Chapter 16 Rhea
Rhea
Ilead Phoebe to my chambers and shut the door behind us. The silence stretches between us like a chasm, filled with unspoken accusations.
She stands awkwardly near the window, fingers tracing invisible patterns on her sleeve. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the opulent furnishings, lingering on the massive four-poster bed, then quickly away again.
I can't bear it anymore. "How is he?" The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them. "Vaylen, I mean."
Phoebe's gaze snaps to mine, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I thought you were with Lord Flarebane now." She studies my face.
"No!" The denial bursts from me, weak and pathetic. I sink onto a chair, suddenly exhausted. "I mean, it's complicated."
She crosses her arms, still keeping her distance. "The High Prime is fine," she says, her voice clipped. "Carrying out his duties to protect Embernia, as usual. But I'm not here to talk about him. I want to know what you and Lord Flarebane intend to do now. I think you owe me that much."
I nod. This is easy to talk about. "We're going to end the war, Phoebe." I lean forward, desperate for her to understand. "All of it. The centuries of bloodshed, the Screechclaws, everything."
"And you couldn't tell us this?" Her voice rises slightly. "You had to lie to everyone who cared about you? To me?" The hurt brings tears to the back of my eyes. "Why the deception, Rhea? Everyone in Embernia has been waiting for Heratrix to return. The Sky Order would have supported you."
"Do you truly believe that?" I laugh, the sound bitter.
"Would the Sky Order welcome a murderess?
" My fists clench at my sides as I pace across the room.
"I'm sure Vaylen told you by now that I killed Cindergrasp.
That I'm a liar and have always been, ever since my mother died because I'm also a Weaver. "
I stop and watch her face for a reaction.
There's none. So she knows. Everyone must. The words leave a bad taste in my mouth, each confession stripping away another layer of pretense until I feel raw.
Patiently, I wait for Phoebe's judgment, for her to recoil in horror or disgust. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze steady on mine.
"I would have understood," she says quietly. "I would kill anyone who dared hurt my mother."
The simple declaration stops my heart cold. No condemnation. No lecture about duty or honor or the code of the Sky Order.
At my surprise, Phoebe shrugs, a small, fierce gesture. "Family is everything, Rhea. Some bonds go deeper than oaths or orders. I don't agree with how you've handled things, but I understand why you did what you did."
My tears threaten to spill, but I blink them back. Phoebe's understanding feels undeserved.
"I want to trust you," she says, her voice soft but firm. "Despite everything. I believe there's more to this story than what we're seeing." She takes another step closer, her eyes searching mine. "Let me help you."
The lifeline dangles before me. I could tell her everything…
about our plan to control the King, my growing doubts about Tahr, my regrets about Vaylen.
My lips part, the confession balanced on my tongue.
Then something sharp seizes my heart. Images flash through my mind of Phoebe's throat under Tahr's knife, her body plummeting from Trueno's back, her mind rifled through, the same way I fear mine was.
"I can't," I whisper, stepping back. "I won't drag you into this. I've done enough damage."
Her face falls.
I've already wounded too many people I care about.
Even if Phoebe doesn't despise me, Cliffbecker must. Dakar, too.
He's probably spitting wyrm-shit whenever my name surfaces.
And Nate—with his honest heart—I can picture his disappointment.
Just like the Commander and her cold fury, outmatched only by Vaylen's.
Vaylen.
His face haunts me, those blue eyes hardening to ice when I confirmed his worst fears. The man who held me like I was precious, whose lips made me feel alive… now looks at me like I'm poison.
I am poison.
I destroy everything I touch.
Good thing now I have my sights on the Screechclaws.
I grab Phoebe's hands, squeezing them between my own, a weak smile tugging at my lips.
"Your friendship has always meant everything to me. And your trust, especially now, when I've given you every reason to hate me..." My voice cracks slightly. "I don't deserve it."
She doesn't pull away, but her eyes remain guarded.
"I promise you," I continue, the words tumbling out faster, "I won't disappoint you again.
We want the same thing… an Embernia where children grow up without fearing Screechclaw attacks, where dragons thrive instead of dwindling.
" I squeeze her hands tighter. "Maybe someday we'll laugh about all this over wine, sitting on some balcony in a realm that's known peace for years. "
It's a beautiful dream, one I cling to despite everything. A future where the choices I've made, the people I've hurt… it all means something in the end.
Phoebe gently extracts her hands from mine, her mouth tight with disappointment.
"I wish you'd let me in, Rhea. Whatever you're caught in…" She shakes her head and moves toward the door, then stops, her hand on the latch. "I have just one question."
I brace myself.
"Do you trust Lord Flarebane?" Her green eyes fix on me, searching for truth.
"Tahr's no lord, just like I'm no lady," I say, forcing a laugh to dodge her question. "The King thinks we care about pretentious titles. I'm a Skysinger. That's who I am."
The words hang in the air between us. I wait for her to agree, to say of course I'm a Skysinger, to acknowledge the one identity I care about.
But her face remains impassive, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable, like a Wind Spear to the chest. She doesn't see me as part of the Sky Order anymore.
None of them do. I've really lost that too.
A knot burns in my throat. One more piece of myself, gone forever. Stripped away by my own choices.
"Do you trust him, Rhea?" She repeats the question, her voice soft but insistent. "Because I don't. He gives me a bad feeling."
I want to scream that she's right, that I don't trust him either, that every instinct tells me he's been manipulating me, that I've made a terrible mistake.
Instead, I swallow hard and whisper, "He's necessary." Not a lie, and yet a clear enough answer to her question.
She nods, her expression softening with understanding despite everything. "Be careful," she admonishes, then she's gone, leaving me in a room that suddenly feels too large, too empty.
I tear at my hair, thoughts swarming like angry wasps.
The weight of everyone's disappointment presses down on me until I can barely breathe.
The walls of this gilded cage close in, and I need to move, so I change, run fingers through my hair, and leave the chamber.
Hurrying through the palace, I find Tahr waiting outside the King's study.
He smiles when he sees me, but I notice it doesn't reach his eyes, not even with me. Has it ever?
"There you are, darling. Ready to charm our paranoid king?" His voice slides over me like silk covering a blade.
"Let's get this over with." I keep my distance, skin crawling at the memory of those bottles of Strepitus.
A servant with a pinched face appears, bowing so low I wonder if he'll topple over. "His Majesty awaits your presence."
To my surprise, we bypass both Craven's office and the throne room.
Instead, the servant ushers us into the King's private chambers.
The room reeks of heavy cologne, and Craven stands on a raised platform, arms extended like a scarecrow, while a small, fidgety man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Madame Steelshroud scurries around him with pins and measuring tape.
"Three inches wider in the shoulders," Craven orders, catching sight of us. "I want to look imposing next to—" He stops when he notices us.
His nostrils flare. His expression shifts to one of deep annoyance, like we've interrupted him at a playdate.
"Steelshroud, we don't have all day. I have royal business to tend to," he snaps, his eyes darting between Tahr and me with poorly concealed apprehension.
"Yes, Your Majesty, of course," the little man stammers.
No wonder he resembles the seamstress. They must be related.
On close inspection, I decide he's a near-perfect male replica of Madame Steelshroud, complete with the same nervous energy but packaged in a balding head and spectacles perched on a bulbous nose.
"Just a few more adjustments for Your Magnificence. "
Steelshroud lifts his hand, and suddenly a dozen metal pins rise from a small cushion attached to his wrist. The pins float in midair like tiny silver arrows.
With graceful finger movements, he conducts them toward Craven's jacket, each one finding its precise mark to tuck excess fabric or create clean lines across the King's shoulders.
"Hurry up!" Craven barks.
The nervous man nods frantically, his fingers dancing faster. The last pins slide into place, and the King's royal jacket now sits perfectly across his torso, making him appear almost regal despite his petulant expression and scrawny frame.
"Finished, Your Majesty," Steelshroud whispers, backing away with a deep bow.
His assistants rush forward like mice when a cat turns away, gathering their implements, fabric swatches, and removing the jacket from the King's stiff figure.
Craven steps down from the platform and with barely a backward glance, walks through a door in the corner of the room. I share a look with Tahr before following into a small study where Craven settles behind an ornate desk, the child now trying to appear important.