Chapter 17 Vaylen
Vaylen
Itug at my dragon-scale embroidered cuff, the golden threads too fancy for my liking. This formal uniform makes me feel like an impostor—a boy playing at being High Prime. I don't belong in this ridiculous ball, but Commander Voltguard was clear.
"We have no other choice. We must be vigilant," she said, her eyes hard as flint. "We may now have enemies within as well as without."
The din of celebration welcomes me as I enter the great hall of Castle Stonefall.
The cavernous space drips with obscene wealth.
Crystal chandeliers larger than wagon wheels dangle from vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of age-old dragon battles.
Marble columns wrapped in fresh flowers and golden ribbons line the periphery.
Noble families parade in silks and jewels that could feed entire villages for winters on end, their laughter tinkling like broken glass beneath the chamber's soaring acoustics.
Musicians play on a raised dais, their strings and woodwinds competing with the clink of goblets and roar of conversation.
Servants weave through the crowd with practiced invisibility, carrying trays of delicacies while King Craven sits on his elevated throne, watching his subjects with vacant eyes.
I scan the crowd for Phoebe, relieved when I spot her coppery hair near one of the marble columns. At least there's one person in this suffocating spectacle I can trust.
She notices me approaching and snaps to attention. "High Prime." The formal salute, fist to shoulder, feels out of place amid the revelry.
Her professional demeanor dissolves instantly as she leans toward me, voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you make of that?" She tilts her head toward the opposite end of the hall.
My stomach tightens. I turn slowly, dreading the sight of Rhealyn—her dark hair, those hazel eyes that still haunt me despite my best efforts. I don't want to see her, don't trust myself to maintain composure if I do.
But it's not Rhealyn who draws Phoebe's attention.
Instead, I see Silas Pyrewing. He stands proudly among his family members, his blond hair immaculate, gray eyes surveying the room with aristocratic disdain.
Silas wears a formal Sky Order uniform identical to mine and Phoebe's—obsidian jacket with gold dragon-scale embroidery at the cuffs.
My blood boils at the sight. The audacity of him, parading around in our colors after allowing an impostor to take his place.
House Pyrewing always believed itself above regulation, their royal connections granting them special privileges the rest of us could never claim.
For one wild moment, I wonder if it's Tahranis masquerading as Silas again.
My fingers flex instinctively, ready to call wind to my command.
But no. I heard whispers that the Goddess's rider and Lady Wyndward will make an appearance later to be properly introduced as guests of honor.
The King's sycophants seem to be practically foaming at the mouth with anticipation.
"It's not him, is it?" Phoebe asks, her voice tense with worry. She doesn't need to clarify who she means.
I study Silas's posture, the way he laughs too loudly among his noble family—Merryll in a wheelchair beside him—the practiced swagger as he accepts a crystal goblet from a passing servant.
"I don't think so," I reply, watching his interactions.
"Silas must be part of all this, then?" Phoebe's voice tightens with barely contained rage. "He has to be. He disappeared from Fort Ashmire after that fall from Ignemara and must have come to Emberton."
I nod grimly. "It's the only feasible explanation. Tahranis needed someone whose identity he could assume. He used Silas and the wyrm-shit was too glad to go along with the charade."
Phoebe's green eyes flash dangerously. "But why is that traitor still wearing our uniform?"
Our livery represents everything we stand for—honor, sacrifice, loyalty to Embernia—but Silas wears it like a costume, making mockery of its meaning.
"He should've come forward," Phoebe hisses. "Instead he… what? Hid away with his family while someone impersonated him? What does he gain?"
I watch Silas laugh at something one of his cousins says, and my anger hardens to steel. "Excellent question, Breezehart. Excellent question."
A long blast of horns slices through the din. The room falls silent as every eye turns to the main entrance. The massive double doors are pulled open to reveal two figures silhouetted against the lamp-lit corridor beyond.
Rhealyn and Tahranis stand poised at the threshold, waiting to be announced. My chest constricts painfully.
Tahranis looks every inch a nobleman in new finery.
His white hair hangs in perfect braids against a tailored black jacket with silver fastenings that must have cost more than most soldiers earn in a year.
The effect is understated yet commands respect, as if he’s spent his whole life perfecting this act.
But it's Rhealyn who steals all the air from my lungs.
Her gown cascades like midnight waters around her frame, deep blue-black silk that mimics liquid metal.
Silver embroidery traces the bodice in a pattern reminiscent of wind currents, curling and flowing across fabric that hugs her waist before falling in graceful waves to the marble floor.
Her dark hair is partially swept up, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, while loose tendrils frame her face in a deliberate disarray that somehow looks more perfect than any structured style could.
She's devastating. A force of nature contained in silk and silver.
Something vicious twists in my gut as I watch Tahranis's hand rest possessively at the small of her back. I want to tear them apart, to demand how she could stand there looking like that—like some celestial being descended to earth—while knowing what she's done, what she's thrown away.
What we could have been.
I force myself to breathe through the jealousy that threatens to choke me. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and my body quakes.
The master of ceremonies announces them with excessive flourish.
"Lord Tahranis Flarebane, Rider to the Goddess Heratrix, and Lady Rhealyn Rose Wyndward, Rider of the Wind."
"Flarebane," I hear Phoebe say. "Uncommon surname for one who is a Skysinger."
I glance at King Craven, mystified. The pompous little monarch sits straighter in his throne, watching the proceedings with unusual interest. This isn't mere courtesy.
Craven is bestowing a place of high honor upon them.
Why is a man who guards his power jealously, who bristles at even the smallest perceived slight to his authority, elevating these two to near equal status?
There's only one explanation. They're manipulating Craven with their Weaver abilities.
What else could explain this unprecedented royal favor?
I shudder with revulsion. I never imagined she'd breach such boundaries.
Entering another's mind—much less controlling it—is the ultimate violation. Something even she once condemned.
I wrench my eyes away, unable to bear the sight of her a moment longer.
Each glimpse of Rhealyn in that midnight gown feels like a bone-cracking blow, turning my frame to powder.
The woman I loved—the woman I thought I knew—transformed into this.
Dragon's breath! When did I become so pathetically weak?
I've faced death and led men through impossible odds.
Yet one woman dismantles me completely, leaving nothing but hollowed-out rage and wounded pride no matter how hard I try to cut her out of me.
"Stormsong." The Commander's voice halts through my spiral of self-loathing.
She appears beside us, resplendent in her formal uniform. Even in a room full of preening aristocrats, she commands presence. Her gray hair is pulled tight, though tonight it's adorned with a single gold pin bearing the Sky Order insignia.
I straighten instinctively. "Commander."
She doesn't speak further, but her gaze follows mine to where Rhealyn and Tahranis now mingle with fawning courtiers. The tight line of her mouth speaks volumes.
I lean closer, keeping my voice low. "Permission to court martial Silas Pyrewing, Commander? For dereliction of duty, at minimum. Conspiracy, if our instincts are correct." The anger in my voice surprises even me.
Voltguard observes Silas. "I doubt we would be allowed," she murmurs. "The Pyrewings have royal connections that run deeper than the Flametop caverns."
"But—"
"If Silas returns to his post—which I suspect he won't have the spine to do—I'll see that he spends the remainder of his service shoveling horse shit." A rare, cold smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "That's assuming Ignemara takes him back, which is yet to be seen."
Dragons choose their riders, and that connection—even for riders who aren't bonded like me—transcends mere partnership. So it's likely that after being abandoned, Ignemara might never accept Silas again.
"Ignemara deserves better," Phoebe says softly.
Voltguard nods. "Indeed. As do we all." After a pause, she says, "Remember, our presence is required for appearances only.
Observe everything. Note who approaches our guests of honor, who avoids them.
Particularly among the noble houses. If it comes to it, we'll need to know who might be on our side if our fears become a reality. "
I nod, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. The Commander's eyes harden to flint as she moves away, leaving us to our observations.
Rhealyn and Tahranis glide across the marble floor toward the King's throne, courtiers parting before them like waves against the bow of a ship. Despite my efforts to focus on the guests, my eyes track their every move.
They bow in perfect unison before King Craven, who rises from his throne with unusual promptness. His voice carries through the hall with surprising magnanimity.