Chapter 30 Vaylen
Vaylen
"Omneira made by four. Two dragons, two riders," The Matron says.
I process this information, trying to connect the fragments of information that keep shifting beneath me like sand.
"So Rhealyn and Zephyros…?" I start, unable to finish.
The Matron nods, her burning eyes never leaving mine.
"And me and..." I hesitate. "Fragor?" Even as I say it, I know it can't be. "No. That doesn't sound right because my dragon… I… I don't feel him anymore."
The emptiness where he once resided scrapes against my soul like sand across exposed bone.
Since my days in Sky's Edge, that connection filled me, a constant presence, a second heartbeat alongside my own.
Now there's only silence. I press my hand against my chest, as if I might physically touch the void.
Each breath feels shallow, like I'm drawing air into a body that's forgotten how to be whole.
"He... abandoned me." The words sound pathetic even to my own ears.
The Matron's eyes soften as she watches me, her hideous features arranging into something like pity. That expression, more than anything else, ignites something primal inside me.
"Don't look at me like that," I snarl, standing with fists clenched.
"I don't want your pity. I've lost everything—my position, the woman I loved, my dragon—and you sit there with your secrets and riddles calling me names that mean nothing!
" I'm shouting now, my voice echoing across the barren landscape.
"You're the enemy! I've spent my life hunting your kind, and now you expect me to believe you're the victims? "
The Matron remains utterly still, waiting for my storm to pass. Somehow her calm infuriates me more than any response could. My rage burns hot then cold, leaving me feeling more savage than the monster sitting across from me.
I drop back down, exhausted.
"Sorry about dragon," she says softly. "Fear not. You whole again. Soon."
I don't bother asking what she means. What's the point? I just want her to finish this convoluted tale and leave me be. How can I believe any of it anyway? It contradicts everything I've ever known, everything I've fought for.
"Just... go on," I say flatly.
The Matron shifts her massive form. "Prophecy says.
Omneira made by four. Born from line of kings and fierce warrior when all hope lost." Her broken speech comes in rhythmic bursts, like she's recalling something memorized long ago.
"My sister's prophecies. Never wrong." She pounds her chest with one clawed fist. "Never. "
I stare at her, searching for deception in her horrid face. Nothing about this makes sense. Prophecies? Sisters? Kings?
"With Omneira," she continues, "war ends. Peace comes." Her voice softens, taking on an almost reverent quality. "Female dragons finally restored."
"Is that it?" I ask when the Matron falls silent. "This grand prophecy of yours?"
She tilts her head, expression unreadable, neither confirming nor denying that she's done revealing everything.
"Well, whether you're done or not," I say, frustration breaking through my exhaustion, "and whether any of this is even true, you've got the wrong man entirely.
" I laugh bitterly. "I'm not born from any line of kings.
I'm just an orphan from Onyx Crossing. My mother died in a Screechclaw attack—your attack—and my father abandoned us both before I could walk.
There's no royal blood here. Just a boy raised in Ashen House who worked his way up through the Sky Order.
Nothing special about me except hard work and stubborn determination. "
The Matron's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her posture, a subtle tension gathering in her massive frame. Her feathers bristle, standing on end as if charged with electricity.
"Hard to believe, yes." She shifts closer. "Much has changed now. I spend time in Emberton. Hidden. Listening." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know of coward king. Craven Stonefall."
Despite myself, I find something almost hypnotic about her intensity.
"Not rightful king," she continues. "Usurper."
I wait for more, but she just stares at me expectantly. When I don't respond, she jabs a talon in my direction.
"You rightful king."
The absurdity hits me like a bucket of cold water. A laugh bursts from my chest, genuine and uncontrolled for the first time since this nightmare began.
"Ridiculous." I wipe tears from my eyes. "Utterly ridiculous. If I'm king, then you're a graceful hummingbird dancing through flower gardens."
The change is instantaneous. The Matron's entire posture shifts, her massive frame expanding as her wings unfurl to their full, terrifying span. The campfire flickers wildly in the displaced air.
"RESPECT!" she screeches, the single word reverberating through my bones. "YOU SHOW RESPECT!"
I instinctively try to gather wind to my fingertips. Of course, none comes, which it's a good thing since antagonizing this creature would be suicide.
"You're right," I say, raising my palms in a placating gesture. "That was... unnecessary. Please tell me what makes you say I'm… the rightful king."
Her tall frame vibrates with barely contained rage, her wings still partially extended, talons digging deep furrows into the ground.
I keep absolutely still, not daring to provoke her further.
The savage, mindless harpy I've fought before is suddenly very present in her posture, a reminder that whatever intelligence has awakened in her, the beast remains.
Slowly, painstakingly, she reins herself in. Her wings fold back against her body, her breathing calms, and those burning eyes dim from infernal to merely unsettling.
"Forgive me," she says finally. "Anger... still strong. Control... hard."
I nod cautiously, willing my pumping lungs to slow.
"You rightful king. I know. Prophecy correct. In Emberton, I search dragons' minds," she continues, tapping one claw against her temple. "Memories locked. Not gone. Still can see."
I frown. "You can access dragons' memories? Even when you're... changed?"
"Yes. I am Weaver." She shifts closer to the fire. "Long ago. Real king blessed by Heratrix. Stonefall ancestors betray him."
"Betray how?" I ask, becoming invested in this impossible tale despite myself.
"What you call... Dual Blight." Her voice grows stronger, more confident as she speaks of the past. "Not uprising by Weavers. No. It was uprising by Stonefall."
The history I've known my entire life—the foundation of our laws against Weavers—suddenly wavers like a mirage.
"Stonefall make Weavers illegal after. Hide truth. Hide murder. Hide usurp." She makes a gesture like she's slitting a throat. "No one read minds to see betrayal in corrupt thoughts."
I shake my head, trying to process this. "But the Stonefalls would have needed Weavers themselves to counter other Weavers. How—"
"Yes!" She nods vigorously, pleased I'm following. "He has own Weavers. Secret. Weak traitors."
"What happened to them?"
"Gift die out. Blood thin. No more Weavers in Stonefall line." She leans forward, her massive form casting long shadows. "The reason king so afraid now. Why he fears Rhealyn. Her power reveal his lies."
I close my eyes, trying to imagine what this means. Everything—our entire social order, the very foundation of Embernia's royal line for centuries—built on treachery?
"And you think I'm... descended from the true king?" The words taste strange in my mouth.
"Not think. Know." Her certainty is unnerving. "Rightful blood. Rightful king." She taps her chest. "Why we not kill you. Why we heal you. Prophecy say Omneira High Prime, and he restore truth. You… High Prime."
My head begins to throb, a steady pulse behind my temples that threatens to intensify with each revelation. I press my fingers against my forehead, trying to organize the fragments of this impossible tale.
"What about Tahranis Flarebane?" I ask, the name bitter on my tongue. "What role does he play in all this? Is he with the King?"
"Flarebane." The Matron spits the word like venom. "Is ally to false king. Before Woken Wyrm sleeps, Flarebanes serve Stonefalls, have Weavers too." She draws patterns in the dirt with her talon, intricate symbols I don't recognize. "Promises made."
"That's why Craven called on Rhealyn. He knew something was about to happen. Saw the signs."
The Matron nods. "Yes. Stonefalls always know. Prepare for centuries. Tahranis's line guard sleep of Woken Wyrm." Her massive hands clench into fists. "Reason he tried kill you. He makes sure Omneira ends."
If this is true, the asshole failed miserably. "But why did he take Rhealyn? How did he know she was part of the Omneira."
"The prophecy says High Prime and High Prime mate."
My mouth goes dry. "I'm not… She's not… We…"
She looks on knowingly, then continues. "Flarebanes' promise… keep Heratrix as only female. Goddess. Stonefalls' promise kill us," she gestures to her twisted form. But we are endless."
That word again. What does she mean?
"You're saying the Stonefall kings have perpetuated this war? On purpose?"
She nods once, a quick, savage jerk of her head. "Keep war going. Keep hating us. And now stop us return to true form."
I close my eyes against the vertigo threatening to overwhelm me. Have all the comrades I've watched fall die to maintain a lie? A lie that served not just to keep the Stonefalls in power but to ensure Heratrix remained the sole female dragon in existence?
I take a deep breath, trying to process everything the Matron has told me.
The Screechclaws are cursed female dragons.
The Woken Wyrm, Heratrix, isn't a goddess but a traitor.
The Stonefall line usurped the throne centuries ago and perpetuated this war to maintain their lie.
And somehow, impossibly, I'm descended from the rightful royal line.
It's too much, too outlandish to be true.
Yet something about the Matron's certainty makes it difficult to dismiss outright.
One question rises above the others.
"How can you be so certain Rhealyn and I are the ones from your prophecy? There are dozens of Skyriders. Why us specifically? There have been other High Primes, ones with mates. Unlike me."
The Matron nearly rolls her eyes. "Rhealyn your mate. You are connected. Bond strong."
I laugh bitterly, the sound scraping my throat raw.
"We're not connected. If we ever were, we're certainly not now.
" The memory of Rhealyn with Tahr, then standing before the King while their betrothal was announced, surges up like bile.
"She's chosen her path. She abandoned everything we had, everything we could have been. "
The Matron tilts her head, studying me. "Not all bonds are visible. Not all connections break so easy."
"Trust me," I say, the words like splinters in my mouth, "this one broke. She's marrying the King. She's aligned herself with Tahranis. She—"
"No," the Matron cuts me off with surprising gentleness. "She not choose king. Not choose Tahranis." She taps her temple. "Manipulated. Mind changed."
A cold sensation spreads through my chest.
"Tahranis Weaver. Powerful. Not like Rhealyn. She—" The Matron makes a gesture with her clawed hand, like water spilling randomly. "Untrained. Repressed."
Something catches in my chest. "You saw inside her mind that day?"
The Matron nods, those blood-red feathers reflecting the campfire. "Yes. When we meet in cave. I see changes. Like scars on thoughts."
"And you believe Tahranis did this to her?"
"Yes. Tahranis reshape thoughts. Cleverly. But connection to you..." She taps her chest. "That stays. Too strong to break."
"What connection?" The words come out sharper than intended.
She cocks her head, regarding me with that unsettling stare. "You know. You feel. You see."
"I don't—"
"Flight ceremony," she interrupts. "Test you performed."
The memory hits me like a physical blow. Rhealyn sitting in front of me, her hands in mine. We dueled as I tested her skills the day of her Rite of Flight. The moment our powers—
"Our elements locked," I whisper, remembering the surge that coursed through me. "Our powers... amplified each other."
"Yes," she hisses, leaning forward eagerly. "Never happen before. Special. First sign of Omneira."
I remember that day with painful clarity now.
The shock on Rhealyn's face mirroring my own.
The way the room ended in disarray. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, shaking my head violently as if I might dislodge these impossible revelations.
My entire world tilts beneath me, everything I've fought for, everyone I've lost, the very foundation of Embernia itself built on calculated deception. Is it true?
"This can't be real," I mutter, digging my fingers into my scalp. "None of this makes sense."
The Matron watches me closely, her massive form still in the flickering firelight. Then she extends one clawed hand. A small flame dances in her palm—not like a Blaze's fire this time, but fire tinged with rainbow hues at its edges.
"Dragon fire," she says simply. "Still inside me."
I stare at that flame, then at the scales partially visible along her sides, catching the light exactly as Heratrix's scales do. Evidence I can't dismiss with logic or skepticism.
"I know. Much to take in," she says, closing her fist and extinguishing the flame. "You rest now. More proof later."
"More?" I scoff. "I'm not sure I can handle more."
"Need strength. Still weak from wound." She gestures toward the tent. "Go. Sleep."
I rise unsteadily, my body suddenly reminding me of its limits. The tent beckons with its promise of temporary oblivion.
As I retreat inside, those strange thuds echo through the night, rhythmic impacts against the ground, some distant, others unsettlingly close.
I wrap myself in the provided blanket, listening to those mysterious sounds until exhaustion finally claims me, dragging me into dreams where dragons speak with human tongues and kings wear orphans' faces.