Chapter 17 Vaylen #2
"Citizens of Embernia, noble houses, honored guests. Tonight we celebrate the return of Heratrix, the Queen of Dragons, the Goddess who blessed our lands with her protection a millennium ago."
I narrow my eyes, finding more proof of foul play as Craven speaks with the conviction of a believer rather than his usual theatrical pomposity.
"I have communed with the Goddess herself.
Heratrix has renewed her ancient promise to protect Embernia and our dynasty.
" His eyes gleam with something between rapture and triumph.
"Soon, very soon, Heratrix and her chosen rider will bring an end to the Screechclaw War that has plagued us for so long! "
The crowd erupts in thunderous cheers, goblets raised, voices crying out in jubilation. The nobles stamp their feet and pound tables in approval.
“Now, I know many of you and our citizenry wish to see her, worship her, but that will have to wait. The Goddess wishes to spend the time before the battle communing with her kind.”
I remain still, watching Rhealyn's face for any flicker of emotion.
There is none. Slowly, quiet descends on the room, and eyes turn to Rhealyn, some curious, others suspicious.
They all want to know what her role is in all of this.
The air grows thick with anticipation, pressing against my chest like an anvil.
Will Craven tell them of the prophecy? Of Omneira? The word alone sends ice through my veins. I catch Phoebe's worried glance but keep my expression neutral, years of discipline serving me well despite the turmoil inside.
Without a glitch, as if he were expecting this, Craven's attention turns to Rhealyn. He extends a hand and invites her to step onto the dais with him. She hesitates—so briefly that most wouldn't notice—before accepting his invitation with practiced grace.
The midnight silk of her gown comes to life with the light as she ascends the steps, a constellation of silver stars shifting across dark fabric. Despite everything, I can't tear my eyes away. She's achingly beautiful.
Her face remains carefully composed, but I know those hazel eyes too well. There's calculation behind them, a measured caution as she takes her place beside the King.
Voltguard catches my eyes from across the room. Whatever comes next will change everything. I feel it too.
Craven smiles fondly at Rhealyn, an expression I've never seen on his face before. It's unsettling, like watching a snake attempt tenderness.
"I'm sure many of you remember Skysinger Rhealyn Wyndward," he announces, gesturing to her with an unusual warmth.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some nobles glance at each other in confusion—clearly not all knew who she was until this moment.
"Lady Wyndward is the brave Sky Order dragon rider who captured all of Embernia's imagination after her disappearance in Hearthdale where she bravely fought the Matron herself," Craven adds, his voice swelling with admiration.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches as Craven continues his carefully constructed fiction.
"What the good people of Embernia don't know," he proclaims, voice ringing through the hall, "is that Lady Wyndward was never truly missing."
The crowd gasps, exactly as he intended, their voices echoing as if from a long distance.
"She was acting on my direct royal command," he declares, puffing his chest. "I personally selected her for a secret mission of the utmost importance, to locate and protect our Goddess Heratrix, preparing for her triumphant return."
Bile rises in my throat at the lie. I catch Rhealyn's eye for just a heartbeat. Something flickers there. Discomfort? Shame? But her mask slips back into place immediately.
"Lady Wyndward has served Embernia with unmatched loyalty." Craven places a hand on her shoulder, making my blood boil. "Together, we orchestrated the greatest return in our nation's history."
Phoebe's fingers brush my arm in silent warning. My control is slipping, wind stirring invisibly around us. I force myself to breathe, knowing every eye in the room would notice if the High Prime lost his composure.
Craven continues, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. "Lady Wyndward is not merely a brave hero, she's the most exceptional woman I have ever known. Her courage, her loyalty to Embernia... unmatched!"
Rhealyn shifts uncomfortably beside him, her eyes darting briefly to Tahranis. I follow her gaze. The white-haired rider stands unnaturally still, his eyes watchful but utterly impassive.
Something is wrong.
The crowd's murmurs swell around me as Craven raises his hands for silence. His lips curl into that practiced smirk I've always despised.
"My loyal subjects! I have saved the most joyous announcement for this perfect moment!"
He turns to Rhealyn with his customary theatrical flourish, clasping her hand in his. Her face goes pale.
"Tonight, I declare before all Embernia that Lady Rhealyn Rose Wyndward has graciously accepted my proposal of marriage. We are betrothed!"
The room erupts. Gasps cascade through the hall like falling dominoes. Nobles stare open-mouthed at each other. Servants freeze mid-step.
My entire body goes cold, then blazes hot. Wind whips around me before I can stop it, nearly knocking a nearby courtier off balance.
"Dragon's breath," Phoebe whispers beside me.
A woman in Craven's inner circle—Lady Ashwood, I think—clutches her chest dramatically and crumples to the floor. Her companions flutter around her like startled birds, jeweled hands flapping uselessly. She's likely been hoping to become queen and now her plans are thwarted.
I barely notice. My entire focus narrows to Rhealyn's face.
For one heartbeat, pure shock breaks through her careful mask. Her lips part, eyes widen in genuine horror, a real emotion. But in an instant, that vulnerability vanishes, replaced by an impassive facade.
Her eyes lock with Tahranis across the room. Something passes between them, some silent communication that makes my skin crawl. His smirk deepens, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from embers. He knew. The bastard knew this was coming. But how could Rhealyn not know?
Either way, this is the game she decided to play.
Maybe I'm reading this all wrong, and this has been their plan all along. For Rhealyn to become queen. The thought sickens me even as another part of me insists this can't be right. The Rhealyn I knew would never—
Craven gestures imperiously toward the musicians, who scramble to begin a celebratory melody. The strings swell with joy while courtiers recover from their shock and begin offering stilted congratulations.
"High Prime?" Phoebe whispers, her fingers digging into my arm. "Your eyes..."
I realize too late that silver light is spilling from my irises. I pivot toward the nearest wall, pressing my palms against cool stone. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The glow recedes from my eyes as I force my power back into its cage, locking it tight.
"I'm fine," I mutter to Phoebe, though we both know it's a lie.
Behind me, the celebration continues, nobles scrambling to curry favor with their future queen while Rhealyn stands trapped on the dais. I don't turn back. I can't.
In one cruel moment, the King has succeeded where all the Screechclaws failed…
he's destroyed me completely. The agony carving through my chest makes a thousand harpy talons feel like gentle caresses by comparison.
My entire being feels hollowed out, the remaining shell scraped raw by the realization that the woman I fought for—bled for—is truly evil.
It was never the screaming beasts that haunt our borders but the quiet deception wrapped in hazel eyes and midnight hair. She is the monster.