Chapter 22 Rhea
Rhea
My eyes burn from reading the pages Phoebe gave me. Somewhere in the hall outside, a clock chimes three times. I should sleep. Tomorrow we begin planning the assault on the Screechclaws, but the words keep me tethered to consciousness.
If I stop reading, all I can think of is Vaylen, the way his eyes hardened after our encounter, the finality in his voice before he walked away. Each flash of him is a fresh wound.
So I rub my eyes and continue reading.
Thus, I encounter the description of a number of techniques they used to teach Weavers before they were declared an abomination.
They range from basic mind linking to collective consciousness tapping to telepathic combat.
I also encounter a mental shielding technique different from the one Tahr taught me—to be employed when Strepitus isn't available—I wish I'd been aware of before a fucking mountain swallowed me.
I never imagined they could have so many options for Weavers, all forgotten after they purged my kind.
Pages of them, each more complex than the last. Blinking, I keep skimming the text, my finger tracing beneath each line.
There must be something I can use to resolve my doubts about Tahr, a way to recall past events.
Then I see it. My index finger freezes mid-line, and the words on the page seem to vibrate with my own shock.
Dreamscaping: Recovery Methods for Manipulated Memories.
For those who suspect memory tampering, enter the twilight state between waking and sleeping. Call forth the suspect memory while simultaneously creating a parallel version based on emotional truth. Where dissonance occurs, fabrication likely exists.
My hand trembles. This is exactly what I need.
I read the detailed steps over and over until my vision blurs. The steps seem deceptively simple, but I don't take the instructions lightly.
When I feel ready, I lie on the bed, determined to unravel the tangled web of my memories.
Though the technique seems straightforward, my mind rebels against relaxation, and every time I approach that twilight state, panic jolts me awake because I'm afraid I'll fall completely asleep until the morning, having wasted precious time.
On my third attempt, I breathe deeply, counting each exhale. My limbs grow heavier, sinking into the mattress until I feel suspended between waking and dreaming. I've done it.
To begin, I focus on the memory of Tahr leading me through the tunnels to see Heratrix and her eggs.
The scene unfolds like a mosaic in my mind.
There's the winding tunnel, his confident stride, my anger at being controlled when I tried to stab him with his own dagger.
I can almost smell the damp earth and feel the mountain pressing around us.
Following the text's instructions, I create a parallel emotional truth channel alongside the memory by focusing on the way every page of that scene makes me feel.
What does my gut tell me? Do my instincts flare?
I'm supposed to let those things guide me rather than the visual details I recall, and if I perceive anything incongruous, it's a sign to pause and look more carefully.
Where a memory feels wrong—it catches, snags, or creates dissonance—that's where tampering likely occurred.
I review that memory over and over again from start to finish, but find nothing out of place.
The emotions of that day feel valid and normal—my fury, then my wonder and shock at seeing such a strange dragon slumbering.
It all seems real. If I'm to trust I did this right, then the eggs are truly there.
My eyes spring open. Relief floods me, but I try not to get carried away. One confirmed memory doesn't mean all are untouched. I need to keep going.
I settle back, returning to that twilight state, which comes easier the second time around.
This time, I summon a different memory. The first time I kissed Tahr.
He must have compelled me to forget Vaylen.
At least, I hope so. In my memory, we sit by a fire, about three months after my arrival at the base of the Flametop Mountains.
Someone sings an old melody after we've finished bowls of mutton stew, made from one of the sheep raised in what remains of Hearthdale.
Fern dances to the tune with another child, holding her ratty skirt and spinning in circles, her brown hair flying around her small face.
Tahr claps and smiles. The gesture feels odd because it's rare, but it's real enough.
No dissonance there. He looks handsome in the firelight, his white hair loose, eyes ablaze with the flames.
"Come with me," he says.
I follow him through tunnels, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. We emerge above ground beneath a sky scattered with stars. The night air fills my lungs after weeks underground.
"Aren't you afraid I'll run?" I ask, eyeing the dark forest beyond. "No guards?"
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "If you want to leave, leave. But..." He licks his lips as he steps closer. "Would you want to?"
My heart races at his proximity. I remember that feeling clearly—anticipation and curiosity mingling.
"Wouldn't you rather stay?" he continues. "Learn how Heratrix ended up trapped in slumber? How she's soon to awaken and end the Screechclaw war once and for all?"
I know deep inside I can't leave. Heratrix is real. She's here, flesh and scale, not legend. If what Tahr says is true, if the war could truly end after centuries of bloodshed, I must stay.
He looks at me in a way that makes my stomach flip. Hunger, appraisal, promise. He takes a step closer, erasing the space between us until I can smell leather and smoke on his skin. Heat radiates from him in the cool night air.
"There's more," he whispers, his voice rumbling in my ear. "So much more, but I don't want to scare you away."
"Scare me?" I challenge, though my voice comes out breathier than intended. "What could possibly scare me after everything I've seen?"
His fingers trace my jawline, featherlight. "If you don't run tonight, I'll tell you tomorrow."
He licks his lips, leans in for a kiss. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. Vaylen's face flashes through my mind—his blue eyes, his promise, our words exchanged in Fort Ashmire's courtyard. Exclusive. Only each other.
But Tahr is right here, all danger and heat. His beautiful eyes pull at something primal in me. I've always craved the edge of danger, the thrill that races along my spine when I fly too close to mountain peaks or dive too steeply with Zephyros.
He's only a breath away when I turn my head aside.
"I can't."
The memory snags, catching like fabric on a thorn. My emotions feel taut, like a wire ready to snap. Something's wrong.
"I can't," I repeat, but the words echo strangely, overlapping. "I can't, I can't, can't."
The moment replays, skipping like a faulty Boltgram. I see myself saying those words again and again, but something shifts each time. Tahr's expression darkening, his fingers tightening on my jaw, a strange intensity in his eyes that wasn't in my initial recollection.
The dissonance makes my stomach churn. Here, this is what I've been looking for.
I… can't.
The words splinter as the memory reshapes itself.
In the next moment, something strange happens. I feel my own mind shifting, like sand being brushed away by invisible fingers. New thoughts rise unbidden.
It wouldn't be such a big deal to kiss Tahr. It's not as if I'm married to Vaylen. It's not like he would ever find out.
I watch myself in this altered memory, horrified at how quickly my conviction wavers. The new thoughts feel foreign yet they're persuasive.
I've spent more time with Tahr. Vaylen and I haven't known each other that long. Only a few weeks of training at Sky's Edge and a few more days at Fort Ashmire. I don't even love him.
The last thought is not a lie, yet it's still a discordant note in an otherwise seamless manipulation. We did make a promise to each other. And when I gave Vaylen my word, it was because I felt he was worth it. He was the kind of man I could come to love.
In that murky past, I feel a pressure inside my skull, subtle at first, then building. Tahr's eyes never leave mine. His fingers dig into my jaw. They're anchors, holding me in place while something unseen works through my mind.
"You're overthinking," he whispers. "Just feel."
The resistance fades. My eyes glaze slightly. I lean forward, closing the distance I'd maintained moments before.
Our lips meet, and triumph flashes across Tahr's face, too quick to notice in the moment, but unmistakable now as I slowly reexamine every detail.
That night, he didn't just kiss me. He started rewriting me.
I snap back to full consciousness, sitting upright in bed, rage building inside me like a gathering storm.
I grip the bedsheets, tears burning paths down my cheeks.
All this time—all this fucking time—I have been a puppet dancing on his strings.
I didn't betray Vaylen willingly. I would have kept my promise if not for Tahr's manipulations.
Tahr never meant anything—not considering that, with only a little more time, I grew to love Vaylen in ways I never thought possible, in ways I never knew I could love anyone.
"That bastard!" I hiss.
Zephyros's presence warms the edges of my consciousness, a gentle humming that vibrates through our bond.
—Breathe, little one.
My fists clench until they tremble. I want to storm into Tahr's chambers and tear his heart out.
I want to watch the light fade from those cocky eyes.
But even as rage courses through me, fear follows close behind.
What if despite Zephyros, Tahr's still able to rearrange my memories?
Erase my love for Vaylen? The thought makes me physically ill.
—Patience, Zephyros counsels. We must be smarter than him. Stronger.
Zephyros is right. Acting on rage will only play into Tahr's hands. There's too much at stake.