Chapter 32 Vaylen
Vaylen
Iwake with a violent start, instinctively trying to form a Wind Spear that won't. The canvas tent spins around me as reality reassembles itself in fragments.
Not in Emberton. Not in my quarters.
The Matron. The Screechclaws. The impossible tale of cursed dragons and stolen thrones.
I press my palm against my side where Tahranis's blade entered. The scar tingles but causes no real pain. I can't stop thinking I should be dead. By all rights, my broken body should be lying at the base of that castle wall, not healed by these creatures.
"More proof later," the Matron promised. Proof of what exactly? That I'm supposedly royalty? That Heratrix is no goddess but a traitor? That everything I've believed and fought for is built on lies?
I push out of the tent, discovering it's still dark and dawn lies hours ahead. Whatever awaits me will either confirm my worst fears or prove the Matron has spun elaborate falsehoods. Neither possibility brings me comfort.
The moon has risen fully and now provides better light to see by. The same wasteland lies at my feet, so barren it seems to mock the very concept of life. The campfire burns steadily, more wood laid on top.
Beyond this meager camp, nothing. Just flat, cracked earth extending as far as I can see, interrupted only by jagged rocks thrusting up like broken teeth.
No plants, no water, no movement. Not even the skeletons of trees that typically dot Embernia's harshest regions.
This place feels deliberately empty, as though existence itself has been scrubbed away.
My mouth grows parched just looking at it.
Whatever proof the Matron promised may lie somewhere in this desolation, waiting to shatter what remains of my certainty, but it seems unlikely.
The sound of a scrape against rock makes me turn, and I'm struck with a new sight that fills my veins with panic and an itch in my hands to call on my nonexistent wind power.
Where behind me there was only impenetrable darkness, now a different sight greets me.
Massive stone arches rise from the earth like the ribs of some ancient, forgotten titan.
The Blighted Arcs. And upon every curved surface, clinging to every jagged edge and hollow, are thousands of Screechclaws.
Their bodies, black against the sky, create a living texture across the stone.
As I focus to listen past the whistling wind, I perceive their breathing—a collective, rasping like many blades being sharpened at once.
Claws click against rock as they shift and adjust, maintaining perfect stillness otherwise.
Their eyes fix on me with chilling uniformity.
I keep expecting them to attack, but they remain calm. Is this the proof the Matron promised?
It must be because my training is telling me to prepare to fight, but these aren't the savage beasts I'm used to.
The ones I know don't watch, don't wait.
They shred. But these simply regard me with unsettling intelligence, arranged in perfect stillness rather than the frenzied bloodlust I'm accustomed to.
As much as I want to deny it, their unnatural calm is proof I cannot easily dismiss, same as the Matron's speech, elemental powers, and rainbow scales on her back.
As a gust blows my way, an awful stench hits me. It's fetid meat and stale copper, the unmistakable metallic reek of old blood. Something more acidic underlies it, like sulfur mixed with rot. My throat constricts as I breathe it in.
In the silence between their collective breaths, I hear only my heart pounding in my ears, a frantic drumbeat of unadulterated fear.
I've seen the expanse of Blighted Arcs in maps, sketches made by scouts who ventured this far and returned.
I even flew a mission here years ago with my unit.
We'd tracked a retreating flock after a bloody engagement, hoping to discover their nesting grounds.
We found nothing. Just empty stone arches rising from barren earth, silent and abandoned.
The same scene appeared in every reconnaissance mission—no more than desolate, lifeless terrain with no sign of enemy presence.
But right now, the arches aren't just empty perches.
Every surface teems with life, though life seems a generous term for these twisted beings.
What the Matron claimed echoes in my mind. These aren't our enemies. If she spoke true, they were once dragons, cursed by Heratrix herself.
The implications crush against my chest with greater force than any enemy blow I've weathered.
If Screechclaws are transformed dragons, then every kill I've celebrated was.
.. I shut my mind against the thought. I need more than the Matron's word and strange events before I condemn my entire life's purpose, and yet more to believe the Omneira claims or anything she's said for that matter.
One of the harpies launches from its perch, wings unfurling like dark sails against the sky.
The creature swoops toward me with terrifying speed, talons extended.
My heart slams against my ribs as I take an involuntary step backward.
But she lands fifteen paces away, barely paying me any mind. The Matron.
Three others swoop down beside it, forming a semicircle. They click and hiss at each other, heads bobbing. After a minute of this, the three take flight again, black wings beating powerfully as they head east.
I watch them shrink against the horizon, frustration churning in my gut. Where are they going? What mission has the Matron sent them on? I hate this feeling—standing helpless while events unfold around me, stripped of both my power and ability to fly and give chase.
The Matron walks toward me with heavy steps.
"Omneira," she rasps, the word sounding like stones grinding together. "Time for more proof."
"Where are they going?" I point at the shrinking shapes of the harpies she dispatched.
"On an errand," she says, then, offering no more explanation, strides to the log I sat on earlier and hoists it effortlessly, as if it weighs no more than a matchstick. She places it behind my tent with casual strength that sends a chill through me.
"There. Sit." She point a claw at the log, settling herself on the ground beside it, facing the perched harpies and folding her massive wings against her back where those rainbow scales cover her thick skin.
I remain standing, suspicion tightening my shoulders. "What proof will I find sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere?"
"Sit and wait, and you will see."
I notice her words flow more smoothly now, less of the choppy, halting speech from last night. Whatever transformation she's undergoing seems to accelerate with each passing hour. I lower myself onto the log, muscles tense, ready to spring up at the first sign of threat.
Thick silence stretches between us. I fix my gaze on the cracked earth, refusing to look at the thousands of eyes watching my every movement.
My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh.
Each minute drags like an hour as the weight of their collective stare bears down on me, the log beneath me growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment. Finally, I can't bear it any longer.
"How long do we have to sit here for this proof to present itself?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
The Matron tilts her head at an unnatural angle. "It never takes too long. We have experienced a million deaths, and some of my sisters still battle in the east."
I blink, confusion washing over me. Her words make no sense, the coherence I thought I'd noticed earlier completely absent now, even if her diction is perfect.
"A million deaths?" I repeat, studying her face for any hint of meaning.
She doesn't respond, just returns to her statue-like stillness, staring at the arches filled with her kind. The clicking and rustling of the harpies creates a constant, unsettling backdrop to this bizarre scene.
I'm close to throwing my hands up in the air when a whoosh high above catches my attention. The sound cuts through the ambient clicking of the Screechclaws, distracting due to its marked difference.
The Matron nods knowingly, then lifts one long, clawed finger and points toward the clouds above us. I follow her gesture.
There, right above me, among the wispy clouds, hangs what looks like a hole in the sky itself. Not a cloud formation, not a trick of the light, an actual tear in the fabric of reality. The edges shimmer with an unnatural iridescence reminiscent of Heratrix's scales.
"What the fuck?" I curse, heart hammering as I stand. "What is that?"
Before the Matron can answer, something bursts through the hole.
A dark shape plummets toward the ground, spinning wildly, gaining speed as it falls.
Not a bird. Too large. Too fast. Moonlight catches on a flash of brown scales.
The unmistakable silhouette of wings tucked close to an emaciated body.
A harpy.
My breath catches in my throat as the creature continues its freefall toward the cracked earth, toward me.
"I would move if I were you," the Matron says.
I stare, transfixed by the plummeting harpy. My mind registers the Matron's warning, but my body remains frozen, caught in the spell of witnessing something impossible. The creature continues its death spiral, wings now fluttering uselessly against the pull of gravity.
Move! My instincts finally kick in. I lunge sideways, stumbling several steps just as the harpy crashes into the exact spot where I sat moments before.
Thud.
The impact sends a tremor through the ground, dust billowing around the crumpled form. When it settles, I'm left staring at a grotesque tableau.