Chapter 9 Vaylen #2
"You can't know for sure," I reply, though the words taste hollow. "She deceived the Academy all that time, not to mention the Sky Order afterward."
"Maybe she was only protecting herself," Phoebe challenges. "Have you considered what they would have done to her if they'd discovered her Cleansing failed? They'd already caused her mother's death."
I have no answer for this. The truth is, I have considered it. Many times. And in the darkest corners of my heart, I understand her choices all too well. It's the reason I stood by her despite it all, except that only proved to be a mistake.
Cliffbecker's gaze shifts to Phoebe, his face twisting with something between pity and disdain.
"She sure pulled the wool over your eyes, didn't she?
" He shakes his head. "Weavers can't be trusted.
There's a reason their abilities were outlawed centuries ago.
They used them to betray Embernia and attempt a coup.
Their power should've never existed, and I'm glad they were eradicated.
Though clearly not as thorough as I would have liked. "
His words hang in the air like poison. I watch Phoebe shrink beneath their vitriol, her conviction wavering. My chest tightens at her pain.
Cliffbecker turns to me, eyes hard as flint. "Does the Commander know? About all of it?"
"Yes," I answer, holding his gaze.
"Good." He nods once, sharply. "Otherwise, I would have had no choice but to inform her myself."
After the threat lands, Cliffbecker strides toward the door, disappointment shaping his posture, radiating from every movement. His hand pauses on the handle.
"I respected you, Stormsong," he says without turning. "But you're a disappointment."
The door closes behind him with finality. One warrior's trust lost, perhaps forever. I wonder how many more will follow.
My gaze falls to the stone floor, shoulders sagging with the weight of Cliffbecker's departure. I feel myself shrink—not just physically, but in spirit. The mantle of High Prime suddenly feels ill-fitting.
"I..." Phoebe speaks hesitantly. "Despite everything, I wish to continue my research." Her voice strengthens with each word. "There's so much we still don't understand about Heratrix's disappearance, about these dragon eggs, about what Omneira means."
I fight the urge to laugh bitterly. Research? Now? When the foundations of the Sky Order itself tremble beneath our feet?
"What research remains, Breezehart?" The words escape sharper than intended. "Heratrix has returned. The mystery you've pursued stands resolved."
She flinches but doesn't retreat. "No, High Prime. The mystery has only deepened. If Rhea truly is this Omneira, if there are truly thousands of dragon eggs beneath the mountains... don't you see? Everything we believed about our history might be false."
I inhale deeply, centering myself as I was taught long ago. She speaks true, yet...
"The Council of Primes meets within the hour.
We face immediate concerns like the Goddess's return, potential civil unrest, the threat of Weavers.
" My voice softens. "Knowledge is valuable, Phoebe, but timing is everything in battle.
And make no mistake, we are still at war, and maybe with more than just the Screechclaws. "
Dakar nods grimly beside me. "Wyrm-shit's hit the wind now. We gotta prepare for whatever comes next."
Phoebe's green eyes flash with determination. "That's precisely why my research matters. We can't fight what we don't understand." She raises her chin. "Give me leave to continue, High Prime. Please."
I study her face, recognizing the same resolve I've cultivated my entire life.
"The Commander will decide," I tell her, meeting her pleading gaze. "Until then, I can't authorize any independent action."
Phoebe's shoulders slump slightly. I can't trust my own judgment anymore. Every decision I've made since meeting Rhealyn has been compromised by emotion. I must defer this type of thing to clearer minds than mine.
"I understand," Phoebe says quietly. She exchanges a glance with Nate, who nods. They depart without another word, leaving only Dakar and me in the armory's heavy silence.
My oldest friend watches me, concern etched into his features. The loyalty in his eyes is almost more than I can bear after all that has transpired. He crosses the space between us in three long strides. His strong hand grips my shoulders, anchoring me when I feel adrift in a storm of uncertainty.
"Don't be so bloody hard on yourself," he says, his desert accent thickening with emotion. "You think any man could stand against that she-devil? The way she moves, the way she speaks… she's been training in deception for a very long time."
I meet his gaze, searching for mockery, but find only earnest concern. My throat constricts with gratitude I can't voice.
"Listen to me, Stormsong," Dakar continues, his tone shifting to something grave and oddly profound.
"Whatever game's bein' played here, it's older than our grandfathers' grandfathers.
These prophecies, this Omneira business, the return of the Goddess herself…
" He shakes his head. "Who are we to think we could ever hold the reins of such a grand destiny? "
The truth of his words settles in my chest like a stone. Perhaps I was arrogant to believe I could chart my own course when forces beyond comprehension have been moving pieces across the board for centuries.
His expression softens as he squeezes my shoulders. "Y'know, you ain't the first man to get his heart broken."
I scoff, looking away. "This isn't about a broken heart."
"Sure it ain't." He grins, the red loops in his ears dangling.
"When I was but eighteen, there was this lass from the Neverending Flats.
Hair like spun copper, eyes that'd make the desert bloom.
" His voice grows wistful. "She ground my heart in a witch's pestle and scattered the dust across the southern winds. "
Despite everything, my lips twitch. "Poetic for you."
"What I'm sayin' is you'll be alright." Dakar punches my arm lightly. "You'll forget her. Find some proper lady who don't dabble in forbidden powers and ride off on venerable dragons."
I shake my head. "I doubt that."
"Well," Dakar leans closer, waggling his eyebrows, "if not, you still got me." He puckers his lips and makes exaggerated kissing sounds.
I push him away, a reluctant laugh escaping me. "Your comfort is a terror all its own."
"There he is." Dakar grins triumphantly. "The High Prime ain't dead after all."
I run a hand through my hair, fatigue settling into my bones. "What do you think happens now?"
He leans against the stone wall, arms crossed over his tattooed chest. "Same thing that always happens. We keep flyin', keep fightin'. The Screechclaws ain't gonna stop their raids just 'cause the Goddess returned."
I stare around, at the racks of polished weapons that have tasted enemy blood countless times. "I wonder..." The words escape before I can trap them behind my teeth. "I wonder if everything we've fought for has been built on falsehoods. If the war itself is something other than what we believe."
The thought unsettles me deeply. If Rhealyn's revelations about dragon eggs and prophecies are true, what other pillars of our kingdom might crumble under scrutiny?
"Whatever the case, we still have our duty to defend Embernia," Dakar says.
"Yes," I agree with a nod. "Our duty remains unchanged."
Yet unease gnaws at me like a hidden wound. What if Rhealyn's betrayal heralds something darker? What if Heratrix's return signals not salvation but calamity?
Perhaps we've been watching the wrong horizon for threats all along. What if the enemy without may prove less dangerous than the enemy within?
Tahranis. The name alone conjures a visceral reaction within me, a coiling serpent of distrust that burrows deep in my gut. Is it merely jealousy that fuels this suspicion?
No. I shake my head, dismissing the idea. My concerns run deeper than wounded pride. A man who can manipulate minds and spent a year molding Rhealyn to his purposes while she remained cut off from everyone who might have protected her… a man like that has no honor.
This isn't jealousy. This is the instinct of a warrior who recognizes a predator in his midst. One way or another, I'll get to the bottom of this.
I step away from Dakar, shoulders braced against the weight of it all. Whatever weakness I allowed myself in these private moments must now be buried, sealed beneath layers of fealty and resolve.
I will uncover the truth behind Heratrix's return and Tahranis's schemes, I promise myself.
Not for Rhealyn. No. That part of me dies here, in this armory, among the steel and leather tools of war. I pursue this quest for Embernia alone, for the kingdom I've sworn my life to protect.
With each breath, I feel my heart transforming. What was once flesh that could bleed becomes something harder, colder. I welcome the change. It will take time, but one day my entrails will be as unyielding as granite, my chest a fortress where no woman's smile will penetrate.
Let her keep her secrets and her forbidden magic.
Let her fly with deities and strange men who whisper of prophecies.
I am Vaylen Everett Stormsong, High Prime of the Sky Order.
I need nothing but my duty. She means nothing compared to that.
I'll keep repeating this until it's nothing but the truth.
"The Council awaits," I tell Dakar, my voice steady. "I must go. Prepare yourself for battle. Perhaps… of a different sort."
He nods, understanding reflected in his eyes.
This hardening of spirit is not merely necessary. It is proper. Embernia requires leaders of steel, not men distracted by tender feelings. I shall give my kingdom what it needs.