Chapter 13 #3
I remember nights spent by candlelight, huddled over yellowed maps of Castle Stonefall that Tahr produced from hidden chambers. How he traced pathways with his finger, drilling me on the layout until I could recite them as well as he could.
It wasn't just architectural layouts we memorized in those caves.
It was history, the kind they don't teach at the Aerie Academy.
Tahr turns toward the restricted wing reserved only for royalty and dismisses the guards there, who stand no chance against his mind control. I hide and let them pass, unnoticed.
His confidence isn't arrogance. It's inheritance. Just as Heratrix’s return isn’t a miracle, but a contingency plan drafted in shadows over a thousand years ago.
When Heratrix fell into her deep slumber, her rider didn't simply mourn. He did far more than just gather all the Goddess's eggs. Loyal to the bone, he went to the reigning Stonefall King—Craven’s ancestor many times removed—and spilled the truth about Vestra’s madness and the matriarch’s downfall.
That was when, together, monarch and rider forged a covenant darker than blood.
They drafted the protocols for the awakening.
The knowledge of Heratrix’s resting place and the true nature of her enemy was to be passed down from king to heir, a whispered burden meant to preserve the crown's alliance with the ultimate power.
And then there was the prophecy.
A shiver works its way down my spine as I recall the scrolls Tahr showed me.
A dragon, long since turned to dust, had spoken of the Omneira—a Skyrider who would not just bond, but weave all six elements into a single devastating tapestry.
That prophecy was the cornerstone of the King's secrets. It’s why Craven tried to ignore me.
He knows the lore. He knows I am the weapon his family has been waiting centuries to wield, and he's terrified of me.
Tahr stops before a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands.
He doesn't knock. Instead, he pulls a key from his pocket and slips inside.
Where in the realm did he get a key? Bastard!
That's what he is, and I… an imbecile. He never told me he had a key.
He never invited me to go sneaking around in the palace doing the Goddess knows what.
The Goddess…
Does she know about this?
—She must, Zephyros says. They are bonded as you and I are.
My chest seethes with anger. At Tahr. At my momentous stupidity.
I wait a beat, then creep closer, pressing my ear to the cold wood, but I can't hear anything.
—I wish I could slip inside his mind and learn his purpose, I tell Zephyros, frustration building like pressure in my chest. But he would sense me right away.
Tahr spent months training me in the intricacies of mind-weaving, yet now I wonder how much he deliberately held back. Every lesson suddenly feels hollow, designed to keep me dependent on his guidance. My teeth clench. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
—Do not try to breach his mind, little one, Zephyros warns. Open the door instead. Slowly. Carefully.
Taking a deep breath, I wrap my fingers around the iron handle. The metal bites cold against my palm as I apply the gentlest pressure, easing the heavy door open by degrees.
A sliver of candlelight spills into the corridor.
Through the crack, I glimpse towering shelves packed with bottles of every imaginable size and shape.
The room beyond resembles some ancient apothecary's sanctuary, a labyrinth of wooden cabinets stretching from floor to ceiling, their surfaces darkened with age and constant handling.
Glass containers catch the flickering light, their contents ranging from murky liquids to crystallized powders in hues of gold, emerald, and midnight blue.
Dried herbs hang from exposed beams, swaying slightly in an imperceptible draft.
The scent that wafts through the narrow opening is complex, earthy, sweet, and tinged with something metallic that tickles my nostrils.
A marble countertop runs along one wall, its surface cluttered with mortars, pestles, delicate measuring scales, and half-filled vials awaiting some mysterious purpose.
Parchment scrolls peek from cubbyholes, their edges yellowed and curling.
In the heart of this organized chaos burns a single thick candle, its flame casting elongated shadows that dance across the walls like trees in the wind.
What in all the hells is this place?
Tahr moves about the room, scanning the shelves methodically. He pulls down bottles, examines labels, uncorks some to inhale their contents before returning them to their exact positions. Nothing casual about his movements. This is a man who knows exactly what he's looking for.
After what feels like an eternity, he selects two large, corked bottles, placing them on the marble counter with meticulous care.
The glass catches the candlelight, contents swirling emerald within.
My stomach knots as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a tiny crystal vial containing clear liquid.
What the fuck is he doing?
My breath catches as he uncorks the bottles and adds several drops from his vial to each large bottle with a steady hand. No bubbling, no color change, no reaction whatsoever. The liquid accepts this foreign substance without protest.
—Is it poison? I wonder.
—Perhaps, Zephyros replies. Perhaps not.
Tahr recorks the bottles and replaces them exactly as he found them, adjusting their position by millimeters until satisfied.
His head snaps up, eyes locking on the door. Instinct takes over and I lurch backward, chest tightening with dread. Too late to close the door, he'll hear the latch. I spin and bolt down the corridor, boots barely touching the marble floor.
Wind rushes in my ears as I fly around corners, taking the fastest route back to my chambers. Too fast. Too careless.
I slam straight into a patrol of Royal Guards, the collision sending me stumbling backward.
"Halt!" One of the guard’s hand flies to his sword hilt. "State your business, woman."
Two men in royal blue stare me down, suspicion hardening their faces in the torchlight.
"I—" My mind races. No time for this.
I reach for that secret place inside me where my Weaver power lives, letting it unfurl like smoke. Tendrils of thought slip from my mind into theirs, wrapping around their consciousness.
—You see nothing here, I whisper in their minds. I'm nobody. Just a shadow. A trick of the light.
Their eyes glaze over, pupils dilating as my influence takes hold.
"Just a shadow," they mumble.
I slide past them, my heart still pounding frantically.
—That was reckless, Zephyros scolds.
I collapse against my chamber door after entering, sweat cooling on my skin. The room feels too small, too confined as I pace its length like a caged animal.
—What the hell was he doing? I rake fingers through my tangled hair. Has he always lied? Was I just too blind to see it? Or is he acting this way because I'm pulling away?
Zephyros's silence speaks volumes. A disapproving hum vibrates through our connection. He doesn't need words. I feel his judgment like a physical weight.
"Fine, say it," I snap. "I was an idiot."
—I would never call you an idiot, little one. Merely the most gullible wind-wielding, dragon-riding Weaver in Embernia's long, tragic history.
—Very funny.
I press my ear against the door, straining to hear Tahr's return. Nothing. The corridor beyond remains deathly quiet, not even the shuffle of guard rotation breaking the silence.
Still fully clothed, I crawl into bed, dagger clutched in my hand beneath the pillow, waiting for footsteps that never come. As dawn's pale fingers creep through my window, one terrible thought settles in my mind.
Whatever game Tahr is playing, we're all just pieces on his board.