Chapter 45 Rhea
Rhea
Ipace along the stone wall, tracing my fingers over old weapons hanging like slumbering metal beasts. Blades that haven’t tasted blood in decades. My reflection stares back from a tarnished shield, distorted and fractured.
Vaylen stands by the door, arms crossed, watching me like I might bolt. He’s right to worry. Every instinct screams at me to run before I reveal what I am. Before I see their faces shift from mates to executioners like Cragmere.
“Stop pacing,” he murmurs. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“I’ll pace if I want to,” I snap, chewing my lip raw. “This is a mistake.”
The door creaks open. Phoebe slips in first, clutching her leather notebook, eyes wide with curiosity. Nate follows, his massive frame making the room shrink. His hand rests protectively on Phoebe’s shoulder.
Cliffbecker arrives next, weathered face set in hard lines. He nods curtly to Vaylen, then fixes me with a stare that could chip stone.
“What’s this about, High Prime?” Cliffbecker doesn’t waste time. “Secret meetings aren’t exactly regulation.”
“We’re waiting for one more,” Vaylen says, his voice steady while mine would have cracked.
The tension thickens like smoke. I want to scream, to shatter it, but I bite my tongue until I taste copper.
Finally, Dakar saunters in. He takes one look at our solemn faces, the closing door, the weapons surrounding us, and throws his hands up dramatically.
“If you’re plannin’ a surprise party for the Commander, I’m out,” he announces. “I’m shite with decorations.”
Despite everything, a nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. “No decorations needed, Cloudwalker. Just your ears and an open mind,” Vaylen says. “And your word that what happens in this room stays in this room, and that goes for everyone else.”
His gaze moves from face to face, demanding silent oaths with those piercing blue eyes.
I watch them all, reading their reactions like a map to my fate.
Cliffbecker’s jaw tightens, his features hardening into something between suspicion and disbelief.
The old Skydune has seen too much war to trust easily.
Maybe we shouldn’t have invited him, but Vaylen insisted.
Phoebe’s eyes gleam with that familiar scholarly excitement. She already suspects what’s coming from our research together, but she really has no idea. Nate’s massive shoulders relax slightly, following Phoebe’s lead. Whatever she trusts, he trusts. If only it were all so simple.
Dakar leans against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable except for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The silence stretches like a bowstring pulled too tight. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. I’m about to leap off a cliff with no guarantee anyone will catch me.
—I will always catch you, little one.
—Thank you, Zephyros.
“My lips are sealed tighter than a tomb,” Dakar declares, breaking the suffocating silence.
He leans forward, dark eyes sparking with something like mischief.
“Even if you tell me you’re plannin’ to steal the crown jewels tomorrow, mate, I’ll keep my mouth shut and ask what color sack you want me to bring. ”
My eyes widen. I’d underestimated the depth of Dakar’s loyalty to Vaylen. It’s not just respect for rank, it’s something forged in blood and battle, something I can’t touch.
Cliffbecker looks positively scandalized, his expression contorting like he’s bitten into something rotten. “That’s treason to even jest about, Cloudwalker,” he admonished.
“Good thing I ain’t jestin’ then,” Dakar replies with a dangerous smile. “My loyalty’s to the man who’s saved my wyrm-lovin’ hide more times than the crown ever has.”
The challenge hangs in the air, daring anyone to disagree. Cliffbecker’s jaw works silently, his gray hair seeming to bristle with indignation, but he stays put.
Phoebe and Nate exchange worried glances. Her small hand finds his massive one, fingers intertwining in that easy, open way I envy. Must be nice to love without fear of execution.
“I didn’t bring you here to discuss treason,” Vaylen says firmly, cutting through the tension.
“No,” I snap, my nerves finally fraying. “Just to discuss me, the monster you should fear.” Best to jump right in before I do decide to bolt.
The words clog the space, toxic fumes I can’t take back.
“What monster?” Nate asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.
I take a deep breath. No turning back. My mouth opens to confess, but Vaylen’s hand rises, cutting me off. His palm faces me like a shield.
“Let me explain this,” he says, his tone shifting into the unmistakable cadence of the High Prime. This isn’t a request. It’s an order.
For once in my life, I’m grateful to be silenced. The confession sticks in my throat like a foul morsel, and I swallow it back down. Let him bear this burden for a moment. Let me breathe. I nod.
Vaylen squares his shoulders, his presence expanding to fill the cramped armory. “You two remember the night at Hearthdale,” he begins, addressing Dakar and Cliffbecker, who were with us that day. “When Wyndward was taken.”
Phoebe and Nate weren’t there, but Vaylen doesn’t seem worried about them. Perhaps he thinks they’re young enough to control, that his High Prime status will keep them from betraying him.
The room shifts. Bodies tense. Eyes dart to me, then away.
Vaylen’s voice drops lower. “Given what you witnessed at Hearthdale—the mountain splitting open, the raw power of the man who took Wyndward—would you be surprised to learn that something bigger is coming? Something that may determine Embernia’s fate?”
The room stills. I can almost hear their heartbeats quicken.
Dakar’s face alights with a strange energy.
“Hells, after that night, I thought Heratrix herself was gonna come back and rain fire on us all.” He shakes his head, red loops swinging in his ears.
“Then a year passes with nothin’ but dead Skyriders and screamin’ harpies.
And then you appear outta nowhere, Wyndward, lookin’ half-dead and rememberin’ nothin’.
” He waves his hand dramatically. “At this point, I’d believe anythin’.
Heratrix is under that mountain havin’ tea with the harpies.
Cindergrasp’s ghost rides the winds. The King’s actually a woman with a fake dinglebar. ”
“Dinglebar?” Phoebe says, frowning.
Nate shakes his head no at her, his eyes begging her not to press the issue.
Cliffbecker sighs, rubbing his forehead.
From the sounds of it, Phoebe wasn’t the only one with the idea of finding Heratrix under a mountain. Maybe they won’t think I’m crazy. Well, at least it seems Dakar won’t.
Vaylen’s shoulders straighten as he continues. “It’s not just Hearthdale. The Screechclaws also tried to take Wyndward.”
I fold my arms across my chest, hating how my pulse quickens at the memory of those talons digging into my flesh.
“Everyone seems mighty interested in you, Wyndward,” Dakar says, his eyes glittering with curiosity. He glances sideways at Cliffbecker. “Don’t you think? Weren’t you sayin’ that the other day on patrol it also looked like they were trying to kidnap her again?”
Cliffbecker’s face tightens. “Yes,” he admits reluctantly. “They were carrying her away. That’s not something those bitches do.”
I watch Dakar’s subtle nod toward Cliffbecker, the way he’s guiding the old veteran to our side without seeming to.
Clever man. No wonder Vaylen trusts him.
And Vaylen himself, the way he’s layering the revelations like a careful craftsman, not dumping everything at once like I wanted to.
Maybe there’s something to this whole thinking before speaking approach.
My fingers twist into fists, then release. I’m vibrating with the need to just scream it all out, but this is better.
Vaylen takes a deep breath, his eyes finding mine briefly. “There’s something we haven’t told anyone. Not even Commander Voltguard.” His voice drops. “When we were trapped underground, it wasn’t just any Screechclaw we encountered.”
The room goes still.
“It was the Matron.”
Dakar’s mouth falls open. “The Matron? The bloody Matron herself?” He looks between us, searching for signs of a joke. “That’s not possible. You’d be dead. Both of you. Shredded like fresh meat.”
“Fucking fiery hell!” Nate curses.
Phoebe’s green eyes widen in horror, locking with mine. Her expression melts from shock to something raw and personal. I could have lost you, her eyes seem to say.
“Here’s the real surprise,” Vaylen tells them, his voice steady as stone. “The Matron spoke to us.”
I do a double take, my mind spinning. Spoke to us?
I give Vaylen a questioning look, searching his face.
He returns the smallest shake of his head, a silent plea not to contradict him.
My heart stutters with sudden understanding.
He’s not going to tell them I’m a Weaver.
When did he decide that? The weight I’ve been carrying—the fear of rejection, execution, hatred—lightens so suddenly I feel dizzy with it.
“Spoke?” Cliffbecker’s mouth contorts in disbelief. “Screechclaws don’t speak. They screech. That’s the whole cursed point of their name.”
“This time she did,” Vaylen insists, never breaking eye contact with me.
Relief floods through me. My friends don’t have to know. These other Skyriders I barely know don’t have to know. I can keep this secret buried right where it belongs.
“What did the feathered bitch say?” Dakar asks, eager.
Vaylen runs a hand through his hair, mussing those brown and gold strands I’ve come to love. “Here’s where things get tricky. Wyndward and I have been going crazy with conjectures, and we need fresh perspectives. We need your help.”
The words sound so strange coming from him, the ever-capable High Prime asking for help.
“The Matron’s words were choppy,” Vaylen continues. “Like trying to piece together a scroll that’s been torn to shreds.”
Phoebe lifts her pencil to her notebook.
Vaylen nods in my direction, letting me talk now that he set the tone.