Chapter 19 Rhea
Rhea
By the time I leave the scrolls behind, darkness has claimed Fort Ashmire.
My stomach growls, reminding me of the early dinner the silent Claw—a thin-faced boy who trembled when he set down the tray, as if I might bite his fingers off—delivered my food.
His panic pricked at me, but I swallowed the urge to reassure him.
Let them whisper about the returned-from-the-dead murderess.
Let them fear me. Fear keeps people at a distance, and distance keeps me safe.
It’s nearly nine. The tavern at Cinderhold’s edge will be filling with riders seeking to drown memories of fallen comrades or celebrate surviving another day.
I promised Nate and Adelaide I’d meet them there, a promise that seemed simple earlier but now feels like walking into a dragon’s maw unarmed.
I consider checking on Phoebe in the barracks but decide against it. The poor woman deserves uninterrupted rest after spending hours buried in research for my sake—not to mention patrolling the border. Besides, there’s only one person I truly want to see right now.
Vaylen.
The thought of him sends heat rushing through me. Will he be at the tavern? I hoped so.
Making up my mind, I straighten my shoulders and march toward the fort’s exit. If nothing else, I need beer and more food.
The night air hits my face, cool and welcoming after hours in the stuffy study hall. Stars glitter overhead, countless and indifferent to human troubles. Zephyros brushes against my mind, his presence comforting.
—Going somewhere?
—The tavern. To see friends… I hope.
I feel his rumbling approval.
—Good. You have been alone too long.
Haven’t I, though? A year lost, and before that, years spent keeping everyone at arm’s length. Maybe something does need to change. Maybe I can open up just enough to feel truly alive again.
I quicken my pace toward the lights of the tavern, walking down hill. Whatever waits inside—judgment, friendship, or perhaps even a certain blue-eyed High Prime—I can face it.
Pushing open the tavern door, I step inside. The smoky warmth envelops me, bringing the scent of beer, sweat, and roasted meat. Conversation flows around me for three heartbeats before dying an unnatural death. Heads turn, glares fasten on me, and silence spreads like oil on water.
My breath catches in my throat as I scan the room for a friendly face, anyone who isn’t looking at me like I’m something that crawled out of the Blighted Arcs.
Their faces morph before my eyes. The barkeeper’s weathered features twist into a grotesque snarl, eyes burning with hatred.
A Skytide’s lip curls back, revealing teeth filed to points.
Two Skyblazes at a corner table glare at me through hollow pits where eyes should be.
A woman near the hearth—her face melting like candle wax—opens her mouth impossibly wide to scream accusations.
Murderess. Liar. Abomination.
I blink hard, and the nightmarish visions snap back to normal human faces, still hostile, still staring, but just people. Ordinary people with their own reasons to hate me.
Panic urges me to run out the door. My agitated heart and incensed blood have me ready to take flight like a scared rabbit. I take a step back to escape, but Zephyros’s low, soothing rumble brushes my mind.
—It’s all right. None of it was real.
His touch quickly helps me focus. —You saw? What the fuck was that?
—I did. Zephyros sounds puzzled, the mental equivalent of a frown rippling through our bond. Very strange.
—It’s like before, I say.
Like that day Vaylen let me fall from Fragor, and I confronted him in his quarters at Sky’s Edge. His handsome face morphed into that of a dragon right after we kissed.
—This has happened before? Zephyros grumbles with sudden disapproval. Definitely strange. His presence in my mind grows muddled, uncertain.
—What’s the matter?
—I do not know. His mental voice vibrates with frustration. —There is an itch inside my mind, as if I should be remembering something important. Something… argh!
My heart pounds harder as his sudden anger. He seems to catch himself, and the soothing rumble returns, easing me again.
—Apologies. It is probably nothing. Go.
—It’s always like this with you. Shutting me out when it suits you, like with your offspring. You said we’d talk about it, and we still haven’t.
—Everything in good time. Now go. Don’t hide. Show them your fire. They respect strength, these riders.
Zephyros’s voice warms my blood with renewed courage. Though I can tell something worries him.
—They want to see if you are broken? he adds. Show them how tough you are. Drink. Eat. Talk. Be among people again.
His consciousness retreats as I sense his massive body unfurling from his perch, wings snapping wide. The sensation of flight floods our bond—vast open sky, wind rushing past scales, the world shrinking beneath powerful wings.
I lift my chin, imagine armor around me. Fuck their stares. I’ve survived worse than tavern gossip.
“Wyrm’s rot,” I say to the silent room. “Take a sketch, it’ll last longer.”
Someone snickers. Another coughs awkwardly. A few turn away, conversation reluctantly resuming in hushed tones.
“Well?” I call out. “Anyone going to offer the resurrected woman a drink?”
My hands tremble at my side, and I curl them into fists.
This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed with the dusty scrolls and ghosts of the past. But I’m already here, and turning tail now would only confirm their worst suspicions.
To all the hells with them. If they want to stare, let them stare at a bonded Skysinger who isn’t afraid, even if that Skysinger is lying through her teeth about the dread coursing through her veins.
A man rises to his feet in the back corner, chair scraping against wooden floorboards.
I recognize him instantly—Dakar Cloudwalker, Vaylen’s closest friend in the Skysinger Clutch, my Clutch.
He’s sitting with a group of veterans, their stern faces and hard eyes marking them as survivors of countless Screechclaw attacks.
Shit. Of all the people to call me over.
I’ve never even exchanged a word with Cloudwalker before, though we fought side by side at Hearthdale. His reputation precedes him—fierce in battle, loyal to Vaylen, and fucking legendary. My stomach knots.
“Wyndward!” His voice carries across the tavern. “Get over here. I’ll buy ya that drink.” He gestures to an empty chair at their table. “Good to have a strong Skysinger back in our Clutch.”
The entire tavern watches, waiting to see what I’ll do. I scan desperately for Nate’s bulk or Adelaide’s silver-streaked hair, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I’ve got perfect timing, as always.
I force a smile that feels more like baring teeth. “How generous, Cloudwalker,” I say, sounding nonchalant. “I didn’t know you were aware of my existence or cared.”
“Don’t,” he replies with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But seein’ how you came back from the dead, figure I should see what makes you so special.”
The challenge in his voice is unmistakable. Walk away now, and I’ll be marked as a coward. Face him, and at least I keep my dignity.
I take a steadying breath and walk toward the veterans’ table, feeling dozens of eyes tracking my every step.
My legs are steady but my insides quiver like a bowstring.
Cloudwalker and the others have fought alongside Vaylen for years while I went up and disappeared after my first battle? What right do I have to sit among them?
Every step feels like marching toward my own execution, but I lift my chin high. If Cloudwalker wants to test me, let him. He can’t be worse than Silas.
At least, I hope so.
I take the empty seat beside Dakar, bracing myself as his dark gaze sweeps over me. He raises a finger, and the barkeep nods, sending a serving girl scurrying with a fresh tankard. The wood beneath my arms is sticky with spilled beer.
“Drink up, Wyndward,” Dakar says, his black hair tied in a messy knot atop his head. The red loops piercing his ears catch the tavern light as he leans forward. “Hear you don’t remember where you’ve been the past year. That true?”
Before I can answer, I mark the other occupants at the table.
The Airglide Twins sit opposite me, Madeline and Morwenna, identical in their pristine Sky Order uniforms despite the late hour, cousins to the King.
They stare at me with matching expressions of detached curiosity, like they’re psychopaths and I’m the cat they plan to dismember.
And then there’s Eleonora Nightsong. Her mass of dirty blond hair is pulled back in a severe braid, those slate-colored eyes narrowed as they lock onto mine.
The woman is tall and lean as a spear, and just as deadly, and if I’m not mistaken she has a thing for Vaylen—at least she did last time I was here.
“Not a damn thing,” I reply, grabbing the tankard as it arrives and taking a long swallow. The beer is bitter and strong, exactly what I need. “Trust me, I wish I did.”
Eleonora’s lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. “Convenient,” she says, her rich contralto voice carrying an edge sharper than dragon claws. “Disappear for a year, return with no memory, and yet the High Prime himself escorts you back.”
I could snap at her, make this uglier than it needs to be. But what good would that do?
After I take another swallow of beer, I meet her gaze head-on. “Well, if I’d known I was going to vanish for a year, I’d have kept a journal. ‘Dear diary, today I was swallowed by a mountain. The accommodations are terrible.’”
Madeline snorts. “Oh, I like her.”
Morwenna’s eyes narrow, her posture stiffening. “I fail to see what’s humorous about this situation, dear sister.”