Chapter 5 Vaylen
Vaylen
ONE YEAR LATER
Istand at the edge of the plateau, my feet at the precipice where Sky’s Edge falls away to the world below. The wind plays in my hair, but I find no comfort in its familiar touch. Not anymore.
My fingers find the chain around my neck, drawing out the onyx ring that once adorned Rhealyn’s finger.
The dark stone catches the light. I trace the intricate silver patterns cradling the black gem.
Keeping this piece of her close brings a strange comfort—knowing she wore it, touched it, cherished it.
A full cycle of seasons has passed since Rhealyn vanished. Twelve moons have waxed and waned. The world has turned, battles have been fought, new riders have met their dragons, and still, she remains gone.
The hollow ache in my chest never diminishes. I believed time would dull this pain, but it merely transforms, shifting like her moods once did. Some days it feels like a dull blade pressed against my ribs. Other days, like today, it cuts sharp and clean, and I nearly fall to my knees.
My gaze drifts to the Dragon’s Teeth Range, where I first made her mine.
Her skin beneath my hands, soft as moonlight.
The way she trembled when I kissed the hollow of her throat.
The fierce passion in her eyes when she pulled me closer, as if she could consume my very soul.
Our bodies moved like wind and storm dancing as one, unable to resist the pull that drove them together.
No. Not mine. She was never truly mine.
What we have was stolen, forbidden moments under the starlight, our bodies and passion finding what our words couldn’t confess.
The high walls of duty, honor, and rules stood between us.
I was High Prime. She was my subordinate and a Weaver at that.
What we experienced wasn’t the beginning of love.
It was treason against everything I stand for.
Yet I’d commit it again without hesitation.
Goddess, how do I end this pain? Even a year later, it continues to cloud my judgment and focus—the very things this war demands more than anything.
I wonder if this wound will ever truly heal. Or if I even wish it to. The pain keeps her memory alive when all other traces have vanished into that fucking mountain.
I flex my hand, remembering the brush of her fingertips against mine before she was taken. So close. Had I been stronger, faster, better...
My gaze drifts west toward Hearthdale. I watch the horizon as though she might appear on Zephyros’s back.
That accursed dragon. The Sky Order needs him more than ever.
The war intensifies with each passing day, and a dragon of his power could turn the tide of a dozen battles. Yet he refuses all riders.
The keepers say he spends his days curled in the darkest corner of his lair in the western caves of the plateau. They leave food at the entrance, but he ignores it, preferring to hunt alone under cover of night. No one dares enter his domain.
What they whisper about in hushed tones troubles me most. How in the dead of night, when the moon has crossed the sky and most souls sleep, he keens in mourning, a sound so haunting it brings tears to their eyes.
I understand his grief. I feel it too.
“High Prime.” A voice behind me. My new Skysinger seeking instruction.
I tuck away Rhea’s ring and turn to face the young man standing at attention behind me. Braylen Mistwalker, barely twenty four, with copper hair cropped short against his skull and eyes the color of spring leaves. A new Skysinger, still wearing his leathers with uncomfortable stiffness.
“High Prime, we’re nearly ready to depart, Sir.” He holds his chin high, a worthy rider for Sylpharen.
I nod to Mistwalker, appreciating his promptness if not his eagerness. He’s my only fresh Skysinger recruit this season, a blessing of sorts. Our Clutch hasn’t suffered many losses this past year, save for Sylpharen’s previous rider who fell in Ashenville, and... Rhealyn.
Her name still stings like acid through my thoughts.
“At ease, Mistwalker,” I say, noting how he stands with textbook precision.
His brilliant mind earned him early graduation from both university and Aerie Academy, yet that same intelligence makes him overthink the simplest social interactions. Yet, I’m fortunate to have him.
Mistwalker is a quick study. His mind absorbs battle formations and aerial maneuvers faster than any recruit I’ve trained.
What he lacks in natural grace, he compensates for with precise calculation and unwavering focus.
The training season passed without incident, a welcome respite after a year of constant challenges.
The Rite of Flight proved mercifully uneventful this time. No accusations, no arrests, no Cragmere with his pinched face and perpetual scowl.
Of course, the Chief Inspector caused quite the uproar when Rhealyn wasn’t delivered to him as promised.
For several days, the little man stormed through Fort Ashmire demanding explanations, his gray mustache quivering with indignation.
His beady eyes followed me everywhere, suspicion plain on his face.
To this day, he believes I had something to do with her disappearance, helped her escape justice somehow.
The thought is almost laughable. If it were up to me, she would be here now, not lost beneath stone and earth.
In the end, even Cragmere had to accept the contingent’s unified account. Eight Skyriders witnessed her vanish into the mountain with that strange figure. What could he do but retreat to Emberton, muttering about conspiracies and corruption within the Sky Order?
Damn it all! There I go again, thoughts circling back to her like a falcon returning to the falconer’s glove. A year has passed. The war continues. My duty remains. Yet my mind betrays me at every turn, seeking her in memories when I should be focused on the battles ahead.
“Sir?” Mistwalker shifts his weight, uncomfortable with my prolonged silence. “Should I fetch Skyrider Breezehart.”
I straighten my shoulders. “No. I’ll do that.”
The plateau’s familiar sounds filter back into my awareness, sounds I deliberately shut out as I lost myself in memories.
Dragons snorting and rumbling as Claws secure supply packs to their harnesses.
Metal clasps clinking against scaled hides.
Excited chattering of novice Skyriders preparing for their journey to Cinderhold.
Leather creaking as saddles are adjusted.
Orders being called across the plateau as the Primes check weapons and provisions.
“Tell Prime Emberstone to lead the formation,” I add. “I’ll bring up the rear with Skysinger Breezehart.”
Mistwalker salutes, fist to his shoulder, and hurries away.
I cast one final glance toward the Dragon’s Teeth Range, then I head to one of the lifts. Breezehart better be ready.
The machinery hums as the lift sinks into the heart of Sky’s Edge, the metal cable sliding smoothly through the pulley system controlled by a group of Bolts somewhere deep in the plateau.
When it stops with a clank, I slide the metal door open and stride through the corridor toward Breezehart’s quarters. The torches cast long shadows against the stone walls as I approach her door.
I rap my knuckles against the wood. “Breezehart? We depart in ten minutes.”
No answer.
I knock again, more firmly. “Skysinger Breezehart, report.”
Silence. Unusual for Phoebe, who values punctuality almost as much as I do.
I push the door open, half-expecting to find her asleep at her desk after another night of research. Instead, the chamber stands empty, save for an open trunk in the middle of the floor.
Books spill from its confines—ancient tomes, their leather bindings cracked with age. Papers marked with strange symbols lie scattered beside carefully labeled scrolls.
I remember Breezehart’s reaction at Rhealyn’s disappearance once the news spread through Fort Ashmire, despite our efforts to contain it.
The details of what happened in Hearthdale were meant to remain between those involved, the Commander, and the Primes, but secrets in the Sky Order are like diseases. They spread fast.
Breezehart cornered me in the courtyard just a couple of weeks after our return from the first thorough search of the cave system around Hearthdale that yielded no answer.
“The mountain didn’t swallow her. Not exactly,” she insisted, her red hair wild and her green eyes ablaze with purpose. “It was the Goddess.”
“Heratrix?” I almost laughed, but how was Rhealyn’s disappearance less strange than this claim? Besides, Breezehart was the only one offering any sort of conjecture about what happened. So, against my better judgement, hope made me listen.
“I read it… somewhere,” she said, pale face blushing. “A bedtime tale about the Goddess Heratrix and her rider resting beneath an ancient, sleeping giant.”
“Children’s stories?” I shook my head, reason returning, but she persisted.
“The Flametop Mountains, High Prime. That’s the giant. And that man who took Rhealyn… he must be the rider from the tale.”
I nearly laughed then, the idea too fantastical. But I’d seen the mountain open like a doorway, watched it swallow Rhealyn whole. My training insisted on rational explanations, but my eyes had witnessed something beyond reason. What Breezehart said made no sense, but little else did.
“Where exactly did you read this?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes. “I can’t remember. It’s been a long time, and I’ve… I’ve read a lot of stories about the Goddess.
I nearly dismissed her then, thinking she was one of those people obsessed with Heratrix, but she seemed so sure of herself.
“I wish we had an explanation, Breezehart, even one involving the Goddess herself.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, fatigue weighing my shoulders.
“But what can we possibly do with a half-remembered bedtime tale? The Sky Order deals in facts, in tangible threats we can face with steel and elemental powers.”
Her face fell, but determination still burned in her eyes.
“I understand your frustration, but...” I softened my tone. “If you recall anything more concrete, bring it to me immediately. For now, we have duties we can’t ignore while we chase shadows and stories.”
I meant it. Any thread, however thin, that might lead to Rhealyn, I would pursue it. I started to leave, but she spoke once more.
“High Prime,” she said, her voice steadying. “I request formal access to the restricted archives in the Sky’s Edge library.”
I turned, studying her face. “The restricted archives? Those texts are centuries old.”
“The Sky’s Edge collection is the most extensive in Embernia.” She straightened, professional determination shaping her stance. “I give you my word as a Skysinger that I’ll find that tale. I’m sure it exists somewhere in those old tomes and scrolls.”
Her conviction stirred something in me, not hope precisely—that had burned out after our failed attempts at the caves. But perhaps its shadow.
“Very well.” I nodded curtly. “I’ll speak to the Commander to request permission. But your duties to the Sky Order come first, Breezehart.”
“Always, High Prime.”
I remember the Commander’s reaction all too well. When I approached her with Breezehart’s request, her eyebrows shot up, suggesting I’d gone crazy.
“Fairy tales, Stormsong?” She adjusted her tight bun, skepticism etched into every line of her face. “I have Screechclaws tearing through our eastern border, and you want one of your Skysingers researching bedtime stories?”
I stood at attention before her desk, my face betraying nothing. “I understand your concerns, Commander. But we still have no explanation for what happened at Hearthdale.”
“The war doesn’t pause for mysteries,” she snapped, rifling through reports with agitated fingers. “That attack was an anomaly.”
Two days later, everything changed. A royal messenger arrived bearing the King’s seal—a summons demanding answers about Rhealyn’s disappearance. King Craven Stonefall himself had taken interest in the case.
The Commander called me back that afternoon, her face grim.
“His Majesty is... unusually concerned about Skysinger Wyndward’s disappearance.
” She drummed her fingers on her desk. “He read the official report and now wishes to know more. But there isn’t more.
” She sighed heavily, then handed me a sealed document.
“Tell Breezehart she has her authorization. The King commands we pursue every lead, however fanciful. He wants her found. Dead or alive.”
Thus began the steady stream of ancient books arriving with our supply shipments, piling higher in Fort Ashmire’s study hall with each passing week.
And now this. More books, and still no answers, the shadow of hope Breezehart stirred in me a year ago already dimmed to nearly nothing.
I shake my head at the mess and turn away.
We can’t delay our departure any longer, or there’ll be hells to pay with the Commander.
I stride through the corridor toward the library, my boots echoing against stone.
If she’s lost track of time buried in those ancient texts again, I’ll have to remind her of her duties to the Sky Order.
The war waits for no one, especially not Skysingers with a penchant for scholarship.
Rounding the corner, I nearly collide with a blur of red hair and parchment. Breezehart staggers backward.
“High Prime!” Her green eyes are enormous, bright with a fervor I’ve never seen from her. Her face flushes with excitement, pale skin now nearly matching her hair. “I found it,” she whispers, then louder, “I found it, High Prime. I found what we’ve been looking for.”