Chapter 18 Rhea
Rhea
Vaylen rises from his chair, reluctance written in the slowness of his movements. “I should return to my duties. There’s a Council of Primes meeting about the new Screechclaw patterns.”
I feel his absence already, like a shadow falling across the warmth of a fire. “Wait,” I say, reaching for his arm before I can stop myself. I manage not to touch him, however, salvaging the moment. “Has there been any word from Emberton? About my trial?”
His expression clouds, jaw tightening. “Nothing yet. The Commander hasn’t mentioned anything, but...” He hesitates.
“But what?” I press.
“The silence itself is unusual. It’s been three days. I’ll speak with her directly.”
After Vaylen leaves, silence settles between Phoebe and me like dust. She fidgets with her pencil, glancing between her notes and my face.
“Out with it,” I finally snap, impatience bubbling over. “All your theories. Everything you’ve been researching this past year.”
Phoebe’s shoulders slump slightly as she rummages through her scattered notes.
“I wish I had more to show for a year’s work.
The truth is, I’ve only just made what feels like a real breakthrough.
” She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.
“The strangest thing is how little information exists about Heratrix’s disappearance.
History books barely mention it, just the Goddess vanished with no explanation of how or why.
It’s as if someone deliberately obscured the details. ”
I lean forward. “You think someone’s hiding something?”
“I think it’s odd how our most significant historical event is treated as a footnote.
I thought when I got access to all the realm’s libraries I would have all the answers, but no such luck.
” She meets my gaze. “What’s odd though…
the folk tales, children’s stories, old songs…
they seem to contain more details than official records, like… like hidden messages.”
“What kind of details?”
“Like this.” Phoebe pulls out a worn book, its leather binding cracked with age.
“I requested this collection of ancient songs from Skyborough’s main library.
” She opens to a marked page. “This verse speaks of ‘great power slumbering beneath the stone, awaiting the day when blood and bone shall call it forth from earthen throne.’”
My ears ring with strange echoes. I blink, and the cacophony clears.
“And this…” Phoebe turns the pages to a different song. She points to another stanza and reads with a quiet tone as if afraid to send me scurrying under the table. “It mentions an ‘amber-eyed guardian’ who keeps watch over the sleeping power.”
“Fuck.”
“There’s more.” Phoebe’s voice drops to a whisper. “Some poems from a mostly unknown woman also suggest Heratrix didn’t just disappear, but that she was imprisoned.”
“Any mention of who did it?”
“That’s what I can’t find, but I’ve only just turned in this direction. Now we have more. We need to know what Omneira means and learn more about those glyphs.”
I stare at the library ceiling, as my mind spins with possibilities, each more outlandish than the last.
“Give me something to do,” I finally say, determination hardening my voice. “Before I go mad thinking about this.”
Phoebe’s face brightens. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes. I’m done doing nothing. What good is more rest if I’m just going to lose my mind?”
Without further prompting, Phoebe slides a stack of weathered books and scrolls toward me. “Start with these. I’ve marked passages that mention underground chambers or power under the earth.”
We settle into a rhythm of turning pages and scratching notes. The smell of old parchment fills my nostrils, comforting in its familiar scent. Two hours pass in near silence, broken only by occasional huffs of frustration or interest.
I glance up to find Phoebe’s chin dropping toward her chest before she jerks awake, blinking rapidly. Her pencil slips from her fingers, rolling across the table.
“Go get some rest,” I tell her bluntly.
“But there’s so much to go over,” she protests, even as she fails to stifle a yawn.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not like I can, with half the fort waiting for me to literally sprout wings and breathe fire.” I tap the book in front of me. “I’ll keep reading.”
Phoebe hesitates. “Only if you promise to eat something. Sandtide will have my hide if you collapse from hunger.”
“Fine. Can you have someone bring food here?” I’m already turning back to my reading. “I don’t feel like facing the mess hall and all those stares just yet.”
“Deal. I’ll send someone with dinner.” Phoebe stands, stretching. “I wonder if Nate’s busy. He’s been asking so much about you, you know? He’s so happy you’re back.”
“So… how are things with him?”
The question catches her off guard. A blush blooms across her pale cheeks.
“Slow,” she admits. “I told you we hardly see each other, and things were a bit rocky in the beginning, so that didn’t help.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Rocky how?”
Phoebe twists her fingers together. “Nate thought I’d lost interest because I was always buried in research. I barely saw him for days sometimes.”
“And had you? Lost interest?”
“No! I was just trying to find you.” She sighs. “But then Nate tried making me jealous by pretending to fancy Lyra Windshaper.”
“Did it work?” I ask, grinning despite myself. The gossip feels wonderfully normal, a stark contrast to missing goddesses and kidnapping assholes.
Phoebe nods, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “I confronted him after a very intense battle. My emotions were running high, I guess. Told him I thought there was something real between us, and if there wasn’t, he needed to be a man and tell me straight.”
“What did he do?” I lean forward, hungry for this simple human drama.
“He scooped me up and twirled me around right there in front of everyone.” Her expression softens with the memory. “I was so confused at first. Then I realized...”
“What?”
“He was just craving my attention.” Phoebe shrugs. “Sometimes that’s all it takes… someone to see you.”
The words land in my chest with unexpected weight. To really be seen. Isn’t that what I’ve always wanted? What I feared?
“Go,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “Before Nate stages another jealousy plot to win you back from these dusty books.”
She smiles and walks out, leaving me with a realization.
Vaylen has seen me.
Not the facade I constructed since the Academy, not the tough Skysinger who’d face anyone, but the real me. He knows it all, every dark corner and jagged edge of my soul, and instead of turning away in disgust, he told me he loves me.
Suddenly, the words from that night in the tent replay inside my mind.
I love you.
Simple. Direct. Unflinching. The memory sends a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
When he first said it, I was too numb, too lost in the fog of my return to truly feel the significance of those words.
But now, with my mind clearing like skies after a tempest, his confession strikes me with full force.
Three words that should terrify me now feel like wings unfurling inside my chest.
The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile. Vaylen Everett Stormsong loves me. The knowledge blooms inside me, warm and unexpected.
I push back from the table, suddenly restless.
I want to see him. Not tomorrow, not after his meeting, but now.
I want to catch him alone in some quiet corner of the fort and thank him properly for standing beside me.
For believing me when I said I don’t remember.
For searching when others would have given up.
The words I love you still stick in my throat, not quite ready to emerge. But there are other ways to express what’s building inside me—ways that require no words at all.
I rise, my body tense with newfound purpose, but reality crashes down around me like a poorly constructed Wind Wall. I can’t simply run through Fort Ashmire hunting for Vaylen. What would I do if I found him? Pull him to me and kiss him senseless in front of everyone?
“Wyrm’s rot,” I mutter, sinking back into my chair.
What good is purpose when one can’t act? I tap my fingers against the ancient text, frustration building.
I want him. I need him.
And for once, the feeling isn’t solely physical. Something deeper pulses beneath my skin, something I’ve never allowed myself to feel before.
But Fort Ashmire has eyes everywhere. Walls have ears.
Whispers travel faster than dragons on a tailwind.
One mistake, and we’re exposed. How long can we dance this precarious dance?
A week? A month? Every stolen moment increases our risk.
I close my eyes, remembering the press of his lips against mine in that tent. Worth it.
Whatever comes next, he’s worth it.
I know one truth about secrets, though. They never stay buried. Like water, they find every crack, every weakness, and eventually burst free. Our truth will surface too, and when it does, I pray we’re ready for the flood.