Chapter 35 Rhea
Rhea
Ishiver against the biting cold, the Wind Wall I've wrapped around myself barely keeping the worst of the freezing air at bay. Up here, above the clouds, the air is so thin my lungs burn with each breath. Zephyros's massive wings beat steadily as we glide through this frigid expanse of sky.
—We are well beyond the reach of Sky Order scouts, Zephyros's voice rumbles in my mind. No rider would think to look this high.
—Good, I manage through chattering teeth. I'd rather not explain where we're going when I barely know myself.
I don't know how the Screechclaw that brought my ring escaped detection since they can't fly this high, but this is our only option.
After nearly an hour of flight, Zephyros begins his descent, piercing through the cloud layer.
Droplets of moisture cling to my eyelashes as we emerge into clearer air.
The scant beginnings of dawn light illuminate a barren landscape below, the familiar greenery of Embernia giving way to the craggy wasteland that marks the border.
—We've left Embernia, Zephyros confirms. Though I worry we are flying with no true direction.
I touch my mother's ring, now back on my finger with a promise to be worthy of keeping it there. Something catches my eye, movement to our right. A formation of harpies, three of them, flying in an arrow shape.
—There's our sign. I point.
The harpies maintain their distance but unmistakably lead us forward, occasionally adjusting their course.
—What happened to our mindless enemies? I ask.
—This behavior certainly breaks a pattern, Zephyros replies.
We fly for what feels like hours, the scenery below growing increasingly desolate.
Twisted, blackened trees give way to cracked earth and finally bare rock.
The terrain rises steadily until we approach the expanse of the Blighted Arcs—or at least one corner of the extensive area.
The sight steals my breath. Massive peaks of stone thrust skyward like broken teeth, their surfaces gleaming with an unnatural sheen.
Something catches my eye. There's an entire section that appears shattered, collapsed into rubble as if struck by a giant hammer.
—Something has happened here, Zephyros observes, his wings adjusting to the unpredictable air currents. This destruction is recent.
The harpy formation banks sharply down, and as we follow I notice a horde of Screechclaws huddling in a tight group on the ground.
The sight takes my breath away as my gaze sweeps over their number—thousands, it seems. We circle, waiting for the first strike, the flurry of wings and jagged steel.
But nothing comes. The air is too still, too watchful.
They stand in ordered ranks, talons motionless against the rocky ground.
This isn't right. Screechclaws don't behave like this—calm, disciplined, almost like human soldiers.
Our guides land and vanish among their brethren, leaving us hovering uncertainly.
Zephyros’s unease coils through me, his muscles tightening like storm clouds drawing breath. Perhaps this seeming calm is the very snare he foresaw.
—I didn't expect to find them so easily, I think to Zephyros as we circle above the gathered Screechclaws. Harpy guides or not.
I hope Tahr and the rest waste their time searching elsewhere. At least until I find Vaylen and get him out of here. Whatever's happening with these Screechclaws, whatever truth they hold, it can wait. Vaylen can't.
I continue scanning the area for any sign of Vaylen, but I see nothing.
—Look there, Zephyros directs, nodding his massive head southward.
A pinprick of orange light flickers in the distance, separate from the gathered horde. A campfire. The sight sends a jolt through my chest.
—That has to be him. Take us down there, Zephyros.
—Slowly, he cautions, banking gracefully toward the distant flame. Whatever trick these creatures have planned, we need to be prepared for everything.
I clench my teeth, torn between hope and fear.
As Zephyros approaches, I notice a tent close to the campfire. The orange light flickers against canvas walls, casting dancing shadows. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a desperate hope that Vaylen is truly here.
Zephyros hasn't even touched ground when a figure emerges from the tent, movements quick and curious. I recognize his shape instantly—those wide shoulders, that straight posture. I would know Vaylen anywhere, even silhouetted against the deepest shadows. My breath catches in my throat.
—He's alive. He's actually alive.
Joy erupts through me like wildfire, consuming every doubt, every fear. I can't wait for Zephyros to fully land, so I Drop from his back, wind cushioning my descent as I hit the ground running.
"Vaylen!" His name tears from my throat, raw with emotion.
I sprint toward him, ready to throw my arms around his neck, to feel his solid warmth against me, to prove to myself he's real and not some desperate illusion my mind has conjured.
But I skid to a stop three paces away as his face transforms before my eyes.
The initial surprise—wide eyes, parted lips—hardens into something else entirely.
His jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line.
Those beautiful blue eyes turn to ice, cooling so rapidly I can almost feel the temperature drop between us.
"What in the seven hells are you doing here?" he demands.