Chapter 36 Zephyros
Zephyros
Zephyros catches an updraft and soars higher as Rhealyn sprints toward Vaylen. Something feels wrong. The wind dragon circles warily, scanning for danger with millennia-old eyes that have witnessed far too many harpy attacks.
The Screechclaws remain motionless below.
They are disciplined as they stand in perfect rows.
Nothing like the frenzied, screeching hordes that have torn Skysingers from his back more times than he wishes to count.
Their stillness unnerves him, makes him watch with the attention he reserves for active battle.
This isn't natural. No harpy stands still with humans present. They hunger for their flesh.
He banks sharply, talons flexed, ready to dive at the first sign of movement. If Tahr or Heratrix were here, Zephyros would suspect some kind of mind game or illusion, but they're not. So he must trust this is real.
Through their bond, he feels Rhealyn's pain like a physical wound, raw disappointment seeping into his own consciousness as Stormsong's cold reception cuts her deep.
Zephyros hates that whelp in this moment. One curl of wind, one precise blast from his elemental core, and the High Prime would scatter across the barren landscape like dust. His silver hide ripples with suppressed rage.
Rhealyn wouldn't like that, he reminds himself. Mates always quarrel, after all.
These human attachments are messy, foolish things. Dragons are far more practical about such matters. Still, he cannot deny the genuine anguish flowing through their bond.
He wants to close himself to what passes between them, to shield himself from her heartache, but he can't afford that luxury.
Not here, not surrounded by these creatures.
He must remain vigilant. He circles lower, muscles tense, senses alert for the slightest shift in the Screechclaws' eerie formation.
Or any unexpected movement in the skies themselves. The attack could come from above.
As Zephyros watches, a strange awareness suffuses his mind. The first sensation arrives like a whisper—faint, familiar, achingly sweet. He twitches his wings, trying to dismiss it. The feeling grows stronger, wrapping around his consciousness with tendrils of memory he can't quite grasp.
Stay alert. Protect Rhealyn.
But the fog thickens in his mind, a haze of honey and starlight that shouldn't exist yet feels more real than the barren landscape below. His silver hide tingles, scales rippling with pleasure and recognition.
Zephyros banks sharply, fighting the sensation. An invisible tether yanks at something deep within his chest—not painful but insistent, like the pull of home after centuries of exile.
He shakes his big head. Concentrate!
His flight path wobbles. The ground and sky blur together as the tether tightens, drawing him toward... What? Someone? Without his notice, the Screechclaws fade from his awareness. Rhealyn's emotions dim. Only this calling matters now, this sweet summoning that makes his ancient blood sing.
His wings falter mid-beat. He spirals faster, no longer master of his own flight. The pull overwhelms his senses, drowning rational thought beneath waves of instinct, so compelling and primal that he can't resist.
I know this feeling. I have felt it before. I have... wanted it before.
Zephyros surrenders to the fog completely, letting it guide him toward its source.