Chapter 15 Rhea
Rhea
The three of us leave Voltguard’s office, the door closing with a soft click behind us.
When we exit the tower, the courtyard isn’t exactly crowded, but those few who are there stop mid-stride, conversations dying on their lips as heads turn my way.
I feel their stares like physical touches. Some curious, others suspicious.
“What?” I snap at a pair of wide-eyed messengers who nearly collide with each other gawking at me. “Never seen a dead woman walking before?”
Vaylen shoots me a warning look before raising his voice. “Everyone, tend to your duties. I won’t repeat myself.”
The small gathering disperses like startled birds, though several throw glances over their shoulders as they retreat. I roll my shoulders back, trying to shake off the discomfort of being a spectacle.
“Word travels fast,” Phoebe murmurs.
“Too fast,” I mutter. “Next they’ll be selling tickets to come see the resurrected Skysinger.”
Vaylen spots a copper-haired young man hurrying down the corridor and calls out, “Mistwalker! A moment.”
The young Skysinger—judging by the emblem on his shoulder—changes course, approaching us with the awkward gait of someone trying not to look too eager while simultaneously appearing appropriately respectful.
His green eyes widen when they land on me.
I remember him from the Academy. He was a year behind my class.
“High Prime,” he says, then nods at me with undisguised fascination.
“Any new developments?” Vaylen asks.
Mistwalker blinks rapidly, his face flushing. “Yes, sir. A scout reported a horde of Screechclaws headed toward New Ferro. Prime Emberstone took a contingent that way two hours ago.” He swallows hard. “The rest are maintaining usual patrols along the border.”
“How many in the horde?” Vaylen asks.
“Thirty, possibly more. That’s all I heard, Sir.”
Vaylen nods to Mistwalker. “Thank you.”
“Yes, High Prime.” The young Skysinger’s gaze flicks to me one last time before he hurries away.
When he’s gone, Vaylen turns to Phoebe. “Take Rhealyn to the infirmary. She needs a thorough examination.”
“The infirmary?” I ask. “I can stay in the barracks like everyone else. I’m not injured.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Skysinger,” Vaylen says, his voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everyone listen.
“I’m fine,” I insist, too forcefully.
Vaylen steps closer, his voice lowering. “You were missing for a year, Skysinger. You’re malnourished, dehydrated, and have memory loss. You need to be examined properly.”
I want to argue, but the mixture of concern and authority in his eyes melts some of my resistance. “Fine. But I’m not staying there overnight.”
Vaylen’s jaw tightens. “You will do what the Head Medic says, and I hope that after you’ve recovered, you’ll do what’s best for our Clutch.” His eyes hold mine meaningfully.
He’s trying to convey that without order and a chain of command, chaos ensues. He’s right. I do know this. The Sky Order functions because we follow commands, trust our leaders, work as a unit. It’s how we survive against Screechclaws. It’s how we protect Embernia.
I don’t understand why everything grates on me like this.
In my mind, I was just at Fort Ashmire yesterday, a freshly-winged Skyrider ready to prove myself.
But something’s changed. Something in me feels raw, exposed, like skin after a burn has healed—new and hypersensitive.
Every command makes me bristle, every contradiction sparks irritation.
Drawing a deep breath, I try to center myself. Maybe Vaylen is right. Maybe I do need rest. Maybe the medic will find something—some physical reason why my temper flares so quickly, why my emotions feel both numbed and sharpened at once, why I can’t remember.
“I know my duty,” I say at last.
Vaylen nods. “Good.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “I’ll check on you later.”
I watch him stride away, shoulders straight, every inch the leader.
“Lead the way,” I say to Phoebe once he’s out of earshot.
Phoebe leads me through corridors that twist and turn, nodding to Skyriders we pass. To her, this place is already home. To me, it’s still unfamiliar territory, having spent barely a day here before everything went sideways.
The infirmary is a long room with beds lining both walls, all of them empty at the moment.
Light filters through high windows, casting geometric patterns across the stone floor.
At the far end, a woman with sandy-colored hair works methodically, placing rolled bandages into a tall cabinet. Her movements are precise, efficient.
“Head Medic Serna Sandtide,” Phoebe says quietly. “She’s the best in Fort Ashmire. Tough as granite but fair.”
As we approach, the Head Medic turns, her gray eyes sharp and assessing. She’s older than I expected, with fine lines around her eyes and strands of silver threaded through her hair. A thin scar traces her jawline.
“Skysinger Breezehart,” she acknowledges Phoebe, then her gaze lands on me, narrowing slightly. “And who is your charge?”
“Skysinger Rhealyn Wyndward,” Phoebe responds, her voice carrying a hint of pride, as if presenting a rare specimen.
The Head Medic’s stern face shifts, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Wyndward? The one who—” She stops herself, reassessing me with new interest.
“The one who disappeared a year ago and has miraculously returned,” I say. “I seem to be quite the attraction today.”
Sandtide’s lips press into a thin line, neither amused nor offended.
“It’s rare to have a Skyrider come back to life, but I wish they all would.
We lost nine riders this past year, and countless other soldiers die every day.
” Ground forces from the Land Order defend cities and towns, and they don’t fare as well as Skyriders.
“High Prime Stormsong requests a full examination for Rhea,” Phoebe adds quickly, filling the uncomfortable silence.
Sandtide’s clinical gaze sweeps over me, taking in my too-thin frame, the hollows beneath my cheekbones, the dullness of my skin. “To begin,” she says dryly, “I can tell she’s malnourished, dehydrated, and needs a good bath.”
“So glad my obvious deterioration is making this easy,” I mutter.
A ghost of a smile touches Sandtide’s lips. “Bitter sense of humor intact. That’s something.” She gestures to a bed near her workstation. “Sit. Let’s see what’s left of you, Rhealyn Wyndward.”
I hesitate, wondering if everyone in Fort Ashmire knows who I am now.
Is that good? Part of me recoils at the attention, at being singled out.
But another part—the part that wants change for Embernia—that part whispers this might be optimal.
Visibility has power. People who are seen can’t be ignored.
“I don’t bite,” Sandtide prompts, “unless you refuse treatment.”
I climb onto the bed, the thin mattress giving a soft creak under my weight.
Phoebe hovers nearby, shifting from foot to foot like an anxious bird.
The Head Medic slides a table of instruments closer to the bed, metal tools clinking against each other.
She settles onto a stool and fixes Phoebe with a pointed stare that could pierce armor.
“I’m sure you have duties elsewhere, Skysinger Breezehart.”
Phoebe’s cheeks flush pink. “I… well, I thought I should—”
“An examination is between medic and patient,” Sandtide cuts in. “Not medic, patient, and spectator.”
I almost snicker at Phoebe’s embarrassed expression. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Go research whatever Voltguard wants. I doubt I’ll die in the next hour.”
“I’ll come back to check on you,” Phoebe promises, backing toward the door with a last concerned glance.
Once she’s gone, Sandtide rises and pulls a heavy curtain around the bed. The fabric swishes into place, enclosing us in a private cocoon. I’m surprisingly grateful for the barrier between me and any potential curious eyes.
“Strip to your underclothes,” she says matter-of-factly, turning to arrange her instruments.
“No lunch first?” I retort, but my fingers are already working at the fastenings of my clothing.
Sandtide’s eyes flick to mine, unimpressed. “In my experience, Skysinger, those who joke the most hide the most.”
“In my experience, Head Medic, those who observe too much should mind their own business.”
A dry chuckle escapes her. “Your body is my business for the next hour.” She points to a dark bruise on my ribs as I remove my shirt. “How did you get that?”
I stare at the mottled purple-green mark. “I don’t know.”
“And these?” Her cool fingers trace scars on my back I can’t see.
“I don’t remember,” I whisper, sudden fear crawling up my spine. What happened to me? What did they do to my body that I can’t recall?
Sandtide’s frown deepens as she circles me, cataloging marks whose origins I ignore and making notes. The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by her occasional hum of interest or soft click of her tongue.
“You truly don’t remember how you got these?” she asks finally, tracing a line down my shoulder blade.
“I don’t.”
She retrieves a polished metal disk attached to a wooden handle and holds it near my eyes, angling it to catch the light from the window. “Look straight ahead.”
The light reflected into my eyes makes me squint and blink rapidly.
“Your pupils respond normally,” she murmurs, setting down the reflector and picking up a hollow wooden tube. “Breathe deeply.”
She presses one end of the tube to my chest, the other to her ear. The wood feels cold against my skin as she moves it methodically across my torso, listening to my breaths and heartbeats.
“Again,” she commands, moving the tube to my back.
I comply, fighting the urge to shiver as her fingers press along my spine, counting vertebrae. She retrieves a small leather mallet and taps my knees, elbows, watching how my limbs respond.
“Any pain here?” she asks, pressing into my abdomen with practiced fingers.
“No.”
“Here?”
“No.”
Next, she examines my fingernails, my tongue, the whites of my eyes. She takes a thin silver needle and pricks my fingertip, squeezing a drop of blood onto a piece of parchment, studying its color.
“When was your last monthly flow?” She asks, making another note.
I open my mouth to answer and find... nothing. Another blank space where memory should be.
“I don’t remember,” I admit, fingers curling into the thin mattress beneath me.
Sandtide’s pen stops mid-stroke. She looks up, gray eyes narrowing. “You keep saying you don’t remember. Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t know.” Frustration rises in my throat, hot and choking. “I don’t remember anything that happened in the last year. Not my monthly flow, not these scars, not how I got that bruise. Nothing.”
The medic sets down her notes, concern replacing clinical detachment. She steps closer, her cool fingers working through my hair, parting sections to examine my scalp. I sit stiffly as she probes, her touch methodical as she searches for bumps or wounds.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, turning my head slightly to check behind my ears.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask.
“No visible injury,” she says, stepping back. She sits on her stool, regarding me with a frown that deepens the lines around her mouth. “Memory loss this complete usually comes from significant trauma to the head.”
I laugh, a sound with no humor in it. “Or significant trauma to the soul.”
“I deal in bodies, not souls,” she counters.
“Well, my body was somewhere my mind doesn’t remember.” I start pulling the jacket back on, suddenly desperate to be covered, to hide these marks I can’t explain. “The mountain swallowed me, spat me back out, and stole a year from me. That’s all I’ve got. Can I go now?”
She stands, blocking my path with a stern expression that could freeze a fire elemental. “You’re not going anywhere, Skysinger Wyndward.”
“I’ve been examined. I’m malnourished, dehydrated, covered in mystery scars. Nothing a meal and rest won’t fix.” I yank the jacket down, wincing as the leather slides over all my scrapes and bruises.
“First,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken, “you’ll have a proper bath. My apprentices will assist you.”
“A bath?” I bark out a laugh. “That’s your medical recommendation? I can wash myself, thanks.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Then we’ll need urine and stool samples for further testing.”
My jaw drops. “A stool sample? Really? You want to examine my shit?” Heat rushes to my face. “That’s humiliating!”
“So is dying from an internal infection we could have caught.” She crosses her arms. “Your pride isn’t my concern. Your health is.”
I glare at her, searching for words cutting enough to slice through her professional armor. “I can take a bath without help. I’ve been doing it since I was three.”
“I won’t have you falling on your head and forgetting what little you do remember,” she counters. “Not on my watch.”
“I’m not an invalid—“
“No, you’re a Skysinger who disappeared for a year and returned with unexplained injuries, memory loss, and the physical condition of someone who’s been starved.” Her voice softens slightly. “Whatever happened to you wasn’t gentle, Wyndward. Let me do my job.”
I want to fight. I want to storm out. But the quiet certainty in her voice pins me in place. What if there is something wrong with me? Something beyond the obvious? Besides, I need to find my place here and going against everyone isn’t going to help with that.
“Fine,” I spit out. “But if anyone looks at me with pity, I’ll throw the stool sample at their heads.”
Sandtide’s mouth twitches. “Fair enough.” She pulls back the curtain and calls, “Apprentices! Bath and sample collection for Skysinger Wyndward.”
The humiliation begins.