Chapter 25 Rhea
Rhea
The cell door swings open with a rusty creak. Cragmere stands framed in the doorway, his gray-clad officers flanking him like guard dogs.
“Up,” he orders, not quite meeting my eyes.
I remain seated, watching him through strands of hair that have fallen across my face.
His gaze drops to my wrists—to the severed manacles dangling uselessly—and his eyes widen. The blood drains from his face so quickly I almost laugh.
I rise slowly, deliberately, savoring the unease that ripples through the three men. Even the officers shift nervously, their hands tightening on their weapons.
“Worried, Inspector?” I cock my head. “You should be.”
“Restrain her,” he orders his men, but his voice wavers.
“With what?” I hold up my arms, letting the broken chains dangle. “These didn’t work so well.”
The officers exchange glances, neither eager to approach.
“Where’s the Commander?” I ask, stepping forward.
Cragmere swallows visibly. “None of your concern. You’re coming with us now.”
I smile, all teeth and threat. “Let’s go then. I’m curious to see what comes next.”
I have to give Cragmere credit. He’s got balls coming here with nothing but two men. He’s relying on a system that’s now broken, the same one Zephyros shattered when he refused to continue fighting with a new rider.
Letting them follow in my wake, I walk ahead. The officers shuffle to position themselves on either side of me, but I can sense their hesitation. They know what I’m capable of now.
We exit onto the courtyard, where the sun barely peeks over the eastern mountains, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.
The air carries the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of dragon fire, and I find that, despite the early hour, the courtyard teems with people—riders, Claws, medics—many looking like they’re fresh from the battlefield, the way Vaylen looked.
Faces streaked with soot and blood turn toward me.
Some wear bandages, others lean on comrades for support.
Their expressions range from exhaustion to curiosity to outright hostility.
The battle must have been brutal. These people should be resting, licking their wounds, not gathering to watch my trial.
I spot Nate supporting Adelaide, whose arm is wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. Phoebe stands nearby, her face drawn with fatigue but her eyes alert as they meet mine.
Across the courtyard, Silas stands with Lysander Oreton.
He became one of Silas’s new allies after Nate decided he was done being friends with an asshole.
Robert Silverin was another of his cronies, but he’s not with them.
Silas’s smirk widens as he watches me being paraded like a criminal.
The little shit practically vibrates with satisfaction.
His eyes burn with a hatred that makes no sense. We were friends once, training together, sharing meals, even confiding our dreams. But somehow Zephyros became the villain in his story, and Silas hates me by association.
I still don’t understand how Merrill ended up in that wheelchair.
Zephyros has never told me what happened, brushing aside my questions with cryptic growls.
Silas acts like I personally crippled his brother, like Zephyros and I planned it together.
His animosity follows me like a shadow, growing darker with each passing day.
Perhaps I should press Zephyros again for answers.
The truth couldn’t possibly be worse than the stories Silas has constructed in his mind.
Another mystery still stands. How did Silas learn about my struggles with Wind Spear?
That humiliating failure was known only by Vaylen and my closest friends.
Yet Silas used my struggle to mock me. How in the seven hells did he know?
Curiosity gnaws at me so badly that I’m suddenly in Silas’s mind, searching for answers.
This goes against my long-held instincts, but I can’t help myself.
I feel Silas’s thoughts swirling around me—slick and bitter. His satisfaction bubbles to the surface.
—Can’t wait to watch her kick when they hang her. His hatred seethes like a primeval oil pit.
No. That’s not what I want. I press deeper, searching for something specific.
—How did you know about my training struggles? I ask.
His memories rush backward, a dizzying tableau of moments. His fire scorching Screechclaws with precise Fire Blasts. Boasting at the mess hall. Drinking at the tavern, night after night, his cup never empty, his stories growing taller with each round.
How does he get so many tankards? Ah, he bribes the barkeep and his mates. But this isn’t important.
Further back. Back to Sky’s Edge.
Training sessions blur together, then we’re in the hall, ready to come to Cinderhold.
—… your mediocrity is what drives you to surround yourself with losers. Silas tells Nate. Rhea is just like you and can’t hit a target either.
—How did you know? I ask now.
The images cascade through my mind like a waterfall of secrets. A letter, heavy parchment and Lord Basil Pyrewing’s elaborate seal. Silas hunched over it in his quarters, smirking as he reads.
I thought you’d find this amusing, son. The official reports from High Prime Stormsong to Commander Voltguard detail that Wyndward girl’s pathetic performance. Can’t even master basic techniques like Wind Spear. Embarrassing. My cousin at court secured these for me. I doubt she’s the one.
One of the officers yanks my arm, breaking the connection. Silas winces, a hand to his temple as he glares at me with suspicion. I’m disoriented, baffled by the information, especially the last line. I doubt she’s the one. What could it mean?
I scan the crowd anxiously. The High Prime’s and the Commander’s reports were breached. That’s how Silas knew. I search for their familiar forms. Neither appears. No sign of the King either, despite Cragmere’s promises. My heart sinks with each sweep of the courtyard. Have they abandoned me?
The officers march me toward a wooden platform that wasn’t here yesterday—hastily constructed overnight, its raw edges still oozing sap. The smell of fresh-cut pine mingles with the battle stench.
A man in black robes sits at the platform’s highest point, wearing a ridiculous powdered wig that makes him look like a pompous cockatoo.
The judge, I suppose. Cragmere climbs the steps and takes his place beside the robbed figure, his thin lips curled into a triumphant sneer that makes my stomach turn.
He leans down, whispering something that makes the judge glance sharply in my direction. Fair trial my ass.
The officers deposit me on the platform and retreat, leaving me standing alone. No table, no chair, no advocate. Just me, exposed to everyone’s scrutiny like an animal at auction.
“This is how Embernia delivers justice?” I call out, my voice carrying across the courtyard. “No advocate? This?” I gesture to the rudimentary stage, then glare at Cragmere. “What’s the hurry?”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I spot Nate’s scowl deepening, Adelaide’s fingers curling into fists despite her injury. Phoebe frantically scribbles in her little book, her eyes darting between me and the judge. They’re here for me, but their presence only highlights my isolation on this stage.
“This isn’t justice. This is theater,” I call.
Yes, a performance orchestrated by Cragmere to satisfy whatever vendetta drives him. I straighten my spine and lift my chin. If they want a spectacle, I’ll give them one they won’t forget.
The thump, thump of wings cuts through the dawn-light.
Heads turn upward, faces paling as Zephyros appears, his scales seeming to catch on fire in the early morning sun.
His wings send a huge ripple of air through the courtyard, making everyone shift nervously, and I’m sure that if they weren’t all Sky Order members, they would be scattering like ants.
He perches on the fort’s wall, his massive weight causing huge stones to break and fall to the ground with a thunderous crash. The judge jumps to his feet, wig askew, as Cragmere clutches the table as if to stop himself from fleeing.
“Control your beast!” he shrieks at me.
I laugh, the sound wild even to my own ears. “He’s not mine. He chose me. There’s a difference.”
Zephyros opens his massive jaws and roars, the sound vibrating through my bones. Then he creates a huge vortex that spirals upward, over the crowd. The wind picks up debris, whipping cloaks and hair into frenzied dances.
It seems he’s of the same mind as me. He’ll also give them the show they want. Without thinking of the consequences, I raise my hands and add my power to my dragon’s. The vortex doubles in size, a massive thing that could take everyone and shoot them into the sky if we lowered it but a few feet.
“Stop this at once!” the judge screams, but his words are torn away by the wind.
I meet Zephyros’s eyes across the distance. We hold the power of life and death in our combined abilities. We could end this farce right now as everyone’s dragons lie elsewhere, and no one can challenge us. What a poor plan Cragmere orchestrated.
—Should we? Zephyros’s voice purrs in my mind, hungry and eager.
I sweep my gaze across the terrified faces—not just Cragmere and the judge, but Phoebe, Adelaide, Nate.
The injured riders who survived yesterday’s battle.
And there, at the courtyard entrance, finally appearing…
Vaylen, his face a mask of shock and something darker, something that might be disappointment.
The vortex wavers as my concentration breaks. My power is a choice, always a choice.
—No. This isn’t really what I want.
Zephyros sneers, his mental touch scraping against my consciousness like sandpaper on a wound.
—Whatever you say, he projects, each word dripping with disdain.
But I’m not going anywhere. And the moment anyone so much as breathes the word execution again, I will spear them through and take you away. No matter what you say.
His gaze burns with ancient rage, promising violence with casual certainty. The crowd below us shifts nervously, feeling the predatory intent radiating from him even without hearing his thoughts.
I lower my hands slowly, letting the vortex dissipate into nothing more than a gentle breeze. The display has served its purpose. Everyone here understands the precarious balance of power.
—I won’t blame you for keeping me alive, I say, letting my shoulders relax slightly. But I need to face this, Zephyros. Let me deal with it.
I turn back to face the judge and Cragmere. “Now, shall we try justice instead of intimidation? As both sides can play that game as you well see.”
The judge keeps fiddling with his papers, stalling. Cragmere’s eyes dart repeatedly to the commander’s tower, his face pinched with impatience.
Minutes crawl by. The crowd grows restless, murmuring.
Something’s wrong.
“Why the delay, Inspector?” I call out. “Where’s the Commander? King Craven running late?”
Cragmere sneers but doesn’t answer.
A cold weight settles in my stomach. If the King is here, he’s likely with Commander Voltguard right now. Are they negotiating my fate? Drawing up execution orders regardless of this mockery of a trial?
My fingers twitch. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the morning chill.
—Zephyros, can you see into the Commander’s office?
—No. The windows are shuttered.
My heart pounds faster. Cragmere checks the tower again, his anxiety palpable.
Screw it.
I take a deep breath and focus on Cragmere. His mind is right there—an ugly swirl of ambition, resentment, and fear. I hesitate for just a heartbeat, but invading the mind of the man who wants me dead seems only fair. My power slips through his consciousness like a knife through butter.
—...where is she? She promised to be present. Can’t hold this rabble much longer. That cursed dragon. If he attacks... No. I will avenge you, my love. This murderous bitch won’t go free.
I nearly stagger backward as Cragmere’s thoughts reveal his pain. My love? The pieces lock together with sickening clarity. Cragmere and Cindergrasp were lovers.
The relentless pursuit, the personal vendetta, the burning hatred in his eyes whenever he looks at me. It’s not just about upholding the law. It’s about vengeance. It’s about grief.
I killed the man he loved.
A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat. Wyrm’s rot, the universe has a twisted sense of humor. All this time I assumed he was some power-hungry bureaucrat, but he’s a man consumed by loss, just like me.
The realization doesn’t soften my resolve, but it shifts something in my understanding. Cragmere isn’t afraid of what I might do to him. He probably doesn’t care if he dies in the process of destroying me. What’s left to live for when your heart’s been ripped out?
I know that emptiness. I’ve carried it since my mother’s death.
Our eyes lock across the platform. For the first time, I see beyond the pompous exterior to the broken man beneath. In another life, we might have understood each other.
A metallic clank echoes across the courtyard. All heads turn toward the Commander’s tower, where the heavy door swings open.
Voltguard emerges, her obsidian uniform pristine despite the early hour, her gray hair pulled back. Vaylen joins her, his face unreadable, posture hostile. She murmurs something to him, her hand briefly touching his shoulder, a gesture unusual from the stoic Commander.
Vaylen gives a sharp nod and strides across the courtyard with purpose, his eyes never leaving mine. My heart hammers against my ribs. The crowd parts before him like water.
I reach instinctively with my mind, desperate to know what’s happening, what they’ve decided. His thoughts lie just beyond an invisible barrier. I could slip through so easily, read every intention, every emotion...
No. This can’t become a habit. I pull back sharply, curling my fingers into fists. If I cross that line with Vaylen, how could I ever tell him? Another truth I’d have to reveal, another betrayal, another wedge between us.
He stops at the platform’s base. The morning light catches the golden threads in his formal black uniform, making the dragon scales shimmer at his cuffs. Power radiates from him. Not just rank, but presence.
“Chief Inspector,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hushed courtyard. “Skysinger Wyndward must come with me.”
Cragmere’s face contorts. “Impossible! The trial—”
“By order of King Craven,” Vaylen interrupts, the words falling like stones.
The crowd erupts in whispers. Cragmere’s mouth opens and closes, his composure fracturing. I see the desperation in his eyes, his vengeance slipping away.
At a loss, I turn away, toward Vaylen, toward whatever comes next.