Chapter 24 Rhea
Rhea
Ijolt upright, my forehead peeling away from the parchment where I'd fallen asleep. Ink smudges my cheek, the half-finished list of memories blurring beneath my tired eyes. My neck protests the awkward position, a dull ache spreading down my spine.
The thunderous knocking at my door repeats, more insistent this time. I blink rapidly, trying to shake off the fog of exhaustion.
"Coming," I call, my voice raspy. How long have I been asleep? The candle beside me has burned down to a puddle of wax, suggesting it's been several hours.
The urgency in that knock sends a spike of adrenaline through me.
Is something wrong? I stagger to my feet, straightening my rumpled clothes with a quick brush of my hands, and move toward the door.
I open it to find a servant girl with wide, frightened eyes.
She drops into a hurried curtsy, the gesture clumsy with tension.
"Lady Wyndward—I mean, Your Grace—King Craven demands your immediate presence. The war council started an hour ago."
My stomach drops. "An hour ago? Why wasn't I summoned earlier?"
"Lord Flarebane said you needed rest, but His Majesty grows impatient. He's asked three times about your whereabouts."
Panic floods my veins. Craven's paranoia could transform tardiness into treason within heartbeats. I grab my boots, shoving my feet into them while frantically finger-combing my tangled hair.
"Tell them I'm coming. Run ahead."
The girl nods and scurries away, her footsteps receding down the corridor like frightened heartbeats.
I curse silently, gathering the scattered parchments with my memory notes, fingers trembling with both haste and lingering fatigue.
Hefting the mattress up, I shove the notes beneath it, pressing down to ensure they lie flat and invisible.
Fuck! Being late to plan Heratrix's first attack is exactly the kind of mistake I can't afford right now. And that asshole, Tahr, he left me out on purpose. I'm sure of it.
Fuming, I reach out toward Zephyros. —Why didn’t you wake me? I demand, frustration pouring from every word.
He stirs, and replies with a low, almost sheepish tone. —I was sleeping too.
I huff in disbelief. —Sleeping? What good are you then, you lazy brute?
—Ah yes, forgive me for assuming you were capable of surviving a few hours without my divine supervision.
I dig through the wardrobes, bypassing the silks and satins Craven's people wish to permanently relegate me to. There, at the back, I find my Skyrider leathers. I pull them out, inhaling the familiar scent that reminds me of who I really am.
Not Craven's betrothed. Not Lady Wyndward. Not Tahr's puppet. A Skysinger.
I strip off my wrinkled clothes and slide into the leathers, the material cool against my skin.
With each buckle I fasten, another piece of my identity returns.
My fingers work the clasps of my jacket, muscle memory taking over.
The weight of it settles on my shoulders like armor against the lies swirling around me.
The leather creaks as I move, a sound more comforting than any palace melody.
I stuff my knife into my boot, the weapon a reassurance.
Let them see me as I am. A warrior of wind and sky, not some decorative trinket for a mad king's collection.
I breathe deeply, the scent of leather and metal filling my senses. This is who I was meant to be, a Skyrider fighting for Embernia, not playing politics in silk gowns.
I race through the castle corridors, boots pounding against marble floors. Servants press themselves against the walls as I sprint past, their expressions a mix of shock and fascination at seeing their supposed future queen dressed in battle leathers.
When I reach the heavy oak doors of the war room, I pause only long enough to catch my breath before shoving them open with more force than necessary. The sound reverberates through the chamber. Heads snap toward me as I enter.
The room falls silent. My gaze sweeps across the gathered military leadership.
There are many faces I don't recognize, but I focus on those I do.
Commander Voltguard's stiff posture becomes even more rigid when she sees me.
Dakar—what is he doing here?—has no smile for me, only a hard expression of contempt.
Prime Isolde Emberstone's gaze burns with the intensity of her namesake, her copper-tipped braids sliding over her shoulder as she turns deliberately away from my entrance.
The Commander must have called them in from Fort Ashmire, but why? And where is Vaylen?
"How kind of you to join us, Lady Wyndward," Commander Voltguard's voice could freeze flame.
I scan the room again, my heart stuttering when I confirm Vaylen really isn't here. His absence carves a hollow space in the room that nobody else seems to notice or care about. I want to ask where he is, but bite my tongue.
King Craven sits at the head of the massive oak table, wearing his stupid crown. His lips curl into a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"My darling bride," he says, patting the empty chair beside him. "Come sit where you belong."
I hesitate, feeling every eye in the room on me.
"Such a striking outfit," he continues, his gaze crawling over my leathers. "So powerful. Though perhaps not what one might expect of a future queen?"
His words drip with honey, but beneath them lies the acid of disapproval. I force myself to cross the room, each step bringing me closer to this man who now thinks he owns me.
"I dressed for a war council, Your Majesty," I reply, sliding into the chair beside him. "Not court gossip."
His smile falters, just a fraction, before he places his clammy hand over mine. "Indeed."
Tahr's voice slices through the tension from across the table. "Don't fret, Lady Wyndward. You've only missed the tedious introductions."
He gestures toward a stern man with a graying mustache standing to his right. "Darion Stonevein, leader of the Land Order. You two should become acquainted."
Stonevein bows slightly, his movements precise as clockwork. His eyes never leave mine, assessing me with the careful calculation of a man who's survived decades of court politics and battlefield strategy.
"Lady Wyndward." His voice is gravel wrapped in silk. "Your reputation precedes you."
I catch the subtle emphasis on reputation and the careful neutrality in his expression. Beneath his polished exterior, distrust radiates from him in waves I can almost see. Another hostile party to add to my growing collection.
My mouth dries as I nod in acknowledgment. The walls seem to close in, reminding me how precarious my position is. I'm trapped between a king I'm deceiving, a man who's tampered with my mind, and a room full of people who must think I'm some sort of fortune hunter.
The meeting picks back up, and my stomach sinks at the map unfurled across the table.
It holds the jagged outline of the Blighted Arcs, annotated with potential Screechclaw positions and infiltration routes.
Tiny wooden markers represent dragon riders and infantry.
So many lives, each reduced to painted tokens pushed around by those who won't feel the fire or hear the screams.
"I propose we strike as soon as possible," Tahr announces, his finger tracing a path through the misty valley that splits the Screechclaw territory.
"Heratrix leads from above, creating a corridor of fire to funnel the enemy while Land Order troops advance through the center, so they can finish the fallen harpies.
We should act at dawn. The morning fog will provide natural cover. "
I frown. As soon as possible? He said we would need Omneira to finish the war, but he's said nothing about the ritual.
Perhaps there's no such thing as someone who can manipulate all the elements, and it was only a lie Tahr made up to manipulate me, to tempt me with the promise of power.
But if so, how would the Matron know the same word? She also called me Omneira.
Commander Voltguard's knuckles whiten against the table edge.
"With respect, Lord Flarebane, how do you propose we find the Screechclaws?
Searching for them would be a waste of time.
The Blighted Arcs are immense, and the creatures are adept at hiding.
Any scouts sent to find their resting place never do.
They remain mobile to avoid detection. Besides, such forward approach would be costly.
It would leave our Land Order troops completely exposed.
The Screechclaws could easily surround our ground forces. "
"Not with Heratrix." Tahr's smile cuts like glass. "She'll find them and incinerate any resistance. The Screechclaws will scatter like insects."
The Commander looks appalled. "That will only create Land Order casualties. Have you ever commanded troops in battle, Lord Flarebane? Or merely dragons in your imagination?" Voltguard challenges, eyes narrowing.
Tahr's jaw tightens. "The Goddess herself flies with us. Numbers are irrelevant."
"Those numbers you speak of," Stonevein interjects, his voice measured but firm, "those are my soldiers."
"The storm never comes without breaking something," Tahr says. "Besides, soon the Land Order will hardly be necessary, considering the eggs waiting under the Flametop Mountains. Once hatched and bonded, we'll have an unstoppable force of Skyriders."
Stonevein's face turns red, jaw working, but he masters his emotions and holds his tongue.
Voltguard scoffs. "Eggs no one has seen. No proof exists beyond your word, a stranger who appeared from nowhere with convenient prophecies."
"Commander," King Craven warns, but she ignores him.
"I've lost hundreds of men and women to the Screechclaws." She goes on, "I won't sacrifice more on unverified claims from an untested strategist."
The room grows thick with tension. I feel Tahr's anger radiating across the table, barely contained behind his perfect features.