Chapter 10
Rhea
The crowd's cheers fade behind us as we leave the outer edge of Emberton. I glance at Tahr. He looks triumphant, while I feel like a fraud.
What business does a traitorous Skyrider have next to the Goddess?
That's the only thought circling my mind. I'm not sure why my mood keeps getting more somber by the minute. When I made this decision, I imagined I'd be happy, but I just feel… muddled. Despite all the planning and anticipation, I find myself wishing I was elsewhere, wishing peace was already here.
Suddenly, Heratrix's vast presence floods my mind. Her voice resonates through my skull, making my teeth ache, each syllable weighted with untold time, crushing against my thoughts. I gasp.
—You are Omneira. You are not a fraud.
Her presence is nothing like Zephyros's. Where he fits perfectly—a grumpy but kind companion whom I always welcome—Heratrix overwhelms me. It's like attempting to contain a hurricane inside a glass jar. I try to hide my discomfort as I always do, but if she senses it, she says nothing.
Every beat of Zephyros's wings carries me closer to Castle Stonefall and its despicable king, a man I hate nearly as much as I hated Cindergrasp.
Six dragons burst from the clouds ahead, their massive bodies forming a perfect hexagon around us.
The royal escort. My muscles tense instantly, wind swirling around me.
From Zephyros, I sense the other dragons' presence, along with what feels like questions.
I look at each in turn, trying to see physical evidence for their reaction, but they seem impassive, like it's just another day, and not the day of their queen's return. Strange creatures!
—Strange creatures indeed, Zephyros huffs. If dragons behaved like humans, we would interrupt battles to ask… But how does that make you feel?
—Ha, very funny!
Across the distance, I feel Tahr's eyes on me.
—They're here to welcome the Goddess, not attack her, he says. Just as we expected.
I frown.
—Have you not seen their thoughts already?
I bristle at his mental admonishment. It seems not long ago his guiding words about my Weaver abilities felt like liberation. For months, he worked with me, teaching me to embrace what I am rather than hide it.
"You are special, Rhealyn. Never apologize for your gifts," he'd say as I practiced reaching into minds, stealing thoughts, feeling the power flow through me without shame.
Yet, it seems I've fallen back into the old patterns of self-disgust I grew up with.
Perhaps the words I heard—unnatural, wrong, dangerous—still echo in my subconscious.
Or maybe all my childhood conditioning didn't vanish, no matter how intensely Tahr tried to reprogram it.
Though something tells me that's not the real reason.
Maybe it's just that being away from him reminded me I never liked trespassing on what is meant to be private, and I'm happy to leave the task to him.
My jaw clenches as I stare ahead at Castle Stonefall looming in the distance. Time to face King Craven. With him at least, I won't apologize for any part of who I am.
When we arrive, it's clear the courtyard within the palace walls isn't designed for a dragon of Heratrix's magnitude plus the royal escort.
She doesn't wait to be invited, however, and descends first, early moonlight skittering across her hide.
The ground trembles as her massive form settles, her wings creating gusts strong enough to bend nearby trees.
She folds her wings against her sides, somehow managing to leave just enough space for Zephyros and two escort dragons, who land in a hurry, their riders dismounting quickly to openly gawk at the Goddess.
Remembering the last time I was here and the way they treated me, I feel a surge of satisfaction watching their composure crumble.
—Not so arrogant now, are they? I tell Zephyros as I slide down his shoulder.
—They smell like fear and awe.
Palace guards pour into the clearing, surrounding us in a wide circle.
Unlike the dragon riders, they don't even attempt to maintain their disciplined demeanor.
Many fall to their knees, hands clasped in prayer as they bow their heads before Heratrix.
Some weep openly, their voices rising in prayers I haven't heard in a long time.
"Heratrix, Mother of Claws and Flame, Protector of Embernia, hail your glory.
For our lives we thank you, and to your cause, we pledge them.
Sharpen our steel as you sharpen your talons.
Give us the fury of the storm and the endurance of the mountain.
Let our enemies be ash before your breath, and may we return to the nest when the battle is won. "
Atop her head, Tahr's amber eyes gleam with satisfaction, matching Heratrix's.
Driven by curiosity, I let myself slip into their minds, hungry for their thoughts about the man perched proudly atop the Goddess.
—He rides the Mother of All. Is he a god himself?
—He looks so regal...
—The prophecies speak of the Goddess's return, but they never mentioned him. Who is he?
—Is he immortal too? Those eyes burn like fire.
Their awe washes over me in waves. These guards—hardened men who've likely killed in the king's name—are mentally on their knees before Tahr.
Not just because he rides Heratrix, but because of his otherworldly presence, his beauty that cuts like a blade, and the way he carries himself as if centuries of wisdom rest behind those intense eyes.
One guard's thoughts practically shout above the others.
—He commands the Queen of Dragons. What power must he possess? What blessings might he bestow upon the faithful?
I pull back from their minds, unsettled. These men would follow Tahr blindly, worship him without question. The realization sits cold in my stomach. Power like this is dangerous.
Though power like this has rested with a fool all along.
Craven, our pathetic monarch, sits on his throne sending men to die while he hides behind castle walls.
At least Tahr is a far greater alternative.
He's beholden to Heratrix first and foremost. And she is Embernia's Goddess and protector.
That was her vow when she joined her kind's destiny to ours.
The dragons have served humans because she made them vow they would.
Without her, we'd have already succumbed to the Screechclaws centuries ago.
Our numbers dwindle while our enemies' seem endless. We needed her back.
I straighten and watch Tahr slide gracefully down Heratrix's neck. His movements flow like water over stone. When his boots touch the ground, the guards move back instinctively. Fear? Respect? Both, probably.
My thoughts turn to Vaylen, and guilt stabs through me.
He would hate seeing me here like this, would he think I seek my own glory, perhaps.
Glory is something I've indeed sought in my desire to change Embernia, to squash the Cleansing Authority so no more children have to suffer.
But with the Goddess back, it doesn't seem important anymore.
I guess it's a good thing he isn't here.
I'm sorry, Vaylen. I'm so sorry.
A guard in a crisp blue uniform strides toward us, his shoulders squared with practiced importance, unlike his kneeling comrades.
As he navigates around their prostrated forms, he regards them with open contempt, upper lip curling.
Yet, despite his obvious effort to appear unaffected, I catch his involuntary swallow and the way his eyes widen at Heratrix's immense form.
The insignia on his shoulder marks him as a captain. He stops before us, giving a nod so slight it barely qualifies as acknowledgment.
"His Majesty King Craven Stonefall awaits your presence in the throne room," he announces, his voice impressively steady.
His gaze flicks between Tahr and me, as if wondering who holds the power between us.
Then he extends his hand toward the entrance, an invitation for us to walk ahead into the palace.
"After you," Tahr says with a slight bow.
The captain's eye twitches, a small but unmistakable sign of irritation. He's not used to having his authority challenged, even in something as trivial as who walks first. Tahr's smile widens into a grin that doesn't reach his eyes.
I hide my amusement as we follow the captain through Castle Stonefall's ostentatious halls.
Gold leaf adorns every archway, tapestries depicting dragon victories line the walls, and jewel-encrusted sconces hold flames that cast dancing shadows.
All this wealth while common folk struggle. It's a crime.
We reach the throne room's massive doors, carved with dragons in flight. Two guards swing them open, revealing the cavernous space beyond.
King Craven sits alone on his gilded throne, a sight so strange it makes me frown. Where are his fawning courtiers? The armored guards who typically flank him? Even those vicious hounds he keeps to intimidate visitors are nowhere to be seen.
The moment Tahr steps into the room, Craven springs to his feet like he's been shocked. His eyes—always calculating and cold—grow wide with unmistakable fear.
"The Goddess re-returns," he stammers, descending the throne steps with none of his usual theatrical flourish. His gaze never leaves Tahr, whose presence fills the room like a giant's would. "And she brings... you."
There's recognition in his voice, though I'm certain they've never met. It only means he's been expecting this. Craven's hands tremble as he attempts a slight bow, his usual smirk replaced by a grimace that can't hide his terror.
"Your Majesty looks... unaccompanied today," I observe, searching the shadows for hidden guards.
"I need no courtiers when the Goddess herself has blessed my palace with her presence," Craven says, his oily gaze fixed exclusively on Tahr. "Had I known you were coming, I would have prepared a grander welcome. The people deserve to see their Goddess's chosen one properly honored."