Chapter 20 Rhea
Rhea
Istumble into the night air, lungs burning as I try to steady my breathing. The memories feel like they’re clawing at my skull from the inside, trying to tear their way out.
“There you are.”
I spin around to find Phoebe, Nate, and Adelaide approaching from the direction of the fort. The trio stops short when they see my face.
“Rhea?” Adelaide’s voice softens. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just needed some air,” I manage, forcing my expression into something resembling normal. “Tavern’s a bit stuffy.”
Phoebe’s eyes narrow, not buying it for a second. Her gaze locks with mine, a silent question hanging between us.
“We were heading in for drinks,” Nate says, oblivious to the tension. “Join us?”
The thought of going back inside makes my stomach turn, but staying alone with these fractured memories seems worse. “Sure. Why not?”
With my friends by my side, the tavern feels different when I reenter, like I’m fully armed instead of walking in naked. I catch Vaylen half-standing by our table, maybe about to follow me outside. When our eyes meet, he smoothly turns his chair and sits back down, resuming conversation with Dakar.
The dismissal stings, even though I know it’s necessary. We can’t be seen chasing after each other.
“Over here,” Adelaide points to an empty table in the corner. Far from Vaylen’s group, but with a clear line of sight to him.
“I’ll get us drinks,” Nate offers, already heading toward the bar.
He returns with three tankards. “Sorry, Rhea. The barkeep said you already had yours?”
I wave a hand to indicate it’s all right.
Phoebe waves over a server. “Can we get food? Something with meat and bread and lots of butter. I’m starving.”
“You just woke up,” Adelaide teases.
“Exactly. Slept through dinner.” Phoebe’s eyes flick to me. “Enough food for everyone, please.”
I almost smile. She’s ordering for my benefit, making sure I eat without calling attention to my still-thin frame.
The thought of food turns my stomach, even though I was hungry just moments ago.
Still, I need strength if I’m going to chase down these memories, survive a trial, and get back on my dragon to fight Screechclaws.
“Phoebe,” Nate says, “you missed the High Prime’s announcement about Rhea’s return. It seems Silas still has it in for her. He was being an ass.”
“When isn’t he?” Adelaide rolls her eyes.
The tavern’s chatter washes over me, grounding me in the present.
Watching Nate’s animated gestures—even as he talks about that asshole—feels almost normal.
I catch myself glancing at Vaylen, watching how the candlelight catches those gold streaks in his hair.
When he laughs at something Dakar says, the knot in my chest loosens a bit more.
The food arrives in steaming, fragrant glory. Golden-crusted bread, roasted meat glistening with drippings, and vegetables swimming in butter. My stomach growls audibly, betraying my earlier indifference.
“Better eat before it gets cold,” Nate pushes a plate toward me, his expression turning serious. “Listen, Rhea, I should warn you… Silas has been running his mouth about you to anyone who’ll listen. He’s trying to turn opinion against you before your trial even starts.”
I tear into the bread, savoring the way it dissolves on my tongue. “Let him talk. I’ve got bigger problems than Silas Pyrewing’s hurt feelings.”
“He’s not just being petty,” Adelaide adds, leaning forward. “He’s telling everyone you cheated your way through training, that you never mastered basic wind techniques and shouldn’t have gotten your wings.”
I set down my bread. Yes, I failed at Wind Spear and Wind Dagger despite hours of practice, and it took a painful revelation to understand why I struggled with those skills.
My mind built a wall around the memory of those same spears piercing my mother’s pregnant body.
My own Wind Spears, wild and uncontrolled, killed her and my unborn sibling.
The knowledge still tears me apart inside.
Biting my lower lip, I wonder if I would be able to perform the technique now. Or would I still fail?
“I never figured out how Silas knew about my training struggles,” I say bitterly.
Adelaide’s face falls. “Rhea, I swear—”
“I know.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry for accusing you before.”
The memory of my anger that day burns hot with shame now. I blatantly accused her without proof.
Adelaide’s eyes widen with surprise. “Wow, an apology!”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” I manage a small smile. “Your face when you saw I was alive... that wasn’t the face of someone who betrayed me.”
“I wouldn’t.” Her voice catches. “When they said you were gone—” She shakes her head, silver-streaked hair falling across her face. “We thought you were dead, Rhea.”
“So then who told Silas?” Phoebe asks, frowning.
I shrug. “No idea, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to prove him and anyone who believes him wrong.”
Phoebe nods enthusiastically. “Of course, because you never killed anyone.” Her green eyes flash with conviction. “You’ll be found innocent. Besides, you never cheated to get a dragon. Everyone knows that’s rubbish.”
I almost choke because I have killed. Cindergrasp. Not to mention my own mother. But I can’t tell them that, not now, not here. Maybe not ever. I swallow hard, the weight of my secrets strangling the peace of mind I desperately need.
“Exactly.” Nate slams his tankard down with enough force to splash beer onto the table. “Plus, you’re a badass in battle, Rhea. Once you join us in combat, no one will believe Silas’s wyrm-shit—to borrow Dakar’s term.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What gave you the idea I’m a badass in combat?”
The question seems to surprise him. He exchanges glances with Adelaide before answering.
“Omari told us all about what you did in Hearthdale. How you saved Caspian, the High Prime, and even Silas himself.” He leans forward, his muscular frame casting a shadow over our food. “The way you made the most impressive Fire Vortex and took down bunches of Screechclaws.”
I remember the scent of burnt flesh, the ear-piercing Screechclaw cries, the heat of the fire. I remember the terror, the desperate need to survive, to protect. But I don’t remember being heroic.
“I just did what I had to,” I say. “Anyone would have.”
“Not anyone,” Adelaide counters. “Omari doesn’t impress easily. She said you were poetry in motion when you dropped into the lake to save the High Prime.”
I snort, uncomfortable with the praise. “Poetry? More like desperate flailing.”
“No.” Nate’s voice turns serious. “Many saw it. Even Silas, though he’d sooner kiss a Screechclaw than admit it.”
My eyes drift to Vaylen again. Did he see me that way too? A heroine who saved his life? Nah, he understands, just like me, that Embernia needs the best from each of us.
“So what’s your defense strategy?” Nate asks, lowering his voice and leaning closer across the table.
I blink at him, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Strategy?”
“For your trial,” he says, as if it’s obvious. When I continue staring at him blankly, his expression shifts from expectant to concerned. “Please tell me you have a strategy.”
I set my fork down. “Um… I figured I’d just tell the truth.” The lie is like acid on my tongue.
Nate’s face changes as if he tasted something sour. “The truth? That’s your entire plan?”
“What’s wrong with the truth? I… didn’t kill anyone.”
“Dragon’s breath, Rhea!” Nate runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Do you even have an advocate to speak for you?”
“I…”
“You need someone trained in the law who can argue your case.”
I stare at him blankly, the full weight of my situation finally hitting me. I’ve been so focused on my missing memories and those haunting visions, that I haven’t considered the most immediate threat.
“By the four winds!” I mutter, sinking into my chair. “This is too much.”
Phoebe reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“My uncle is an advocate in Emberton,” Nate offers. “I could send a message tonight. He’s good, represented three riders accused of dereliction after the Riverford incident.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t have money to pay him.”
“He’d probably do it without charge once he hears who you are,” Nate says. “The Skysinger who disappeared for a year? He won’t be opposed to a little publicity.”
“And if he won’t,” Phoebe adds quickly, “we have more than enough gold between us. Our salaries just sit in the treasury. We never get the chance to spend them?”
I look around the table at their earnest faces, a strange warmth spreading through my chest. Friends. Real ones who believe in me. The sensation is almost more disorienting than my fractured memories. Guilt rears its ugly head. I’m lying to them, but what else can I do?
“Thank you,” I say, the words unfamiliar in my mouth. “I... don’t know what to say.” That they’re supporting a murderess, that I don’t deserve their help. I should turn them down.
“Say you’ll let us help,” Adelaide insists.
I nod, swallowing hard. “All right. Let’s get this advocate.”
As my friends talk, I lean back in my chair, fork clutched between both hands. The candle between us casts shadows across their faces, making them look older, harder.
“After Hearthdale, they eased us into patrol rotations,” Adelaide explains, absently running her finger along the rim of her cup. “They sent us out in larger groups, always with veterans.”
“No risks taken,” Nate adds. “Though some of us were practically begging for real action.”
I snort. “Let me guess… you wanted to charge straight into battle?”
“Maybe.” His grin is sheepish. “I have to avenge my father. You know that.”
“After what happened to you,” Phoebe says, “I felt that if I fought hard enough, I could somehow bring you back. I never wanted to believe you were dead.”
The raw emotion in her voice makes me look away. I don’t deserve this loyalty—not when I’m not being true.
“When did they finally let you off the leash?” I ask, redirecting.
“Two months in,” Adelaide says. “We got ambushed near the eastern ridge. Lost three riders that day.”
Nate’s face darkens. “Since then, it’s been this strange dance. Small skirmishes, probing attacks. Nothing like Hearthdale.”
“The Matron?” I ask, my skin crawling at the memory of those burning eyes fixed on me.
“Vanished,” Phoebe says. “Some think she died that day in Hearthdale, but...”
“That harpy’s too tough to die,” I finish. “I saw her take wounds that would kill anything else.”
Adelaide leans forward, her voice dropping. “It feels like we’re sitting on a volcano, Rhea. The silence between attacks is almost worse than the fighting. And now they’re stealing supplies. It’s so odd. Those bitches eat carrion.”
“Everyone’s on edge,” Nate agrees. “We’ve lost good riders, and five dragons. Five! And nine riders.”
“Phoebe mentioned that.” My stomach drops.
Nate starts calling names and faces flash through my mind—a few I trained with at the Academy. As the list continues, I drain Phoebe’s tankard in one long swallow, needing something to burn away the hollow feeling in my chest. I should have been here. The anger rises hot and fast.
“This will come to a head,” I say, cutting off the litany of names. “And when it does, I have to be there. The Matron and I have unfinished business.”
“Rhea—” Phoebe starts.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I’ve been gone long enough. They may be responsible for what happened to me, so whatever those bitches took from me, I’m taking it back. And then I’m taking their heads.”
“And I’ll be right there with you,” Nate says. “I’m dying to create a Fire Vortex with you.”
“And how about we blind them too?” Adelaide twirls her fingers and little ice daggers form in the air.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
Phoebe sighs.
“Maybe Phoebe can bring her dusty scrolls to throw at their head,” Adelaide suggests, crystalline ice daggers still hovering above her palm. “One good smack with ancient parchment, and they’ll be blinded by history.”
I expect Phoebe to bristle at the joke—the old Phoebe would have—but instead, she throws her head back and laughs.
“I’ll have you know those dusty scrolls contain forgotten wind techniques that could strip the feathers off a Screechclaw from a hundred paces,” she retorts with a grin. “But sure, we can start with paper cuts.”
The easy banter between them catches me off guard. There’s a rhythm to their conversation that speaks of countless nights like this one, of shared battles and inside jokes forged in my absence. They’ve grown closer, these three. Stronger.
I should feel like an outsider, but somehow, I don’t. They’ve left space for me at their table—in their lives—as if I never left.
“To killing Screechclaws,” Nate raises his tankard. “Together.”
“Together,” we echo, tankards clinking.
A year stolen from me, but not this. Not these people who believe in me when I barely believe in myself.