Chapter 27 Vaylen
Vaylen
Islam the door behind me, my heart a riot in my chest. Damn her. Damn her for making me feel this way, twisted between indignation and regret.
The corridor stretches before me, roughly hewn and cold as my thoughts. What right have I to accuse her? None. Yet the image burns in my mind. Rhealyn in another’s arms, another’s bed. A man who could split mountains and steal her from me. Maybe he already did, and she doesn’t know it.
My fist connects with the wall. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I welcome it. Better than this jealousy that eats at my honor like acid on metal.
I pace the corridor, each step matched by doubt’s persistent whispers. What if she’s right? People with power to split mountains and command elements could surely bend a woman’s will. They could have drugged her, forced her into acts against her nature.
Goddess, what have I done?
My accusation hangs between us like poison.
Without evidence, I’ve condemned her, let my fears override reason.
I made my judgement without clarity, in jealousy.
A man of honor doesn’t strike without certainty.
The thought settles like a Wind Dagger in my chest, twisting, cutting.
I have deeply wounded the one person I’m supposed to protect.
But what if she—?
No!
I shut that toxic line of thoughts down.
Inhaling sharply, I steady myself. This display of emotion is out of line. I must control my passions, not let them control me.
This is exactly why I should have avoided entanglements within the Sky Order. The proper path would have been a wife in Emberton—some merchant’s daughter perhaps—waiting dutifully when I return from the front lines, managing our household with quiet efficiency.
The thought sours in my mind as quickly as it forms. Such a life would be a prison of propriety. I would have withered inside those confines, and what woman deserves a husband who comes to her bed sporadically and without true passion?
No. It’s nonsense. Cowardice. To be Rhealyn’s and for her to be mine, bravery is the only answer.
I straighten my uniform, brushing away the stone dust from my knuckles.
What matters now is us, not my stupid jealousy.
Rhealyn deserves better than my accusations.
The woman I love returned from oblivion itself.
Whatever happened in that missing year, I’ll face it with her, with no prejudice and with a steadfast heart. Just as long as she picks me, wants me.
I move toward the tower doors, my mind knotted with obligation and remorse. The moment I pull the heavy oak door open, Cragmere’s rat-like face appears, the judge hovering behind him like a vulture awaiting carrion.
“High Prime, I demand entry. The prisoner—” Cragmere begins, bald head peppered with sweat.
I block the doorway with my body, looking down at the smaller man. “The prisoner is no longer your concern, Inspector.”
Cragmere’s face flushes scarlet. “This is outrageous! I’ve spent months building this case. You can’t simply—”
“Wait here.” I exit and close the door in his face, the solid thud bringing a small measure of satisfaction. Let him stew in his frustration. “Don’t let him in,” I instruct the Claws who flank the door.
The courtyard remains filled with spectators, their hungry eyes searching for drama. Phoebe pushes through the crowd, her face drawn with worry.
“Is she all right? They didn’t even give her an advocate.” Her voice trembles slightly.
Before I can answer, Silas’s sardonic tone cuts through the murmurs. “Is this what passes for justice now? How convenient to have friends in high places.”
“You would know,” Adelaide bites back.
I turn slowly toward him, letting my gaze sweep the assembled riders. “Everyone, return to your duties immediately.”
No one moves.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear.” I straighten to my full height. “Anyone remaining in this courtyard in the next minute will spend a fortnight cleaning horse waste from the stables and repairing the western battlements. By hand, no elemental powers allowed.”
The crowd scatters like sparks chased off by the bellows’ breath, muttering as they go. Only Phoebe lingers a moment longer, her eyes questioning. I give her a slight nod—an unspoken promise that Rhealyn is fine.
As the courtyard empties, I exhale slowly. Now I must deal with Cragmere. I return to the tower doors, where Cragmere stands fuming, his face mottled with indignation. The judge acts like his nervous shadow.
“The Commander will see you now,” I announce, my voice calm and neutral despite the satisfaction I feel at his obvious frustration.
Cragmere straightens his jacket with jerking motions. “About time. This irregular interruption of justice will not stand.”
I push open the heavy oak door, allowing him to enter first. He rushes ahead, and the moment he crosses the threshold into Commander Voltguard’s office, his head swivels like that of a hunting hawk.
“Where is she? Where’s the prisoner?” His voice rises with each word. “We have a trial to conduct! The platform stands ready, the judge eager to impart judgement.”
Commander Voltguard rises from behind her desk, her silver-streaked hair gleaming in the light from the window. “Chief Inspector, this trial is canceled by order of the King.”
“Impossible!” Cragmere sputters. “His Majesty himself granted me authority to bring that murderous girl to justice! I have the royal seal upon my writ!”
The Commander’s expression remains impassive as stone. She gestures toward the Boltgram in the corner, its metal fittings gleaming. “Like I said, King Craven has just ordered the trial canceled. His word supersedes any prior arrangement.”
I watch Cragmere’s face, noting how his eyes narrow with suspicion.
This isn’t precisely what the King commanded—his actual words were to bring Rhealyn to Castle Stonefall, no mention of the trial being cancelled.
It might still be held in Emberton, for all we know.
Yet the Commander has artfully redirected Cragmere’s focus.
The Commander’s cunning impresses me. By framing the situation as a simple cancellation rather than what could be a transfer of jurisdiction, she’s stripped Cragmere of any grounds to pursue Rhealyn further. For all he knows, the trial no longer exists.
“I demand to see this order myself,” Cragmere insists, his hand extended as if expecting a parchment.
“This Boltgram machine is for military communications only,” Commander Voltguard replies coolly. “You lack the clearance to view its messages.”
Cragmere’s face contorts, his authority crumbling before my eyes. “This is outrageous. The Sky Order can’t place itself above the King’s justice!”
“We serve the King’s justice,” I interject. “In all its forms.”
The Commander and I exchange a brief glance. We’re doing nothing else but following the King’s orders.
Cragmere’s composure shatters like glass. His face twists into something feral, eyes bulging with unrestrained fury.
“Where is she?” he screams, spittle flying from his lips. “Where have you hidden that murdering bitch?”
His head whips around, beady eyes nearly popping from their sockets as he searches every corner of the office. Before either the Commander or I can respond, he bolts for the door with surprising speed for a man his age.
“Seize him!” Commander Voltguard orders, but I’m already in pursuit.
Cragmere barrels down the corridor like a man possessed.
His feet barely touch the ground as he flings open the first door he encounters, the chamber where I left Rhealyn.
Without pause, he launches himself at her.
The chair topples backward with a crash, Rhealyn sprawling beneath his weight.
His hands find her throat, fingers digging into her flesh with savage intent.
“You took him from me!” he snarls, his voice unrecognizable. “You’ll pay, you bitch!”
Rhealyn makes no move to defend herself. Her arms lie limp at her sides, her eyes wide but resigned, as if she believes this punishment justified.
In three strides, I cross the room, grasp Cragmere’s shoulders, and wrench him backward with enough force to separate him from Rhealyn.
“Control yourself, Inspector!” I command, my voice cutting through his rage.
Cragmere struggles against my grip, all semblance of the calculating Chief Inspector gone. In his place writhes a creature of pure vengeance, consumed by a grief I hadn’t fathomed until this moment.
“She must answer for her crimes,” he wails, still straining toward Rhealyn who gasps for breath on the floor.
I haul Cragmere backward, his body thrashing against my grip like a landed fish. His fury feels both pathetic and dangerous—a terrible combination in a man with power.
“You’ll rot for this interference,” Cragmere spits, clawing at my forearms. “The King will hear of your treachery.”
The judge stands frozen in the doorway, his face pinched with distaste. His gaze falls on Cragmere with open contempt, clearly the Chief Inspector’s display has cost him whatever respect the judge once held.
Commander Voltguard strides past us, entering the chamber where Rhealyn still lies on the floor. The heavy door swings shut behind her with finality, leaving me alone with the raving man.
“Take Chief Inspector Cragmere to the holding room in the east tower,” I order the two Claws standing guard at the exit. Their young faces register surprise before hardening into professional masks. “Keep him there until he regains his composure.”
“Yes, High Prime,” they answer in unison, moving forward to flank Cragmere.
As they secure him between them, his struggles weaken, exhaustion replacing fury. The emotional storm that drove him to attack Rhealyn appears to have burned itself out, leaving a hollow shell of a man.
“Treat him with respect,” I add, my voice low enough that only they can hear. “He’s a grieving man who has forgotten himself, not a criminal. Bring him a strong drink, something to steady his nerves.”
The Claws nod and lead Cragmere away. His head hangs low, defeat evident in every line of his body.
I stand alone in the corridor, my thoughts turning to Rhealyn behind that closed door. The accusation I hurled at her moments ago now seems petty compared to Cragmere’s genuine suffering. Shame washes through me.
“You took him from me!” Cragmere said.
Now his vendetta-like determination is clear to me.
I knock lightly before entering the chamber again. Rhealyn sits on the chair, one hand pressed against her throat where Cragmere’s fingers left angry red marks. Commander Voltguard stands behind her, hands clasped at her back.
“Is she—” I begin, but the Commander silences me with a sharp look.
“Skysinger Wyndward is fine. No lasting damage done.” Her voice carries the same iron certainty with which she leads our forces. “Chief Inspector Cragmere?”
“Secured in the east tower holding room. I’ve posted guards.”
The Commander nods, satisfied with my handling of the situation. Rhealyn takes another deep breath, wincing slightly. She averts her gaze. My bitter condemnation still hangs between us, an invisible wall I placed there myself.
“High Prime,” Commander Voltguard says, drawing my attention. “You’ll remain in command of Fort Ashmire while I escort Skysinger Wyndward to Emberton.”
My spine stiffens. I scramble for something to say.
“The King’s summons requires immediate compliance,” she goes on, “and I trust no one else to maintain order here. The Screechclaw tactics grow more erratic by the day.”
I incline my head in acceptance, though my heart rebels against the command. To be separated from Rhealyn again, especially now, but how can I argue without revealing too much to the Commander?
“Very well,” I answer, though my resolve wavers.
Rhealyn looks at me one final time, and the cold indifference there chills me to the bone. No Wind Wall could shield me from that gaze. She says nothing, but her silence speaks volumes. I have wounded her beyond words.
I turn away, unable to bear the sight of those marks on her throat, the disgust in her eyes. I have failed her twice today. First with my accusations, then by not being swift enough to prevent Cragmere’s attack. Though she could have done that herself. Yet she let him hurt her.
The corridor stretches before me, each step carrying me further from her. My chest constricts as if iron bands tighten around it. For one endless year, I mourned her, searched for her, dreamed of her. Then she returns, and my jealousy drives her away as surely as that mountain swallowed her.
Now, she’ll be gone again. I’ve had her for mere days.
And what if the King doesn’t allow her to come back? Why summon her? My mind races through dark possibilities. An execution away from public eyes? A scapegoat for some political scheme?
I halt, my fists tight. What if he means to finish what Cragmere began because he’s terrified of her? The King has several riders loyal to his crown in Emberton. One command could point them toward Zephyros while royal guards...
No. It can’t be.
Yet the thought festers like a wound. How many times must I choose duty over what matters most?
For all my rank and title, what power do I truly wield if I can’t protect the woman I love?
I’ve spent my life believing honor lies in following orders, in perfect loyalty to command.
But what honor exists in letting her face this alone?
Perhaps true honor demands I follow her, the Commander’s orders be damned.