Chapter 35 Rhea #2
I study the courtyard as riders form into mixed squads. Each Prime assigns tasks in sequence, creating teams with riders from each Clutch. First assignees from all Clutches form Squad One, second assignees form Squad Two, and so on. This ensures each squad balances elemental powers.
The assignments continue, a few locations I’ve never heard of or must likely have forgotten from my lessons at the Academy, like Westhold Peaks, Ashwalker’s Gorge, South Vale.
I commit each one to memory. If I’m to become just another Skysinger fighting this war, I need to know the battlegrounds as intimately as I know my own scars.
Just another Skysinger. The thought rings hollow as King Craven’s demand for weekly reports festers in the back of my mind. How can I truly be one of them when I’m supposed to be spying?
Finally, Vaylen’s eyes land on me. “Wyndward, you’ll join Cloudwalker’s squad.”
That’s all the instruction I get before Vaylen turns sharply on his heel and strides toward his own squad. His broad shoulders disappear as the others surround him for further instructions.
I scan the courtyard for Dakar’s signature messy topknot.
The prospect of real action sends electricity through my veins.
After a year of whatever hell I endured underground—after the indignity of Cragmere’s circus—I need this.
I need to feel wind tearing through my hair as Zephyros and I dive through clouds.
I need to watch Screechclaws scatter before us like tiny boats in a tempest.
I join Dakar, who is surrounded by a cluster of fresh-faced riders. Braylen Mistwalker stands among them, looking like a lost puppy despite his perfectly arranged uniform and crew cut. My steps falter.
Why is Braylen with Dakar’s team?
“There she is!” Dakar grins, waving me over. “’bout time you joined us.”
The circle of young riders—all fresh Skyriders from this year’s crop, I suspect—stare at me with wide eyes. One girl actually gapes.
“What’s this?” I ask, gesturing to the group.
“Training squad,” Dakar says, slapping Braylen’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “These fine specimens need someone to teach ‘em how to fly supply routes without gettin’ their arses attacked.”
My stomach plummets. “Supply routes?”
“Yep. Supply depot at South Pass needs inventory. Then food delivery to the eastern outposts. Might take three trips if the weather holds.”
“You’re joking.” I search his face for any hint of humor. “He’s putting me on a fucking delivery run?”
Dakar smirks. “High Prime’s orders.”
I turn toward the whispers, finding a guy with a crooked nose and thick eyebrows leaning toward another rider. His sandy hair’s been cropped short in regulation style. The Skyblaze emblem is emblazoned on his shoulder.
He elbows his companion and pretends to murmur, though it’s obvious he wants me to hear. “Pyrewing wasn’t wrong. She thinks she’s special.”
Heat flares across my skin. Of course Silas has kept poisoning everyone’s minds against me. The familiar burn of anger rushes through my veins. Dakar doesn’t react, just continues explaining the route as if no one spoke. But in fact, this suits me. I prefer to fight my own battles.
I step forward, staring directly at Crooked Nose. “I am fucking special, whatever your name is. I’m a bonded rider, and one of my gales can swallow your best Fire Blast, you and your dragon whole in a split second.”
Dakar steps between us, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You two finished? Because we got plenty to do, and it all starts with helping the Claws load the dragons.”
Everyone snaps to attention—even me, despite my burning indignation. There’s something in Dakar’s tone that brooks no argument, a reminder that despite his casual manner, he’s earned his reputation.
“Yes, sir,” Crooked Nose mutters, all earlier bravado vanished.
We march to the supply depot, a stone structure brimming with wooden crates and canvas sacks. For the next three hours, I’m just another body hauling supplies.
Braylen and I use wind currents to lift the crates, earning side-eyes from the others who struggle physically. Let them stare. There’s only one talent I need to hide. Sweat trickles down my spine as I guide crate after crate to the landing field where dragons will approach one at a time.
“Careful with that!” Braylen yelps when I nearly drop a container marked MEDICAL SUPPLIES. He helps by using his own air current to right the container. “The tinctures in there could be volatile when mixed.”
I adjust my wind stream, shoulders burning from the constant focus required to maintain control. This isn’t the vengeful fighting I’d imagined for my return.
After the crates come the saddles—massive leather contraptions with straps, buckles, and attachment points for cargo. Each must be perfectly balanced or risk injury to dragon or loss of supplies.
At midday, I collapse onto a wooden bench, my legs trembling traitorously.
The simple act of hauling crates and saddles shouldn’t leave me this winded.
Before my disappearance, I could maintain wind currents for hours during training without breaking a sweat.
Now my arms tremble as if a gale beats against them, testing their strength.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, massaging my quivering muscles.
The other riders sprawl across the yard, laughing and passing around canteens. They don’t look half as exhausted as I feel. Even Braylen, who’s about as physically imposing as a sparrow, sits comfortably against a post, looking up at the clouds.
I grab a canteen and gulp greedily, wondering about my weak body.
Was I starved the entirety of that missing year?
Did I continue to refuse Tahranis’s food out of stubbornness until my body began consuming itself?
Or maybe at some point, they simply stopped bothering to feed me?
And why did they let me go? Or did they?
I like to think that I escape, but what if that’s not true?
What if there’s a more sinister reason behind my return?
—You push yourself too hard, Rhealyn.
Zephyros’s voice slides into my thoughts, smooth as silk. Through our bond, I feel his massive form circling high above, enjoying the warm air currents.
—I’m fine, I shoot back, wiping sweat from my brow. Just out of practice.
—Your body needs time to heal. A pause, then, I am glad the Stormsong whelp didn’t send you to the front lines.
—Back to calling him a whelp, are we? I glare up at the sky where I know he’s circling.
—I thought we did not like him anymore, Zephyros replies, sarcasm coloring his tone.
—You never liked him in the first place. I take another swig, nearly choking when I swallow too fast.
—I was starting to, Zephyros admits. That whelp explored the tunnels beneath Hearthdale looking for you, and he remained loyal to you while you were gone.
My throat tightens as unwanted warmth spreads through my chest. The image of Vaylen crawling through dark, cramped tunnels, calling my name. And he remained loyal while I…
—Don’t, I snap, my mental voice as sharp as Zephyros’s talons. Don’t remind me about any of that. Don’t talk to me about Vaylen. Not now, not ever.
The bond between us goes still for a moment, like the eerie quiet of a funeral.
—Fine, Zephyros finally answers, his tone deliberately neutral. Then tell me about your plan. The one brewing behind those angry eyes since we left Castle Stonefall. How are we going to get answers about our memory gaps?
I instinctively glance around to make sure nobody’s watching me have this silent conversation. The other riders are still lounging, paying me no attention. I’m about to explain when Dakar strolls in my direction and sits next to me.
“So, what’s your story?” he asks.
I frown, turning to face him fully. “My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” He stretches his legs out, leather pants creaking. “Everybody’s talkin’ about you. The rider who disappeared for a year, came back with no memory, got a royal pardon for killin’ a Neutro. There’s gotta be more to it.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, and I wasn’t pardoned.
I’m innocent.” I don’t need that particular rumor to be seen as fact, even if it is.
Cindergrasp deserved to die, and I would kill him all over again if I had to.
What I hate the most, however, is the idea of people thinking the King did me a favor because I’m one of his pets.
I take another swig from my canteen, buying time. The liquid is warm now, almost unpleasant.
“I’m not the kind who goes around sharing my story with just anyone.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you that kind of person, Cloudwalker?”
He grins, the red loops in his ears catching sunlight. “Sure. Got nothin’ to hide.” He gestures at me with an open palm. “Ask me anythin’. Anything at all.”
I study him, considering. The questions pile up in my mind—about Vaylen, about what happened during my absence, about Eleonora. But I remain silent. Every question I ask means one he’ll throw back at me.
Dakar’s smile widens. “So you’re one of those people with many secrets then?”
I say nothing, just hold his gaze. The muscle in my jaw twitches with tension.
He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Thing about secrets is, they all eventually come to light. And some,” he shrugs, “some are so obvious that only a blind person won’t see ‘em.”
My stomach tightens. So he knows about Vaylen and me. Or suspects, at least. The air between us grows heavy with unspoken accusations.
“Some secrets,” I finally reply, my voice steady despite the animosity building inside me, “are no one’s wyrm-rotted business but my own.”
Dakar laughs, patting my shoulder as he stands. “Then make sure you keep ‘em that way, Wyndward, else you… ruin things.” He walks away, leaving me with burning cheeks and the uncomfortable sensation that I’ve just confirmed his suspicions instead of deflecting them.
“Load up!” Dakar bellows across the yard. “Break’s over, you lazy wyrm-lovers!”
I haul myself up, muscles protesting. The next two hours blur into a haze of straps, crates, and shouted instructions. We load six dragons in sequence before Zephyros descends, his massive form casting shadows across the entire landing area.
“Your turn,” Dakar says, clapping me on the shoulder.
Zephyros lands with deliberate grace, his gaze flicking dismissively over the waiting supplies.
—I am no pack mule, he grumbles through our bond. Five thousand years of glorious conquest, and I am reduced to hauling tinned meat and wiping supplies for two-legged hatchlings who think fighting means tripping with flair?
—I’m sure you have to do this every time you get a new rider, don’t you?
He ignores my comment.
—I would rather return to sleeping in my cave at Sky’s Edge.
—Oh, so you wish I’d stayed gone so you could keep napping in peace.
He gives me a mental shrug.
—Gee, thanks. Remind me to disappear again next week.
When we finally finish loading, Dakar gives the signal, and we take flight.
We travel a meandering route to South Pass, avoiding the most direct path in case of Screechclaw scouts.
Below us, the landscape tells the story of our losing war.
Vast stretches of blackened earth scar the rolling hills and green forests.
Burnt villages. Empty fields where farms once stood.
“How bad has it gotten?” I ask when we land beside Dakar at a lookout point.
Dakar’s face darkens as he stares across the scorched landscape. “Worse than anyone’s sayin’. Lost two outposts last month alone.” He spits on the ground. “Whatever took you for that year picked a damn good time to steal a rider. War’s turned against us.”
In a distant ridge, four Skyriders circle endlessly, eyes trained on the horizon. Sentinels, watching for the enemy that increasingly slips past our defenses with their erratic behavior. Dakar looks in their direction with a combination of sadness and fury.
“When we go back, wear your goggles. You haven’t earned bypassin’ the rules and standards, Wyndward. Besides, I don’t want you givin’ my riders a bad example.”
Damn him and the standards! I hate the stupid goggles, but if it’s a privilege I have to earn, he better believe I will.
Unloading at South Pass is even more exhausting than loading was. My arms tremble as I direct wind currents to lower crates. Meanwhile, a couple of the stationed riders lounge casually around the perimeter, seemingly ready but wearing bored expressions.
“Must be nice,” Crooked Nose mutters, carrying a sack of grain on his back. “Standing around while we do the real work.”
“They’ve been fighting for three days straight,” Braylen says quietly beside me. “This might be their first rest.” He has been staying close to me, watching me closely as if trying to learn what he can from me.
I give him an approving nod. The man might be painfully awkward, but he notices things others miss. While Crooked Nose complains, Braylen actually understands the bigger picture. He reminds me a bit of Phoebe with that observant nature, always collecting information, storing it away for later use.
Braylen returns my nod with a hesitant smile that transforms his serious face. His wind manipulation is precise too—not showy or aggressive like some fresh riders who think bigger gusts mean better control. He directs each crate with careful attention, adjusting for weight distribution.
I like him, but I can’t afford attachments right now. Anyone close to me could become collateral damage. My mother paid for that lesson with her life. Vaylen with his heart.
I strengthen my wind current, perhaps more forcefully than necessary, and the crate lands with a thud. No, this isn’t the time for making friends. This is the time to risk it all and convince Zephyros to help me.