Chapter 4
Vaylen
Morning brings no relief, only harsh light illuminating the destruction around us. The sun crests the eastern ridge, washing the landscape in amber hues that seem to mock our futile efforts through the night. Not one of us has slept. The shadows beneath my riders’ eyes mirror my own exhaustion.
I’ve watched that accursed mountain all night, pacing, planning, fingering Rhealyn’s ring in my pocket, searching for answers that refuse to reveal themselves. Logic dictates I must shift our focus, but the image of Rhealyn’s face as she was taken away haunts me.
“Gather,” I call, my voice carrying on a small breeze of my own making. The Skyriders assemble, their weariness evident in slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes. Even Dakar’s usual easy demeanor has hardened into something grimmer.
“We need to understand what happened here beyond Skyrider Wyndward’s.
..” I pause, unwilling to name what occurred.
“Everyone, your task is to scout Hearthdale and its perimeter. Our enemies’ attack pattern was unusual.
The Screechclaws abandoning Cinderhold to strike this place makes no sense.
We need to know the reason for their actions.
This morning, we’ll focus on looking for clues.
Note anything unusual no matter how small. Understood?”
“Yes, High Prime,” they reply in tired voices.
Caspian Stonefist steps forward. “High Prime, we should continue digging. If she’s—“
“I haven’t forgotten.” How could I?
“Rhea… saved my life last night, Sir,” Stonefist says. “I’ll do anything it takes.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Skydune.” My voice rises so everyone can hear.
“Brute force didn’t serve us last night.
We need intelligence, patterns, anything that might explain why this location matters and who might have taken…
one of ours.” I point to the ruined village, smoke still rising from its blackened timbers.
“Screechclaws don’t abandon prime targets like Cinderhold for isolated villages without purpose.
Find me that purpose. Look for anything out of the ordinary.
Disturbed earth, strange markings, abandoned items. Anything.
“Prime Emberstone and Pyrewing take the northern quadrant. Dakar and Reefsong, south. Cliffbecker and Stonefist, east. Sparkcaller and I will take the west end. Check every dwelling, every abandoned cellar. The answer has to be here somewhere. And when you’re done on foot, take to the sky, look for patterns in the destruction. ”
I watch my riders disperse, each moving with grim purpose despite their weariness.
Only when they’ve gone do I allow myself one more glance at the mountainside and let my thoughts wander back to Rhealyn.
The memory of her fingertips brushing mine before she vanished replays in my mind like a cruel taunt.
Zephyros remains perched on the ridge above, a silver sentinel against the morning sky.
His massive form hasn’t moved since he settled there, those ancient eyes fixed on the spot where his rider disappeared.
The bond between dragon and rider runs deep.
Perhaps deeper than I’ve ever understood.
He seems destroyed in a way no battle has ever affected him.
“I’ll find her,” I whisper, though whether to reassure myself or her dragon, I can’t say.
The great beast shifts slightly, acknowledging my presence without looking away from the mountain. His grief and rage are palpable, a living force that makes the air around him whirl.
I turn toward Hearthdale’s ruins, duty pulling me forward while my heart remains tethered to this spot. Sparkcaller shadows me silently, his face grimmer than I’ve ever seen it. There must be answers hidden within the ash and rubble. Some thread to follow. Some path that will lead me back to her.
We pick our way through the village, the scent of ash and death hanging thick in the air. Sparkcaller catches my eye, gesturing to a row of collapsed buildings.
“I’ll search that quarter, High Prime,” he says grimly. “We can rejoin at the other end.”
I nod my assent, watching as he veers left.
Charred timber frames reach skyward like skeletal fingers. Bodies lie where they fell, cut down as they fled. The Screechclaws showed no mercy here.
A soft sound breaks the silence. I pivot sharply, my hand instinctively lifting and forming a Wind Dagger.
From behind a half-burnt shed, a sheep emerges, its once-white wool stained gray and black with soot, eyes wide with animal fear. It bleats softly, trembling. The creature stares at me, lost and bewildered in a world suddenly turned hostile.
I gaze beyond the dwellings to the green pastures in the distance.
The villagers’ herds must be scattered there, grazing oblivious to their masters’ fate.
This one wandered back, perhaps seeking familiar hands that will never comfort it again.
The creature is like me, searching for something it’s missing.
The sheep bleats again, more plaintive this time.
I’ve no time for shepherding, yet the sight of this lost creature strikes something raw within me.
One survivor in a sea of devastation. I shake my head as the sheep wanders away, disappearing between broken buildings.
Every moment spent here is a moment Rhealyn remains lost. I press on, pushing through collapsed doorways and charred timber frames.
The bodies tell a grim story. A weathered man clutches a pitchfork, his final stand frozen in death. Another lies face-down, arms outstretched toward something unseen. I kneel beside each fallen villager, examining wounds, positioning, anything that might yield information.
After the fifth body, a pattern emerges like a whisper. I examine another, then another, moving with increasing urgency through the ruins. My mind catalogs each detail.
“Where are the children?” I mutter, scanning the destruction around me.
I find no small bodies among the fallen. No women either, from what I can discern of these charred remains. Only men, judging by what remains of their clothes and the size of their bones.
Something cold settles in my stomach. Screechclaws have never shown such... selection. They kill indiscriminately, taking equal pleasure in all human suffering.
I stand perfectly still, letting this revelation sink into my bones. This was no ordinary raid. The women and children were taken. Or worse…
Turning, I face the mountain and think of the awful power that emerged from its depths. They took Rhealyn, a female. But… I shake my head. They didn’t take Prime Emberstone and Omari Reefsong. They’re still here, so that theory doesn’t hold, at least not completely.
I rejoin Sparkcaller near the village’s edge, finding him crouched beside what appears to be a singed sheepskin.
“Found the only survivor,” he announces with a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I fear it’s missing most of its parts.”
I shake my head at his costumery gallows humor. “Anything else?”
“Nah.”
We return to our makeshift camp practically empty-handed. The lack of concrete evidence is frustrating.
“High Prime,” Emberstone acknowledges with a formal nod when we arrive. Her amber skin gleams in the sunlight, her posture impeccable despite our grim circumstances. “We found nothing of significance in the northern section. Just more destruction and bodies. Curiously, they were all male.”
“You noticed that as well?” I ask, my suspicions confirmed.
“Yes,” she replies. “Not a woman or child among the fallen. Strange tactics for Screechclaws.”
The sound of footsteps draws our attention. Cliffbecker and Stonefist approach from the east, their faces as grim as I feel.
“Nothing, High Prime,” Cliffbecker reports, running a hand through his graying hair. “Only more tales of death.”
Dakar and Reefsong return last, and my gaze fixes upon the weapon in Dakar’s grip, a sword far beyond any village craftsman’s skill. Its hilt gleams with intricate engravings, the metal burnished to a flawless sheen. A blood-red gemstone nestles within the crossguard, catching the harsh sunlight.
“Found this,” Dakar announces, holding it aloft. “It’s not somethin’ these sheep farmers would be carryin’. Too fancy for the likes of ‘em.”
I take the weapon, testing its weight and balance. The craftsmanship is exquisite, far beyond what common folk could afford. The metal feels strangely warm against my palm.
“Where?” I demand.
“Southern edge, near the forest line. Found it under a body, man was cut down tryin’ to flee that way.”
Emberstone steps forward, taking a closer look. “It’s not Screechclaw make either. This is... different.”
She’s right. Screechclaws favor nasty curved blades of blackened steel.
“Perhaps some noble was passing through?” Pyrewing says, sarcasm lacing his tone.
Emberstone gives him a sidelong glance that seems to say, if you have nothing useful to add, keep your mouth shut.
Pyrewing crosses his arms. He needs to remember he’s not at the Academy, where I’m sure his teachers excused his behavior due to his connections. In the Sky Order, none of that matters. I make a mental note to ask Emberstone, his Prime, to have a conversation with him about improving his attitude.
I turn the sword in my hands, studying the unfamiliar markings along the blade.
The curving glyphs are unlike anything I recognize and whisper of distant origins.
I trace one symbol with my thumb, feeling the precision of its engraving.
The craftsmanship suggests wealth and purpose, but beyond that, I’m blind to its secrets.
“This isn’t something we can decipher here,” I admit. “We need a scholar, someone versed in ancient languages or… foreign craftsmanship. Or both.” I hand the sword back to Dakar. “Keep this safe. It might be our only clue.”
Reefsong shifts her weight from one foot to another, the three small blue jewels secured beneath each eye catching the light as she looks down, then back up at me.