Epilogue
RHEA
Ipause, hammer hovering mid-swing, and wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my arm.
My muscles ache pleasantly from the morning's work.
The prairie stretches before me, dotted with the canvas tents of the Sky Order, their pennants snapping in the summer breeze.
Sheep bleat in the distance, their neck bells clanking as they move across the lush grasses.
The rhythmic thud of hammers rises around me as we reconstruct homes. Children's laughter rings out from the meadow, where they chase each other through knee-high grasses, playing at being dragons.
Zephyros circles overhead, his shadow passing across the ground like a moving cloud. He's been restless lately, flying wider patrols than necessary. I understand his longing. Heratrix's sacrifice left a void nothing can truly fill.
I breathe in deeply, savoring the scent of crushed wildflowers and sun-warmed earth. Picking up my waterskin, I drink deeply, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. The summer heat intensifies as midday approaches.
Hearthdale is slowly taking shape again.
Hard to believe this was once nothing but ash and bone.
We should have come sooner. These people deserved better than to wait nearly a year for their homes to rise again.
But Emberton demanded everything after we removed Craven.
The corruption ran deeper than we imagined, tendrils of his influence threading through every institution.
The Cleansing Authority was perhaps the worst of them all.
What we discovered about them still turns my stomach.
The ledgers told the ugliest story, page after page of transactions, each one representing a child's power—Weaver or not—stripped away for nothing more than a few coins.
Parents who didn't want their children distracted from taking over family businesses.
Wealthy merchants who feared their heirs might develop ambitions beyond counting gold.
Even political rivals arranging to weaken other noble families by having their children's powers dampened or removed entirely by the Neutros.
And the botched cleansings like mine… they weren't accidents, but the result of untrained Neutros attempting procedures beyond their skill, or worse, deliberately mishandling the process when bribes were too low.
I touch my chest, feeling phantom pain at the memory of the way my mother died. How many other children live with similar guilt? How many carry scars they can't explain?
Vaylen didn't hesitate when we brought him the evidence.
His face went still, eyes flashing with fury as he signed the order dissolving the Cleansing Authority entirely.
The trials that followed were swift but fair.
I attended each one, watching former Neutros face justice for what they'd done to generations of Embernian children.
Some of them now occupy cells in the very building where they once practiced their cruelty. A fitting symmetry.
Still, our troubles are far from over. The matter of what to do about those born with Weaver powers haunts our every council meeting.
Fear runs deep in Embernia's bones, cultivated for generations by the Stonefall dynasty.
Parents watch their children with suspicion, neighbors eye each other warily, and some villages have already driven out families with suspected Weaver children.
I know their terror intimately. The way they hide their gifts, and how the constant vigilance eats away at their childhood, leaving wounds that never truly heal.
Several council members want to resurrect the Cleansing Authority under a new name.
They speak of oversight and regulation, of safeguards and protections.
Their words sound reasonable until you peel back the layers and find the same rot beneath.
Who are they to decide which gifts children may keep?
What right have they to carve away parts of a person's essence? The thought makes me sick.
King Stormsong—I still smile at the title—has proposed a Weaver Academy instead, a place where children with the gift can learn control, ethics, and responsibility.
A sanctuary where they won't face persecution for abilities they never asked for.
The council remains divided, but public opinion shifts slowly toward acceptance as more families come forward with stories of children who suffer in silence.
Besides, we need more Weaver Skyriders to be able to communicate with the dragons and speed up the task of rebuilding Embernia.
They are a big help in transporting materials, lifting heavy loads, forging metals, and many other difficult duties.
Phoebe and I, assisted by several experienced Aerie Academy professors, have spent many nights drafting curriculum plans, imagining how I might have turned out with proper guidance.
Would I have understood the responsibility sooner?
Could I have avoided the pain I caused? The pain I suffered by not knowing how to protect myself?
The wounds of centuries won't heal quickly. The fear is too deeply entrenched, the mistrust too familiar. But maybe one day Weaver children won't have to feel like freaks.
I often find myself gazing toward the Blighted Arcs, though they're not so blighted anymore. The dragons who fought against Heratrix live well past them, exiled by their own kin.
—Do you miss them? I asked Zephyros once.
—They made their choice, came his reply. Heratrix was our queen. To stand with the betrayer was unforgivable.
Yet I can't help feeling for their riders.
Most were simply pawns in Vestra's great deception, believing themselves loyal to their goddess.
When they finally understood the truth, I watched hardened warriors weep openly at discovering they dedicated their lives to a lie.
But we all served the false queen. The only difference was when our eyes were opened.
Some have integrated back into the Sky Order and wait for the hatchlings to grow to reclaim a dragon. They'll be the first ones in line when the time comes. Shockingly, a few chose to follow their dragons into exile, such was the depth of their relationship.
My gaze drifts to a small figure sitting alone beneath an oak tree, stubbornly refusing to look my way. Fern. The scowl hasn't left her face since we arrived a week ago.
"She'll come around," Vaylen said this morning, but I'm not convinced.
I understand her anger. When I first met her, her clan had Tahr and the false Heratrix, powerful figures who impressed a young girl yearning for strength.
Now I've returned without them, bearing only truth instead of spectacle.
She must feel betrayed, not just by their absence but by the revelation that everything she witnessed was built on deception.
I sigh and return to my work. Some wounds can't be healed with explanations or apologies. Sometimes only time can soften the edges of disappointment, though I fear Fern's trust might be harder to rebuild than these houses.
An hour later, I take a break as the sun climbs higher, muscles aching pleasantly from honest work.
Under the shade of a canvas canopy, I spot Dakar lounging on a makeshift bench while Phoebe stands fanning herself dramatically.
Between them toddles Aurelia, her chubby legs propelling her with surprising speed as she investigates everything within reach.
When she spots me, her face lights up. "Rea! Rea!" she squeals, arms outstretched as she barrels toward me.
I scoop her up, twirling her until her giggles fill the air. "Are you behaving yourself, little menace?"
Aurelia's eyes flash, opaline for a second, the only visible sign of her true nature. She babbles something incomprehensible and pats my cheeks.
Phoebe collapses into a canvas chair. "I'm never having children. They're bloody exhausting. How does something so small contain so much energy?"
"Dunno." Dakar's messy topknot has come half-undone, and there's what looks like jam smeared across his leather vest. "Been thinkin' I might get married just to have one of these rascals for myself. Wouldn't be so bad, would it?"
"You'd need to find someone willing to marry you first," Phoebe retorts.
"Got plenty of admirers. Just ask around." Dakar nods. "How 'bout it, Wyndward? Know any desert girls lookin' for a handsome Skysinger?"
I roll my eyes. "If I knew any desert girls, I'd warn them to run the other way. You're the real menace around here."
"I'm injured," he presses a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak.
I scan the clearing, noticing Vaylen's absence. "Where's Vaylen?"
"Went to check on some new eggs the scouts found," Dakar says, taking Aurelia from my arms as she reaches for him. "Hidden cave somewhere."
My eyebrows shoot up. "More eggs? Really?"
Dakar nods, bouncing Aurelia on his knee. "Scouts say there's two dozen, maybe more."
Twenty four more eggs. Thirty-seven found last week, another fifteen in a hidden cavern near the borders. The count grows with each passing day, each discovery a joy to the dragonesses.
My mind drifts to those early days after Vaylen claimed the throne.
The frightened people of Hearthdale were still hidden deep within the Flametop Mountains, clinging desperately to the dragon eggs they'd been protecting for generations.
They'd built their lives around a sacred duty, passing the responsibility from parent to child through centuries of silent vigilance.
It was no surprise that when the new king sent Commander Voltguard along with the female dragons, the cave dwellers refused to emerge.
Fear and distrust had been carved into their bones by a millennium of lies.
It took days of coaxing, of promises shouted into dark cavern mouths, before the first brave soul ventured into the sunlight.