Chapter 25 Vaylen
Vaylen
Ijerk awake on a thin bedroll, disoriented by the gray canvas walls surrounding me. My head pounds like I've been struck with a war hammer. I'm in a Sky Order issue tent, standard field deployment model. But how? Where?
I sit up cautiously, wincing as pain lances through my side.
I'm barefoot, wearing only my trousers and unfastened jacket from the ball, the blood-soaked shirt nowhere to be found.
My fingers find unfamiliar skin, puckered and smooth where Tahranis's blade entered.
A silver scar remains where a fatal wound should be.
The memories crash back like a tidal wave.
Falling.
Wind cushioning my descent.
Screechclaws carrying my broken body.
The Matron staring at me with eyes too intelligent, too knowing. And then… impossible elemental powers healing my wounds. Screechclaws using magic that shouldn't exist in their bony hands.
I rake shaking hands through my hair, trying to make sense of it all. My fingers come away grimy with sweat and dirt. How long have I been unconscious? Days? Hours?
My hands continue down as I scrub my face and neck, fingers trailing along my collarbone where they freeze. The chain is missing. Rhealyn's ring gone.
A pang of regret cuts through me, sharper than expected.
Maybe the Screechclaws took it or it broke during the ordeal.
But what does it matter anyway? The ring was a weight around my neck, a physical reminder of a woman I need to excise from my being.
Wearing her ring wasn't going to help me do that.
Lying next to me, I find a standard field kit, dagger, boots, a folded riding uniform that looks like mine but isn't. Everything feels wrong, like I've stepped into someone else's life.
The memory of the Matron calling me Omneira resurfaces. When Rhealyn is supposed to... No. I can't think about her now, can't let her cloud my judgment when my survival hangs by a thread. I need to discover where I am, why I'm alive, and most importantly, why my dragon abandoned me.
Quickly, I slip on my boots with the dagger in its sheath as desperation propels me from the tent, hands raised and ready to hurl Wind Spears that won't come—not without Fragor.
Belatedly, I curl my fingers in and make useless fists.
Idiot! I should have the dagger in my hand, but wind power has always served me better since I got my wings. How will I get used to this… emptiness?
Fortunately, only the cool night air greets me as I emerge into darkness broken only by a solitary fire burning on barren rock.
Its orange glow reveals only food and a waterskin resting against a dead, dry log.
Carefully, I scan the perimeter. Nothing but shadows stretch into infinite blackness.
The absence of sound is unnerving. No stirring leaves, no animals call in the night, only the steady whistle of the wind.
I feel exposed, vulnerable without my dragon or squad or elemental power.
This isn't Emberton. This isn't anywhere I recognize. Where in all the hells am I?
"Fragor!" I shout into the emptiness, my voice swallowed by the void around me. Nothing returns but hollow silence as I knew it would. My heart constricts. I need to accept it. He left me, ended our bond for good. Why? Did Tahr do this? Did Heratrix?
I approach the fire cautiously, half expecting an ambush. The flames burn steady, well stoked. The food laid out is simple. Bread, dried meat, a handful of nuts.
"Where am I?" I demand of the shadows. "Show yourself!"
High Prime Stormsong, commander of squadrons, reduced to this. Alone, dragonless, lost. My stomach growls painfully, reminding me of more immediate concerns. I settle on the dead log beside the fire, reluctantly accepting the provisions left for me.
I'm suddenly parched, and I take several deep swallows. The bread is dry, but I tear into it, dignity forgotten as hunger overrides caution. When was the last time I ate? I have no idea.
Between bites, I search for clues in the barren landscape. I detect no trees, no landmarks, just flat rock stretching into darkness. If this is captivity, it's the strangest prison I've ever seen.
As I eat and drink, I catalog my asset. Supplies, training, will to live—if only to defend Embernia. The food is simple but nourishing. The water tastes clean, untainted. It could be worse.
I study the flames, thinking of Rhealyn, of Emberton, of my duty abandoned though not by choice. My fingers absently touch the scar again, a reminder of how quickly fortunes can change. How easily a man can fall from grace, literally and figuratively.
The fire pops and sparks fly upward, momentarily illuminating more of my surroundings… rocky terrain, lack of vegetation except for the dead wood I sit upon. This place feels ancient, untouched by human hands save for this small camp.
Wind whips around me, and I reach out instinctively with my now-weak power, feeling its currents. They're strong and steady, not the chaotic patterns of mountain passes. We're somewhere flat, somewhere isolated.
Rising to my feet with renewed determination, I survey the landscape again.
The stars overhead form familiar patterns.
The Wyrm's Tail stretches across the northern sky while the Dragon's Eye shines bright in the east. These are Embernian constellations.
At least, I'm still in my homeland, not some otherworldly prison.
But not alone. The sensation of being watched prickles across my skin.
I think I know where I am, but I dare not believe it.
My mind calculates distances, directions, possibilities. The Dragon's Eye always points east toward Emberton. If I travel by night, using the stars and the compass from the kit...
Survival training kicks in automatically.
Four days without water means death. Two weeks without food and the same result.
The waterskin appears full, but I'll need more for a journey of unknown length.
The dried provisions that should be in the standard gear in the tent might last a week if rationed carefully.
Then there's the tent, bedroll, uniform. I'll need all of that.
I roll my shoulders back, assuming a commanding posture despite having no audience.
Strange how these habits persist even when there's no one to lead.
The posture itself brings comfort, a reminder of who I am beneath this confusion and pain.
I start toward the tent, determined to salvage what I can.
With or without Fragor, I'll find my way back to the Sky Order. Back to my duty.
A distant screech splits the night, tearing through the unnatural silence. Every hair on my body stands on end at that familiar, bone-chilling call of a Screechclaw. Then a heavy thud vibrates through the ground beneath my feet, powerful enough to rattle stones around the campfire.
My head snaps toward the sound, body tensing instantly. Every muscle coils, ready for combat despite my weakened state. I wait, holding my breath.
Three more thuds follow, all coming from different directions.
"What the fuck is that?" I scream into the darkness, my voice cracking slightly, betraying my strain.
A small current springs from my fingers, so weak it barely disturbs the dust on the ground. I'm just a Singer once more. The sky is no more.
Another screech. Another thud. Closer this time.
I pivot slowly, tracking the sound. Whatever game the Screechclaws are playing, I won't be easy prey, even without my wind. Slowly, I squat and pick up two large rocks. They'll serve me better for a long range attack. I'll save the dagger for close combat.
"Face me!" I challenge the darkness. "If you saved me just to hunt me for sport, you'll find I'm not so easily broken. At least one of you will pay. Who will be first?"
The distinctive clicking of Screechclaw talons against stone makes me whirl. I narrow my eyes, focusing on the source of the sound. The Matron approaches from the shadows, moving with eerie grace that sends chills down my spine. Each step perfectly balanced, no wasted movement.
I stand my ground, legs planted firmly in a fighting stance. With a sharp exhale, I aim and lob a rock at her head, putting what little wind I can behind the projectile.
She barely seems to move—just one flick of her wrist—and the rock turns to dust that rains down to the ground. My stomach drops. Not this again. No Screechclaw should possess elemental powers.
The Matron stops several paces away, just close enough for the firelight to catch the edges of her silhouette.
Tall, broader than the typical Screechclaw, her feathers ripple with each breath like living darkness given form.
Her eyes burn with malice, two smoldering orbs that pierce through my defenses and chill me to the bone.
The firelight throws her features into sharp relief, the blood-red streaks in her feathers gleaming like fresh wounds.
Her massive wings—half-spread in anticipation—cast monstrous, undulating shadows across the ground.
The sound of her talons scraping against stone makes my skin crawl.
When she tilts her head, studying me with predatory intelligence, a crown of jagged feathers around her neck bristles like daggers.
Her taloned hand extends toward me, the curved claws reflecting firelight, each one longer than my index finger and sharp enough to disembowel with a single swipe. Did the first one have to be the Matron?
"Omneira," she shrills.
I tighten my fingers around the second rock. Whatever this creature intends, I'll face her with all I've got.
"What the fuck do you want?" I demand. "I grow tired of this."
She lowers her hand, and when she opens her mouth, the words that emerge sound less like screeches forced into human shape and more like actual speech than they did before.
"Sit. Listen. Story long. Important." Her voice carries an accent thick as mountain fog, but the improvement shocks me.
I hesitate, rock still between my finger.
This creature represents everything I've fought against since my earliest days at Aerie Academy.
The enemy. The monster. The nightmare that took my mother and countless other Embernians.
Yet she saved my life. Prevented my collision with the ground and healed my wound, both of which would have been fatal in their own right.
Tahranis should have succeeded in getting rid of me.
"Why should I trust you?" I demand, but curiosity already tugs at me like an insistent wind.
"Trust?" She makes a sound that might be laughter. "Because… need know truth. You Omneira. Need understand."
"I'm not—"
"Sit!" Her command carries elemental force that nearly buckles my knees.
Weaver powers.
"How can I believe any of it?" I demand, pointing at my head to indicate I know what she's doing.
She bows her head. "Apologies."
I blink.
"Still not well. Still half wild. Still cursed. I… will… refrain."
What the fuck? The Screechclaws have manners. And that, at the end, that was a full sentence.
Against every instinct, I release my grip on the rock. Slowly, deliberately, I return to the log by the fire, keeping my eyes fixed on her. My muscles remain coiled tight, ready to spring into action at the slightest threat.
The Matron settles onto the ground across from me, her massive wings folding against her back. The position resembles a bird roosting, but nothing about her seems small or vulnerable.
"War. Not what think. Lies. Many lies." Her claws scrape against stone as she gestures toward the sky. "She know. Rider know. Use Omneira."
She? Rhealyn? No. She must mean Heratrix, who along with her rider is using the Omneira.
I lean forward despite myself, the firelight dancing across my face. "Um, what lies? What do you know about any of this?"
Her eyes narrow, two embers in the darkness. "Long ago. Before war… betrayal."
As she prepares to continue, I feel a strange vertigo, as if the solid ground beneath me has suddenly become unstable.
Everything I know about our endless war, about Embernia's history, about my own purpose—all of it seems balanced on the edge of a precipice.
I'm afraid that whatever truth this creature offers might shatter the foundations of my world forever, leaving nothing familiar in its wake.