Chapter 7 Rhea
Rhea
Iwatch as Tahr stretches to his full height and walks away from Heratrix. He's all lean muscle and coiled power beneath black leather. That confident swagger, that knowing smile, they stir something deep within me, something so damn confusing.
"How did it go?" He turns his amber gaze toward Zephyros. "Everything all right?"
I nod, though he isn't looking. What else can I do? When we crafted this plan in the depths of that mountain it made sense. I would return to the Sky Order and pacify King Craven while Heratrix came back from her slumber. Simple. Clean.
I didn't account for Vaylen Stormsong when I damn well should have.
Except I never anticipated how his steady blue gaze would capture me once more.
Never imagined how I would crave his touch.
Never counted on a love that not only survived a full year but grew to impossible heights.
I swallow, my chest still aching with the weight of what I've done to him.
Tahr turns, sunlight catching on the sharp angles of his face. Goddess help me, he's beautiful too, a fucking eclipse of muscle, charm, and power who somehow wormed his way into my being.
"Second thoughts, darling?" Tahr asks.
I square my shoulders and meet his amber gaze. "No. Just sorting through the pieces."
What a lie. I'm not sorting anything. I'm drowning in the consequences of choices I can't unmake. My certainty dying a bit with every passing second that ticks by.
Maybe love isn't for me. Not when my decision making is this pathetic.
Always rushing forward, always assuming the wrong fucking things.
I thought I'd grown into something better—a real woman with sense and judgment—but here I am, the same reckless girl who used to leap from her bedroom window just to watch her father's face turn purple with rage.
Just like then, I move through life with the wind against my face, and a foolish heart in my chest. Nothing's changed.
I've swapped one rebellion for another, one man for another, one cause for another… always running toward or away from something without ever stopping to truly think.
I step back, creating space between us. Perhaps this is what I need—distance from both men.
I've tangled myself in a web of desire, loyalty, and obligation, and I can't see clearly through any of it.
Leaving love out of this equation is the best option.
I need to focus on the mission, the dragons, the future of Embernia.
Not the hearts I've broken, including my own.
"So do we stick to the plan? Or are there changes?" My voice emerges stronger than I feel.
Tahr's eyes flick to the extra space between us, a flash of recognition crossing his features before his mask of control returns. He doesn't challenge it, doesn't try to close the gap.
"The plan remains," he says, straightening his fur-lined coat with casual elegance. "Nothing has changed. We fly into Emberton in grand fashion, and even paranoid King Craven will have no choice but to welcome us with open arms."
I fold my arms across my chest, studying him. "And if he doesn't? If he sees a dragon the size of a mountain approaching his precious city and decides to launch every defensive measure he has?"
"Then we remind him who truly rules this land." Tahr's smile turns sharp as he gestures toward Heratrix. "Power speaks its own language. One that even fools can understand."
I glance toward the Goddess. She's a jewel gleaming in the sunlight and could burn half the kingdom to ash before nightfall if she wanted. Perhaps Tahr is right, this is no longer about persuasion but demonstration.
A sudden pressure builds behind my eyes, and Zephyros pushes into my mind with images so vivid they might very well belong to this moment, but instead, they belong to a dark hole underground, and the Matron with her midnight feathers streaked with red, her burning coal eyes fixed on me with unnatural intelligence.
—Why haven't you thought to ask him about this, Rhealyn? Zephyros says.
Dragon's breath! He's right. How did I forget something so crucial?
"Um… something happened…" I start. "One day when I was out on patrol."
"What was that?" Tahr asks.
"I encountered the Matron."
"I hope you killed her?" He smirks.
"No. She didn't attack me. She... spoke to me."
"Spoke?" he echoes incredulously.
"She wielded fire."
Tahr looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Are you sure this wasn't some sort of nightmare?"
I simply stare in answer.
"That's impossible, darling."
"She also called me Omneira, said something about a curse and making the right decision." I search his expression for something—concern or anger—but find only the same incredulity. "How do you explain that, Tahr?"
"How do I explain that?" He blows air through his nose. "I wasn't there, so there's no way I can. That makes no sense. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
He rubs his chin, eyes roving around as he considers my words.
"Perhaps," he finally says, "it's a side effect of Heratrix's tampering with your mind.
When she sealed your memories before your return, I warned you it might have consequences, but you insisted it was the only way you would agree to return. "
"You're saying I hallucinated the entire thing?" There's accusation in my voice.
"I taught you this, Rhea. Weaver powers should only be used on someone when absolutely necessary." He steps closer, voice dropping. "The mind is fragile, easily damaged. Even the most careful mental touch can leave false memories and distort perception."
—Vaylen was there too, my dragon says. He saw the Matron's fire, even if he did not hear her words.
But I do remember Tahr's lessons, and how they clarified a lot of things for me, how they made me realize my mind had already been affected by careless mental work during Cindergrasp's failed Cleansing.
It was the reason that when Vaylen and I kissed in his room in Sky’s Edge, his face twisted into that of a dragon, and the reason the barkeeper’s and Skyriders’ faces did the same that day in the tavern outside Cinderhold.
Blinking, I nod, even though the explanation doesn’t sit quite right with me.
All I know is I regret allowing Heratrix to seal my memories.
My exhaustion redoubles, and for one hysterical moment, I wonder if the quiet peace of a tomb might be preferable to the chaos of this life, to the battlefield of conflicting loyalties that rages in my heart.
"Let's go then," I say and stride back toward Zephyros, eager to escape my own thoughts. My dragon watches me approach, his scarred face unreadable but familiar, home in a way nothing else is right now.
Tired of all the talk, I leap onto his massive front leg, using the natural ridges of his scales as handholds. I scramble up his neck in a fluid climb until I'm perched atop his head.
—Fly, I urge.
Zephyros's muscles bunch beneath me. One powerful thrust of his wings sends us skyward, the ground falling away in a rush that still thrills me no matter how many times I've experienced it. The wind slaps my face, tangling my hair into wild knots. I don't care. It feels clean. Pure.
Away from Tahr's intensity. Away from Heratrix's overwhelming presence. Away from the crushing weight of destinies, broken minds, prophecies, and the name Omneira that clings to me like a second skin I never asked for.
Zephyros rumbles beneath me, sending soothing vibrations through our connection. I feel understanding and compassion. He gives me no more demands for explanations or justifications, just acceptance of my need for quiet. Thank the stars for that. There are no words left in me anyway.
Tahr soars up to my level on Heratrix, her massive form making Zephyros look like a hatchling in comparison and violently churning the clouds. I catch my breath despite myself. She's magnificent. An immortal Goddess among us mere mortals.
—Beautiful, isn't she? Tahr says inside my mind, his white hair streaming behind him like captured moonlight. He stands relaxed on Heratrix, just as breathtaking as she is.
We'd discussed sending Heratrix in alone, the Queen of Dragons presenting herself to Emberton in all her glory. But we decided against it for two reasons.
One, Tahr is her bonded rider. They don't want to be apart any more than I can be apart from Zephyros, so their relationship has to be established from the start to avoid unnecessary questions.
And two… my presence matters. After I vanished into the Flametop Mountains, the stories about me multiplied, igniting everyone's imagination.
Rhealyn Rose Wyndward, the mysterious Skysinger who disappeared under strange circumstances.
The people whisper my name in taverns and town squares.
I've even been featured in the newssheets.
I'm part of the mystery whether I want to be or not.
We learned as much from the spies King Craven sent to Hearthdale.
This notoriety was yet another reason I reappeared when I did.
Tahr and I had calculated everything carefully.
My dramatic return would feed the whispers, turn rumors into legends.
The mysterious Skysinger vanishes for a year then suddenly reappears?
People can't resist a good story, especially one with so many unanswered questions.
And wyrm's rot, had it worked even better than we'd planned? King Craven himself summoned me to Emberton, his paranoia and curiosity getting the best of him. Not to mention he was so eager to align himself with someone he thought would protect his reign that he pardoned a murderess.
But he has no idea what's coming.
Tahr nods, a silent signal passing between us, then he urges Heratrix forward, leaving Zephyros and me trailing behind as we approach Emberton from the west. The sun bleeds orange and red across the horizon, casting long shadows over the cobbled streets and tightly packed buildings below.
Stones seem to drop into my gut. Fucking wonderful. Here we go, the grand entrance we've planned, yet my mouth goes dry at the sight of the city I once considered home.
Heratrix continues ahead, her massive form eclipsing the fading light. Instead of continuing across the city, she begins to circle, her wingspan so vast it seems to encompass the entire capital. For a heartbeat, everything remains eerily quiet.
Then comes the fire.
Sweet mercy.
Flames erupt from her maw, not in short, controlled bursts like male dragons produce, but in a continuous, devastating cascade of liquid inferno.
The roar is deafening, like a thousand thunderstorms colliding at once.
Her fire carves a blazing ring in the sky, a perfect circle of destruction held at bay only by Tahr's wind power.
"By the four winds," I whisper, awestruck and terrified in equal measure.
Below us, screams rise from the streets. People scatter like ants, running for shelter. I spot guards pointing upward, archers nocking arrows, a pathetic defense against a creature capable of turning a block to ash with a single breath.
Zephyros tenses beneath me. —Was this your plan all along? Terror?
I swallow hard. —No. It's a demonstration.
But even I don't fully believe that as Heratrix's fire continues to pour forth, painting the darkening sky with fluid gold.
Even from this height, I hear their fear. The screams burn into my conscience, making my chest tighten. What have we done? What have I done?
But then something shifts. The screaming stops. People emerge from doorways, staring upward. This wasn't supposed to be an attack, and they're starting to realize it.
Heratrix's fire continues to circle, a perfect ring above Emberton that doesn't descend, doesn't consume. It simply... exists. Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
I scan the crowds below. A woman points, her mouth forming words I can't hear. Then another. And another.
"Heratrix," I read on their lips, the name passing through the crowd like wildfire.
"Heratrix has returned!"
"The Goddess lives!"
The transformation is instant, almost alarming. One moment, terror, the next, elation. People flood into the streets, arms raised toward us. Their faces gilded in the glow of dragon fire, tears streaming down their cheeks, their mouths open in joyous shouts.
"They worship her," I whisper, dizzy with the realization.
But of course! We don't fear dragons. We revere them. They're our defenders, and generations of stories have painted Heratrix as our salvation.
Our Goddess.
Cheers rise up, the sound like a physical force rushing to the heavens. I laugh—actually laugh—the sound startled from my throat. Abandoning the fire, Heratrix circles lower, and the crowd surges toward her, arms outstretched as if hoping to touch divinity.
I glance at Tahr, finding his amber eyes already on me. He smiles, vindication in his gaze.
—I told you, he says.
It's what we have prayed for all along. With her, we'll destroy the Screechclaws and end centuries of fear once and for all.