Chapter 7 Vaylen
Vaylen
Istare at Breezehart. Her green eyes shine with triumph, wisps of red hair escaping her usually tidy bun. Found it? After nearly a year of fruitless searching through crumbling scrolls and ancient texts she actually found something?
The notion sits uncomfortably in my chest. Bedtime tales and children’s stories…
this is what we’ve come to. The Commander and I have indulged her research because our spoiled King had to be pacified, but did we ever believe these legends would yield anything of substance?
Did I? What warrior places his faith in nursery rhymes when everything else has failed?
Yet something in Breezehart’s expression gives me pause. She has proven herself both methodical and relentless. She doesn’t believe she’s chasing shadows or wasting time on flights of fancy. She’s smart, the kind of person who might stumble upon the truth through an educated theory.
Still, I can’t allow myself hope. Not again. Hope is a luxury I’ve been desperately trying to avoid because it hurts too damn much.
And yet, if even the smallest chance exists...
“Breezehart, what exactly did you—?”
A thunderous roar cuts through the air, reverberating through stone walls and down the lift shaft. The sound is powerful, almost triumphant.
Breezehart’s eyes widen. “Was that—?”
“Zephyros?” I say, my heart quickening despite my attempts to remain calm.
“I think so,” she whispers, pressing a hand to her chest.
To my knowledge, the dragon hasn’t uttered anything but mournful keens since Rhealyn vanished. Many nights, his cries of anguish have echoed across Sky’s Edge, a constant reminder of what he lost. What I lost.
I look at Breezehart.
Her face is alight with the same dangerous emotion I refuse to entertain. “What could it mean?” she asks.
“It means nothing until we know more,” I say firmly, but my body betrays my words as I turn and stride toward the lift, Breezehart’s hurried footsteps following close behind.
As we enter, I grab the blue cord hanging from the ceiling and pull it three times in rapid succession—the signal for urgency.
“Perhaps Zephyros sensed some change,” Breezehart suggests, her voice carrying the excitement I dare not express.
“Speculation serves no purpose,” I say.
The lift jolts as the Bolts begin operating the pulleys. Breezehart falls silent, but her eyes speak volumes. She thinks the same thing I do, the very thought I’m fighting with every fiber of my being.
We ascend, slow and steady. I focus on the rough texture of the stone walls through the accordion door, the creak of cables, anything but the growing pressure in my chest. Yet as we rise toward the surface, toward that roar of what sounded like joy rather than grief, I can’t help but think: What if?
No. I must remain in control. I straighten my spine and set my jaw. Whatever awaits above, I will face it with resolve, lest life dashes my hopes again.
But by the four winds! My heart refuses to listen.
The cabin lurches to a stop, metal joints groaning with the strain. I push past the door before it fully opens, nearly catching my jacket in my haste.
“High Prime!” Breezehart calls from behind me, but I’m already scanning the sky, turning in a full circle, seeking silver scales against the cloudless blue.
Nothing.
Then I notice everyone standing at the western edge of the plateau, their faces upturned and bodies still.
I follow their collective gaze and spot him…
Zephyros, his massive form already diminished by distance, wings beating with fierce purpose.
Not circling in grief as he has for a year, but flying with intent, with direction.
“West,” I murmur. “He flies west.”
West toward Hearthdale. West toward the mountains that took Rhealyn.
I turn to find Fragor landing at the edge of the plateau. Reaching through our bond, I search for insight, for confirmation of what I dare not name. A surge of emotions floods through me—urgency, anticipation, recognition. Fragor knows something. He felt it too.
She lives. Rhealyn lives. That has to be it!
The thought threatens to buckle my knees, but years of discipline keep me upright, my face an unreadable mask despite the tempest inside me.
“High Prime.” Prime Isolde Emberstone approaches, her copper-tipped braids swaying with each purposeful stride. The Skyblaze Prime rarely shows surprise, yet it’s written plainly across her angular features. “I think he’s headed to Hearthdale.”
I can’t reply. My throat is tight.
Her brown eyes hold mine steadily. “I don’t think Zephyros would leave unless—“
“We can’t be certain,” I interject, though the words ring hollow even to my ears.
All around us, riders murmur and point to the speck diminishing against the horizon. I should order them to mount. We should head to Cinderhold as we’re supposed to do and report to Commander Voltguard.
Instead, I find myself calculating flight times to Hearthdale, cataloging options, judging consequences.
“High Prime?” Emberstone presses. “Your orders?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with significance. If Rhealyn has returned, if she truly lives, what then? She’s still a Weaver. Still a confessed killer. Still my duty to bring to justice. And still the woman whose absence has haunted my every waking moment for a year.
I clear my throat, pushing down the storm of emotions that threatens to overwhelm my reason. I know what I want to do. I want to jump on Fragor’s back and follow Zephyros, chase this sudden hope that has bloomed in my chest, the thought of finding Rhealyn alive, of wrapping her in my arms, and—
Emberstone studies me, her gaze uncomfortably perceptive.
Over this past year, I fear she and Dakar have somehow discerned that my concern for Rhealyn transcends my responsibility as her Prime.
They’ve never spoken of it directly—such is the courtesy they’ve offered me—but the knowing look in Emberstone’s eyes right now makes me wonder if she suspects the full truth.
She takes my arm and pulls me away from Breezehart, who takes the hint and heads toward her dragon, Trueno.
“You should go,” she says quietly, glancing around to ensure no others hear.
“And what would I tell the Commander?” I keep my voice steady despite the war raging within me. “I can’t abandon my duties based on a crazy dragon’s behavior?”
“Commander Voltguard will understand. Wyndward belongs to your Clutch. This is a lead you must follow.” Her eyes flash with an intensity I rarely see.
“She’s wanted,” I remind her. And what I leave unsaid, that Rhealyn is a Weaver, brings a bitter taste to my mouth.
“You can worry about that later. If Zephyros sensed something and she’s back, she may be in need of help.”
Emberstone is right.
“She hasn’t been proven guilty,” she adds, leaning closer. “That little weasel Cragmere overreaches himself. What proof does he truly have beyond conjecture?”
Cragmere figured out that Rhealyn had motive, and that she lied about the identity of her Neutro, but he has no concrete proof.
What Emberstone doesn’t know is that Rhealyn confessed the truth to me. She did kill Cindergrasp. Yet, as I stand here, none of that seems to matter. The rules, the laws that have governed my entire existence… they all fade against the possibility that Rhealyn lives.
Duty demands I bring her to justice if she’s returned.
Honor requires I follow the laws of our realm.
But my heart... it needs to know if she’s alive.
Not to mention that, for her, I’ve broken rules and laws indiscriminately, starting from the night I first kissed her in that hotel room in Emberton, continuing through the day I learned the entire truth about what she did and who she is, up until today, when I still keep her secrets as if they were treasures guarded by a hoarding dragon of legend.
“I’ll take responsibility with the Commander,” Emberstone adds. “Go. Before Zephyros gets too far ahead.”
“You’re right. I’ll go,” I say, decision made. “I leave you in charge. Alert Commander Voltguard, tell her I will report to Cinderhold as soon as I can.”
Fragor lets out a low rumble of agreement. Through our bond, I feel his willingness to fly, to follow.
“Take Breezehart with you,” she adds. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
Hearthdale and what happened there remains shrouded in mystery.
The village—or what remains of it—haunts me still.
Unlike other Screechclaw attacks, this one made no tactical sense.
The enemy struck with savage precision, remained only until we challenge them, then left—never taking women or children with them again.
For months after Rhealyn’s disappearance, we dispatched riders to survey the ruins. Nothing. No enemy patrols, no signs of occupation. Just ash and stone, growing cold beneath an indifferent sky. Totally nonsensical.
What connection could exist between the strange figure who emerged from the mountain and our ancient foe?
Their timing can’t be mere coincidence, yet the puzzle pieces refuse to form a coherent whole.
Hearthdale is a conundrum, a place every member of the Sky Order now sees with fear and superstition.
The very mention of the village sends a chill through the ranks, like a winter wind raking their backs.
Even hardened veterans avoid flying over its charred remains, whispering that the spirits of the fallen linger there, trapped between worlds.
I’ve pored over reports until my eyes burned, searching for clues, for some explanation that would satisfy both logic and instinct.
The Screechclaws have never behaved this way before—striking without apparent purpose, withdrawing without pressing their advantage.
They are brutal predators, yet at Hearthdale, something changed.
Something drove them to such focused destruction, then pulled them back like a receding tide.
Of course Emberstone doesn’t want me to go alone.
I nod, grateful for her understanding. “Thank you, Emberstone.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the right thing to do.”
She meets my gaze, and something in her eyes speaks volumes beyond her words. She knows. The realization settles like a stone in my gut. All this time, I thought my actions could be explained and my true feelings locked away, yet she sees through the fortress I’ve built.
“How long have you known?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
A small smile plays on her lips. “High Prime, Vaylen… You’re good at hiding your feelings, but I’ve known you for a long time. I first noticed when you seemed a bit distracted during her training.”
I straighten my shoulders. “My personal attachments are irrelevant to my duties. I always give my best. My all.”
“Of course.” Her knowing smile remains. “I don’t think anyone would ever doubt that. Certainly not me.”
I nod, relieved, because I know she’s telling the truth. I know her well too. I turn away, signaling Fragor with a sharp whistle. He bends his knee, creating the perfect slope for my ascent.
“Breezehart!” I call. “You’re coming with me. We’re following Zephyros!”
Breezehart’s surprise flashes across her face for only a heartbeat before determination hardens her features. She nods sharply, a spark lighting her green eyes.
“Ready when you are, High Prime,” she calls, already climbing Trueno. There’s no hiding her eagerness to find her friend. That loyalty, at least, I understand all too well.
I settle atop Fragor’s massive head, feeling the familiar chill of his scales through the soles of my boots. With practiced ease, I draw forth my power, creating invisible Tethers that secure me to my dragon. The bonds are firm yet flexible, an extension of my will.
“Fly true,” I murmur to him, our minds connecting in that intimate space only a bonded dragon and rider share.
As Fragor’s powerful wings unfurl, I cast my thoughts westward, beyond the horizon, toward the mountains that took her from me.
Hold fast, Rhealyn, if you’re there, if you can hear me, I’m coming for you.