Chapter 11
Rhea
My heart thumps. Vaylen is here.
Tahr's eyes cut to mine, sharp. There's a question in them, unspoken but clear. He's measuring my reaction to this unexpected arrival.
Then I feel it… the gentle press against my thoughts, like fingers trying to part curtains. He's in my mind, prowling through my emotions without permission.
—Get out! I hiss.
The intrusion retreats, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Tahr's face smooths into something resembling contrition, but underneath I sense currents of frustration and anger swirling like dark water.
Not at me specifically, but at something deeper.
Perhaps at my reaction to Vaylen's name, or at his own inability to control the situation.
—Forgive me, he murmurs, the word silky but tense. Blame it on my habits.
I told him from the start I didn't want him taking such liberties. He actually gained some of my trust by teaching me how to detect mental intrusions. He may abuse his skill with others, but we agreed that, with me, it'd be different.
King Craven pushes back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping against marble.
He rises with that theatrical flourish I've come to despise, all pomp without substance.
As he turns to leave, Tahr's eyes narrow to amber slits, and I recognize the intensity inside them.
He's about to make a suggestion that Craven won't be able to refuse.
Tahr's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he focuses on Craven's retreating form.
But the King just… walks away. There's no pause, no hesitation. Nothing to indicate Tahr's prodding has affected him at all. Craven simply continues his pompous exit.
My eyes dart between them as a question materializes.
What if the chaotic jumble I encountered in the King's mind wasn't madness?
What if it's some sort of… protection? If his bloodline has always known about Weavers, it stands to reason they'd have devised a way to block us.
I frown, wondering how we're supposed to control him if his mind is locked?
Tahr's expression remains neutral, but I catch another flash of frustration in his eyes. At my side, Silas wears an amused expression as he watches with care.
Undeterred, Tahr stands with fluid grace, going after the King without a word. His movements are too calculated, too precise. He's not following. He's hunting. The nobles trade puzzled glances.
Shit! Tahr's leaving. Well, I'm not staying here with these vultures—not when my presence is as welcome as a swarm of tax collectors at their noble estates.
"Excuse me," I mutter to no one in particular, pushing back my chair and striding after Tahr. Their gazes prickle against my skin, hateful beneath their veneer of civility.
Two steps toward the doorway, something catches around my ankle, cooling my skin. I stumble, barely catching myself on the edge of the table. What in the seven hells?
I glance back to find Silas watching me with an insufferable smirk, his feet tucked neatly beneath his chair. Did he just—? No. He couldn't have reached me from there. His gray eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long, challenging. Judging.
"Careful there," he drawls, voice pitched for my ears alone. "Wouldn't want our prophesied savior to take a tumble."
I straighten my spine and turn away. I'm being paranoid. My nerves are frayed thinking about facing Vaylen again. That's all this is.
Deep breath. Focus.
I walk on with deliberate steps, refusing to look back.
As he reaches the grand doorway, Craven looks back, his gaze sliding from Tahr to me.
Annoyance pinches his features. His mouth opens, likely to send us back like he would his hounds, but something flickers behind his eyes.
He presses his lips together, swallowing whatever command was forming on his tongue.
Instead, he turns to the watching nobles with a practiced smile.
"My honored guests will join me to discuss matters of state," he announces, voice pitched to carry. "Continue enjoying the feast."
The transparent attempt to save face makes me want to laugh. This man believes himself powerful, yet here he is, pretending Tahr and I were meant to follow him all along.
We play the game. For now.
The chamber doors close behind us with an ominous thud. My heart climbs up my throat. What did I just do? Maybe staying with those silver-tongued vipers would have been preferable to what awaits ahead.
Vaylen. The Commander.
I picture Vaylen's eyes, those blue depths that pull me in like a whirlpool, now likely frozen with betrayal. And Commander Voltguard... her steely gaze will slice me open where I stand.
Coward, I chide myself. Since when do you hide?
I harden my resolve with a deep inhale. This confrontation was inevitable from the moment I mounted Heratrix with Tahr.
We'll all need to work together when we march against the Screechclaws, Vaylen commanding the Skyriders, Voltguard planning Sky Order attacks, me embracing my Omneira destiny, which will give me the power to put an end to the war.
An end to centuries of bloodshed. That's what I'm fighting for, what I've sacrificed everything for.
Echoes of Vaylen's touch flicker across my skin along with his whispered promises, punctuated by my name like a prayer on his lips.
Focus, Rhea.
King Craven leads us down the corridor, his steps quickening. Tahr's presence at my side burns like a brand. I catch his sidelong glance. Intense. Possessive.
"Having second thoughts?" he murmurs, voice barely audible.
"Not a chance," I reply, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm just preparing for battle."
His knowing smile makes my skin crawl. "The hardest battles are the ones we fight against ourselves."
We arrive at Craven's private office. The space is all dark wood and gleaming surfaces, with a massive oak desk carved with dragons.
The room smells of old leather, ink, and heavy cologne.
Tapestries depicting Stonefall triumphs adorn the walls, a visual history of conquest I suspect is heavily edited.
And there they stand. Vaylen and Commander Voltguard, both rigid in their pristine Sky Order uniforms.
My breath catches. Vaylen doesn't even glance my way.
His jaw is set like stone, eyes focused on some distant point beyond us all.
I know that look, that impenetrable cold stare that no one can match.
It's the wall he builds when he needs no one, when he's folded himself into something entirely self-contained.
The absence of his gaze hurts more than his anger would.
Commander Voltguard, however, examines us thoroughly, her eyes lingering on Tahr with undisguised suspicion. Her gray hair is immaculate, not a strand out of her bun despite the hasty journey that brought them here. She looks ready to command armies or execute traitors with equal efficiency.
Looking utterly done with the entire situation, Craven walks around his grand desk and collapses into his chair with a dramatic sigh.
"What now?" he asks, waving his hand in exasperation.
My fingers itch to slap the entitlement from his face. This man rules a kingdom at war, and he sits there like we'd rather be eating bonbons.
Commander Voltguard steps forward, her posture rigid as iron. "Your Majesty, perhaps we should speak in private." Her eyes flick to Tahr and me with unmistakable meaning.
Craven waves away her suggestion with a flippant hand. "Nonsense, Commander. Lady Wyndward and Lord Flarebane stay." Now that he doesn't need to save face, his voice carries none of the hesitation it did in the dining hall.
I scoff at the title of Lady, but I guess I can't expect to still be called a Skysinger when I've abandoned the Sky Order to serve other purposes.
Craven smirks at his Sky Order leaders, using Tahr and me as shields against them.
He doesn't trust them. He sent me to spy on them, for the Goddess's sake.
Instead, he thinks we're his protectors when we're the real threat to his precious crown.
Tahr and I didn't return with Heratrix to prop up a paranoid fool's reign.
We would have if he was the King Embernia deserves and needs, but as it stands, he's only a means to an end.
The Commander's gaze hardens as she straightens to her full height, obsidian cloak flowing behind her like a shadow.
"Your Majesty, there are matters you must know regarding Lady Wyndward.
" Her voice cuts through the room with military mastery.
"She abandoned her post at Fort Ashmire without authorization.
Moreover, we've discovered her Cleansing failed years ago.
She's a Weaver, a mind-reader, a dangerous combination of powers that our laws specifically forbid as declared by the monarchy. "
My cheeks burn hot. So Vaylen has revealed my secret.
I clench my fists, nails digging crescents into my palms. I want to speak, but it's the King's authority that must appear to matter in this moment.
I only wonder if he'll say the right thing as we have no way to control him.
Ironic how they only seem worried about me when I'm not the only one who can waltz into their minds, but I suppose they have no proof or authority to denounce Tahr, who stands impassive, waiting to see how this will play out.
Craven laughs, a hollow sound that echoes against the walls.
"Commander, I know exactly what she is. My own personal Weaver.
" He looks smug, like he's holding the winning hand at cards.
"But is that why you're here? That's what concerns you?
" He looks genuinely baffled. "The Goddess Heratrix has returned.
The Queen of Dragons flies above our kingdom after a thousand years of absence!
" He spreads his arms wide. "The war will soon end.
My reign—my family's legacy—will be secure at last."