhealyn's voice is steady now, stronger.
—Ancient history, he rumbles, letting his head lower until his eyes are level with hers. But we're not discussing that now. We are discussing your deception.
She flinches. Good.
—You left me for a year. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. You plotted with them behind my back.
Her face pales. —I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I'm still yours, Zephyros. That hasn't changed.
—Has it not? The question hangs between them, weighted with everything unsaid. Tell me, little one, what exactly are you becoming? Because the Rhealyn I chose would never have abandoned her comrades to the flames.