Chapter 36 Rhea
Rhea
That night, I lay in bed, every muscle burning from the day’s work. Dragon’s breath, I’ve been through years of training and yet my body feels like a horde of Screechclaws trampled me. The ache in my shoulders radiates down my spine.
My eyelids are impossibly heavy. I scrub my eyes.
—Sleep if you need it, Zephyros says
—No, I made you promise. Don’t let me drift off. On our way back from South Pass, I told him we’d try to get our answers tonight. I can’t fall asleep.
The darkness of the barracks wraps around me like a comforting blanket.
The steady rhythm of breathing bodies, the occasional snore or rustle of sheets.
So tempting to surrender to exhaustion. My thoughts begin to fragment.
Amber eyes watching me. A knife at Tahranis’s throat.
Dragon eggs in endless rows. King Craven’s wolves with their too-intelligent gazes. ..
—RHEALYN!
I jolt upright, heart hammering. Zephyros’s voice cracks through my consciousness like a whip.
—It is midnight.
—Fine. I’m up.
I stretch, forcing myself to full alertness. To my left, Phoebe sleeps curled up, her notebook still clutched in one hand. Adelaide’s bed to my right reveals perfectly taut blankets. She has the night shift. Around the barracks, nothing moves except the gentle rise and fall of sleeping bodies.
My feet slide to the cold floor, every movement deliberate and silent.
Boots in hand, I slip from the barracks like a shadow, breathing only when the door clicks shut behind me.
The stone floor sends cold spikes through my stockinged feet as I creep down the corridor, but the discomfort keeps me alert.
Once safely out of earshot, I pull on my boots and make my way to the study room, avoiding the watch. The door creaks—too loud in the midnight silence. I freeze, listening for approaching footsteps. Nothing.
Moonlight streams through the narrow windows, illuminating Phoebe’s research spread across the table. I trace my fingers over a book’s frayed edges and scraps of parchment covered in her neat handwriting.
“What a waste of time,” I mutter.
I can picture exactly how Phoebe would react if I told her about my latest vision—the massive dragon sleeping under the mountain, those thousands of eggs.
Her green eyes would go wide, she’d clutch her little notebook to her chest, and without a moment’s doubt declare, “It’s Heratrix! You’ve found her!”
That’s Phoebe. Trusting. Believing.
That’s never been me, at least until I met Zephyros. And Vaylen.
I learned early that trust is how you get hurt.
My father taught me that lesson every day he looked at me like I was my mother’s murderess—never mind that I was, and I just didn’t remember.
Anyway, I’m not about to abandon my old habit again, especially for a man who abducted me and kept me prisoner for a year and who must have used his Weaver powers to leave me in the dark.
—Are you ready to do this? Zephyros’s voice rumbles through my mind, still concerned.
I take a deep breath, settling into a hard wooden chair. —Yes.
During our flight back from the supply run, I explained my idea to Zephyros.
If the memories of my missing time are anywhere, it’s in my mind. They have to be. True, he looked for them before, the day he found me by the lake, and saw nothing but what he described as a stain, but he wasn’t as thorough as he could have been, or as forceful.
—You were gentle that day, weren’t you? I asked him.
—Of course. You were barely alive. I did not want to hurt you further.
—I’m stronger now, I assured him. You need to try harder.
I’ve kept pushing this idea since we arrived, telling him that if my memories are locked behind mental doors, who better to find them than the dragon who lives inside my head? He’s broken through my barriers before. He should be able to do it again.
—It could hurt you, Zephyros tried to dissuade me.
—I know, but we have no other choice, and I want you to promise to dig through my mind like talons through flesh.
—I do not like this idea.
—Promise, I insisted until he finally agreed.
Now, moonlight catches on my knuckles, white from squeezing the armrests. I force my fingers to relax, close my eyes, and let my head fall back.
—Do your worst, I say. Find what they tried to hide.
The first touch of his consciousness against my subconscious feels like a soft caress. Still I gasp, and need to tell myself not to resist.
—Find everything, I urge as his power surges forward.
I stiffen as Zephyros’s presence intensifies in my mind. His consciousness feels like cool waves washing against rocky shores—gentle at first, then increasingly forceful. The pressure builds behind my eyes until I want to scream.
—You need to relax completely, Rhealyn, he chides. Your defenses are like iron walls.
—I’m trying, I snap, then force myself to exhale slowly. Just... don’t be gentle. Whatever’s in there, I need to know.
Something flickers, a fragment of memory. Tahranis’s face swimming before me, his white hair gleaming in torchlight. Then darkness.
—Deeper, I urge Zephyros.
Pain explodes through my skull. I taste copper on my tongue, realize I’ve bitten my lip. My fingers clutch the armrests, nails digging into wood. Wyrm’s rot, it hurts worse than when the King did it.
A flash.
Stone walls dripping with moisture. A child’s voice—Fern—singing a haunting melody. Him watching me through darkness.
“Come on,” I whisper aloud, blood trickling down my chin.
The pressure intensifies until I feel my consciousness fracturing. Too much. It’s too—
—STOP! Zephyros’s command cuts through everything. His presence withdraws so suddenly I nearly vomit.
I slump forward, gasping for breath, sweat soaking my shirt. —Why did you stop?
—Because I felt something push back. Something not human. Someone has built walls in your mind that even I cannot breach without risking your ruin.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Walls that aren’t human? What in all the hells? The violation makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds.
“Who did this to me?” I snarl, slamming my fist against the table. The books jump, pages rustling like startled birds. “Tahranis is human, isn’t he? Was it the ritual? Tell me what you felt!”
—Not who, what. The presence felt... ancient. Familiar, yet not. Like a dragon, but twisted somehow.
—A dragon? I wipe blood from my chin, leaving a crimson streak across my sleeve. —That makes no sense.
—Whoever did it, they have immense power.
Immense power.
My gaze turns to Phoebe’s research, the drawings of what scholars think Heratrix would have looked like since no old texts are still in existence that depict her true semblance. The massive dragon from my vision flashes through my mind again.
—What if... what if it was her? I ask, still fighting against that possibility. Heratrix. What if she did this?
—It is a distinct possibility. I feel him sigh through the bond. I’ve been turning all of this over in my mind since the vision the King unleashed, Zephyros admits, his tone hesitant. There is something not right about it all. The King’s touch... I believe it was meant to unleash more.
I lean forward, pressing my palms against my temples. —What do you mean?
—You fought it, Rhealyn. You always fight. It is why I chose you. There’s a note of pride in his thoughts. I believe what you saw was incomplete. Think about it. If King Craven now expects you to be his ally, to spy for him, to betray your own... he must believe you know exactly what is happening.
I blink, considering, remembering how I fought against the memory, how desperately I tried to push Tahranis away.
—Wyrm’s rot, you’re right, I say. We need to try again. I straighten in my chair.
—No. Zephyros’s response is immediate and firm. Your defenses are already up, stronger than before. You are a warrior. Fighting is what you do best, even against yourself. It will not work.
—Then what? I can’t just walk around with half the truth.
—Give it a day before we try it again. Let your defenses relax on their own. In the meantime, I have another idea.
His tone makes me pause. —What idea?
—I want you to look into my mind.
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him. Zephyros, secretive and guarded, offering to open his ancient thoughts to me? The same dragon who refuses to speak of his riff with Fragor, who bristles when anyone mentions Silas’s brother in the wheelchair?
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper aloud, my voice echoing in the empty study.
—I am entirely serious. His tone carries a gentleness I rarely hear. If I ask you to tear down your walls, how can I keep mine standing?
I don’t move. During our time together, through training and ups and downs, through my darkest moments and rare happy moments, Zephyros has maintained boundaries.
Even when I’ve pushed, demanding to know about his feud with Fragor, about the offspring he claims Fragor abandoned, he’s shut me out with growls and evasiveness.
—Why now? I ask, still incredulous. After everything, why offer this?
A beat of silence stretches between us. Outside, clouds drift across the moon, casting shadows that dance across the table.
—Because I understand now that you are the last rider I will ever have, Rhealyn Rose Wyndward. His thoughts wrap around me like silver wings. Our bond runs deeper than any I’ve known in my long life. You and I are one. And maybe you will find what was taken from my mind.
Tears spring to my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. I blink them back furiously.
—Are you sure? My mental voice sounds small, even to myself.
—I am. No more secrets between us, not when unknown powers are taking root in your mind. Not when some ancient force threatens what we are to each other.
The weight of his words settles over me. Five thousand years of memories, offered freely. Truths he’s guarded longer than human civilization has existed.
“Zephyros,” I whisper, unable to keep emotion from cracking my voice. “I don’t know what to say.”