Chapter 20 Rhea
Rhea
Iwalk through the dimly lit corridors, my heart a broken mess in my chest. The sensation of Vaylen's touch lingers on my skin, each memory a treasure I'll guard fiercely.
His calloused hands against my hips. The warmth of his breath on my neck.
The way he looked at me before anger consumed him again.
I'll survive whatever comes next by remembering this. He's the best man I've ever known, even in his fury. Even as he hates me.
Without warning, a jagged pain tears through my chest. I gasp, doubling over, one hand braced against the stone wall as my knees threaten to buckle. This isn't physical. It's something deeper, more primal. A severing. A loss I can't name.
"What's happening?" I whisper to the empty hall, waiting for the agony to pass.
I reach for Zephyros, opening up to him again, and sense him flying in abandon through a starlight night sky. He is fine. But then… what?
When the sensation finally relents, I push forward to my chambers, each step heavier than the last. Inside, I bolt the door and slide to the floor, a strange emptiness tearing at me from within. My breaths come short and shallow.
Nothing feels worth it anymore. Not the eggs. Not the war's end. Not even Heratrix and her grand plans. The world seems suddenly colorless, as if something vital has been ripped from it.
Something's wrong. Something terrible has happened, and I don't know what.
A knock at the door jolts me from my dark thoughts.
I drag myself upright, smoothing my gown with trembling hands.
The hollow ache still pulses beneath my ribs, but I force it away.
It's nonsense, just the aftereffects of Vaylen's eyes boring into mine, the reality of his hatred finally settling into my bones like frigid winter.
The sensation means nothing. It's simply another burden to carry in a life suddenly overflowing with them.
I swallow hard, trying to compose my features into something resembling normalcy, though I suspect the effort is wasted. My fingers still shake as I brush wild strands of hair from my face, drawing a deep breath that does little to steady me.
"Who is it?" My voice sounds brittle even to my own ears.
"Phoebe."
I unlock the door to find Phoebe glancing nervously down the corridor, her face pale in the candlelight.
"Can I come in?"
"Of course." I step aside, watching as she slips in and immediately locks the door behind her.
She turns, her gaze traveling from my disheveled hair to my crumpled gown, lingering on what must be tear tracks down my face. Her expression shifts from worry to something deeper, a compassion that threatens to undo what little composure I've managed to gather.
"Goddess, Rhea, are you all right? You look..." She reaches toward me, then hesitates. "What's happened?"
I wave my hand dismissively, though the gesture feels as worn as I do. "It's nothing. I'm just tired." The lie tastes bitter, but it's easier than explaining a pain I don't understand myself.
I move to the edge of the bed, perching there like some wounded bird. "Did you have a good time at the ball, at least?" The question sounds absurd, a pathetic attempt at normalcy when nothing is normal anymore.
She sits across from me in a chair, her back ramrod straight. "Are you serious?" Her voice rises in disbelief. "I had a terrible time. Especially when I heard my best friend was betrothed to that wyrm-sucking little weasel."
A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly, more surprise than humor. "Don't hold back on my account."
"I wasn't planning to." She leans forward, green eyes sharp with concern. "What in the four winds is happening? One minute you're flying off with Tahranis on the Queen of Dragons, the next you're engaged to King Craven?"
"It's complicated," I whisper, the understatement of the century.
Phoebe sighs. "You keep saying that. I want to believe you're doing all this for the right reasons, but…" The candlelight catches the worry etched across her face. "But it's getting harder to trust you with every passing minute."
The truth of her words stings, but I can't argue. "I don't blame you." I stare at my hands. "If our positions were reversed, I'd probably have thrown you out a window by now."
"Don't tempt me."
I meet her gaze directly. "I promise you, Phoebe. My main goal is ending this war. The betrothal, Tahr, even Heratrix… they're all means to that end." The empty space in my chest pulses again, almost like a warning.
She watches me with her usual perceptiveness, and I feel like she's reading every thought I've ever had.
She considers for a long time, her fingers tapping absently against her knee.
I can almost see her weighing options, calculating risks, deciding whether I'm worth the gamble.
Finally, something in her posture shifts.
Decision made. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls something out, holding it tight.
In her palm sits a small bottle of green glass, an ornate metal cap attached to a delicate chain.
"What's this? Planning to get me drunk?" I ask, trying for lightness.
My mind flickers darkly to another possibility. Poison would solve many problems, wouldn't it? A quick end to the betrayer in their midst.
As if reading my thoughts, Phoebe unscrews the top and takes a long, slow pull from the bottle, the metal cap tingling against the glass. She swallows deliberately, watching me over the rim.
"All right then," I say with a weak smile. "We can get drunk together. Goddess knows I could use it."
"It's not liquor." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The bottle gleams, its contents swirling.
I frown, my curiosity temporarily displacing the emptiness inside me. "What then?"
"It's called Strepitus," she says quietly, holding my gaze.
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. My fingers itch to take the bottle.
"How did you...?" I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I've been researching." She turns the bottle in her hand.
"Not just about Heratrix, but about the royal family too, their protections, their secrets.
The Commander gave me permission to continue and…
" she hesitates. "And using the authorization the King granted me when you first disappeared, she got me access to Craven's private archives.
I'm not supposed to be in there, but the Royal Librarian hasn't realized that yet.
Everyone seems occupied by other things. "
I watch her face, noting the determined set of her jaw.
"You won't sell me out, will you?" Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "To Craven or... Tahranis?"
The question is like a punch that echoes in my chest. This is the reason for her earlier hesitation. She's afraid I'll betray her like I betrayed everyone else.
"Of course I won't," I say firmly.
"Tahr is a Weaver too." She doesn't phrase it as a question but as a simple fact, though I've never told her this.
When I don't respond, she continues, "It's the only explanation. Only a Weaver could have posed as someone else so completely, making everyone believe he was Silas all that time at the Sky Order."
I shift uncomfortably under her perceptive gaze. Phoebe's always been too clever for her own good.
"I imagine that's how he got you to come back without your memories, willing to lie to everyone, even yourself," she continues, leaning forward. "He got into your head and made you do it."
"It was my idea." The words sound flat, rehearsed even to my ears.
"Was it?" She narrows her eyes, studying me closely.
I remember discussing the plan with Tahr, agreeing that returning with blocked memories was the best approach. But had I truly suggested it first?
"That's the only thing that explains your actions, Rhea. Your betrayal of Vaylen."
My throat tightens at his mention.
"I know you," she goes on, her voice gentler now. "You wouldn't have done what you did if you weren't brainwashed."
Something cracks inside me. A fissure forms in the narrative I've been telling myself. Did I truly volunteer for this mission? Or did Tahr plant the idea so deeply I believed it was mine? The doubt spreads like poison through my veins.
"I..." My voice falters as I try to trace the path of my every decision back to their source. The memories feel both mine and not mine, like reflections in troubled water. "I don't know anymore."
The desolate feeling in my chest expands, filling with the new and terrible possibility that I've destroyed everything I love for a cause that was never truly mine.
Phoebe places the green bottle in my hand, her eyes shining with excitement. "That's why I made this."
I turn the bottle over, the glass cool against my palm—the draught that kept King Craven's mind protected until Tahr tampered with it. I don't really need it, not with Zephyros watching over me, but I don't tell her that. I'm just glad Phoebe and the others have it now.
"Your eyes can be wide open going forward." Phoebe's voice carries both promise and caution, a thread of hope grounded in reality.
"How did you even manage this?" I ask, bewilderment mingling with gratitude.
"Oh, it wasn’t as hard as you’d think. I found a description during my research," she explains, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "Turns out, there’s an apothecary here in Emberton who's willing to craft things, even if they don’t understand their purpose."
My heart swells with something akin to awe at her resourcefulness. It seems impossible, but here it is. This friend, this ally. She reads the disbelief on my face—the pure wonder—and grins, her cheeks dimpled with pride.
"Of course," she continues, "you should try to read my thoughts, just to make sure it was made right." Her eyes twinkle with mischief, but there's a nervousness in her smile.