Chapter 10 #3
"No need for dramatics." His voice drops to a whisper.
"I've trained since childhood against Weavers.
Growing up in House Pyrewing, one learns all sorts of useful skills.
" He pauses, looking me up and down. "I must admit…
you're the last person I thought would be part of this, Wyndward.
Imagine my surprise. Omneira, are you? I would have guarded my mind against you sooner had I been aware. "
"How in the hells do you know about that?" I hiss, leaning forward so no one else can hear.
More pieces click together in my mind: Silas spying on me during our time in Sky's Edge, learning about my difficulty with Wind Spear. And that letter from his father I glimpsed in Silas's mind.
I thought you’d find this amusing, son. The official reports from High Prime Stormsong to Commander Voltguard detail that Wyndward girl’s pathetic performance. Can’t even master basic techniques like Wind Spear. Embarrassing. My cousin at court secured these for me. I doubt she’s the one.
House Pyrewing knew about the prophecy all along, and they've been looking for signs. My mind reels at the sheer intricacy and age of this scheme.
Silas smiles, perfect white teeth gleaming in the candlelight as he registers my realization. He makes a show of straightening his jacket cuffs, preening like a self-important peacock.
"If I'd known what you truly were," he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'd have been nicer to you."
The smug satisfaction in his tone makes my blood boil. This bastard tried to undermine my position in the Sky Order every chance he got, all while his family knew exactly what to look for, and everyone else was left in the dark.
"Does that mean you'll be nicer now?" I ask, batting my eyelashes in mock sweetness.
He nods, leaning closer. "We could be powerful allies, Wyndward."
"Go fuck yourself, Pyrewing. You're nothing but a self-serving bastard who should treat people nicely regardless of what they can do for you."
The look of shock on his face is almost worth everything I've been through today. Almost.
"Keep your distance," I hiss. "Or I'll show you exactly what Omneira can do to people who cross her."
Silas recovers quickly, eyes gleaming with malice as his mouth settles into a smug grin that makes me want to rip it off with my bare hands. "Oh, I know. I'm sure our dear High Prime is recovering from your attentions right as we speak."
My blood boils instantly, and I clench the knife, ready to drive it through his smirking face. How dare he speak of Vaylen? The wound in my heart rips open wider, bleeding fresh guilt and pain.
Tahr's voice cuts through my rage, cold and clear. —Control yourself, Rhea. Your time will come, and someone as unimportant as Silas Pyrewing hardly deserves your notice.
He's right, damn him. I loosen my grip on the knife, though the urge for violence doesn't fade. Instead, I lean closer to Silas.
"At least Vaylen has a heart to break," I say between clenched teeth.
"You, Pyrewings, have nothing but a gaping void where your soul should be.
Tell me, does your dragon even tolerate you?
Or does he just pretend like everyone else in your miserable life?
You don't have friends, Silas. You never have. "
The flash of genuine hurt in his eyes is more satisfying than any knife wound could be.
Lord Pyrewing clears his throat, cutting through the polite conversation.
"Fascinating as all this is," he says, swirling wine in his goblet, "I find myself curious as to how the Queen of Dragons returns with a rider already chosen.
" His eyes fix on Tahr with barely concealed suspicion.
"Where has she been all this time that she can already have bonded with you? "
Since he has been aware of Heratrix's return all along, it's obvious this question is only to make everyone in the room wonder why they or their children didn't get a chance to become the Goddess's rider.
Unsurprisingly, the question has its intended effect.
The table falls silent. Even the servants freeze, sensing the challenge in his words.
My gaze flicks to Tahr's face as I wonder how he'll respond to this direct confrontation.
Tahr smiles—that dangerous smile that never reaches his eyes—and sets down his cutlery. "A fascinating story indeed," Tahr narrows his eyes.
"Lord Basil Pyrewing, King's Royal Councilor, Keeper of the Eastern Flame, and descendant of the ancient Pyrewing bloodline that has served Embernia's crown since our first treaty with Heratrix," Silas's father provides as introduction, his voice carrying the practiced resonance of a man accustomed to announcing his full titles.
He turns the signet ring he wears—an heirloom likely passed through many generations, depicting a dragon with wings of flame that matches the embroidery adorning the sleeves of his formal attire.
His chin lifts with the subtle pride of nobility that has never known challenge, the kind of bearing that comes from centuries of assured position.
"Lord Pyrewing," Tahr says, looking unimpressed, then casting a quick glance in Silas's direction as he realizes this man is the patriarch of the ally he barely knows.
"My story has many... delicate components that I'll discuss with His Majesty before anyone else.
" His voice carries the quiet authority of someone who knows secrets others don't. "Some matters require a king's ear first, wouldn't you agree? "
I bite my lip to hide my smile. Tahr just put Lord Pyrewing firmly in his place, reminding him of his station below the king.
Lord Pyrewing's face flushes slightly before he recovers with the same practiced smoothness his son inherited. "Of course," he concedes with a stiff nod. "His Majesty's prerogative is absolute."
King Craven preens at this, his crown glinting as he straightens. I catch myself wondering how much gold it would take to feed Cinderhold for a month. How many children like Fern could sleep with full bellies on what adorns his head and this table?
I take a sip of wine, letting it burn away the guilt. Tonight, I play my part. Tomorrow, everything changes.
King Craven raises his glass, mouth opening for what will undoubtedly be an insufferably pompous toast. I prepare my fake smile, already plotting how to survive this charade of a dinner.
Before he can speak, the massive doors swing open. A servant rushes in, face flushed, and bends to whisper urgently in the King's ear. I tense, instantly alert as Craven's expression twists from annoyance to something harder to read.
"My esteemed guests," he announces, setting down his glass. "I must attend to an urgent matter. The Commander and High Prime of the Sky Order request my immediate attention." His eyes flick briefly to mine.
My lungs seem to seize. Vaylen. Here. Now.
Tahr scans my face, his expression too controlled. I grip the table edge until my knuckles turn white, pulse racing. I wish I could quiet my stupid heart, but instead it behaves like a nuisance.
Silas leans close, his breath hot on my ear. "This should be entertaining. The lover you abandoned comes to face you."
I resist the urge to stab his smug face with my dinner fork. Instead, I force myself to breathe. Whatever comes next, I'm ready.