Page 116 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
—I have every right. We are bonded, meant to protect each other.
—Zephyros, search my mind, my heart, and you’ll know I will never be happy if you take me against my will.
He’s quiet for a moment, though I continue to rise.
—You will die with a noose around your neck,he growls in frustration.
—Maybe, but I won’t run and live in shame.
In the distance, the sound of thousands of screaming high pitched voices tears through the sky. The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. I’ve never heard this sound before—I’ve only read about it in books and evocative news sheet articles—but I know exactly what it is.
A Screechclaw horde is coming.
“Everyone, to the air!” Vaylen’s shouted order rides in the coats of that terrible screech.
I look down and find that he’s climbing on his own Vortex Lift.
“What in all the hells is going on, Rhealyn?” he demands as he reaches me.
“I don’t know,” I lie. He already knows I’m a murderess. I don’t need him to know I’m also a Weaver. The Sky Order’s rules tried to erase that part of me, and Vaylen is devoted to those rules. He’ll never understand why I had to lie.
I can tell he wants to ask me more, but instead he says, “We need to fight.”
He zips upward and smoothly lands on Fragor’s head. In seconds, he’s waving his arms in practiced signals, instructing the other Skyriders what to do. Almost everyone is mounted and ready to face the incoming threat. I stop fighting Zephyros and speed up my ascent. I land on his head and throw my Tethers out, eager to join the others.
—You wouldn’t run from a fight, would you?I ask.
—I do not run, he replies.
I smirk.Humans run. Dragons fly.It’s a common saying, and by using it he’s implying that he would never stoop to running. Not when he possesses such swift wings. Running is for bipeds.
But that’s not all, he’s also letting me know he will fight.
Wasting no time, I pull on a Tether, guiding Zephyros to bank right. He does and, joining the formation, we prepare for our first fight together.
48
Rhea
The air itself vibrates, a low, guttural thrum that crawls into my bones. Above the jagged peaks, the sky darkens, not with clouds, but with a writhing, black mass. The next wave of screeches slices through the air, ear-splitting, a cacophony that makes my teeth ache.
Ominous. That’s the only word for it. Then they crest the ridge.
Screechclaws. Harpies.
My breath hitches.
They’re not the distant shadows I’d imagined, but a real, tangible horror. They’re a swarm, a living storm of ragged wings and twisted bodies. My stomach plummets. Feathers, oily and black, cling to emaciated legs, leaving the torsos exposed. Their faces, a grotesque parody of humanity, are contorted in snarls, razor-sharp yellowed teeth bared. And if their talons, claws, and teeth weren’t enough, they carry long swords strapped to their painfully thin waists. Their eyes burn and lock onto us, burning pinpricks of feral hunger.
As we fly forward, I increase the tension on Zephyros’s Tethers. Cold fear pierces me. I glance around. Vaylen’s jaw is set, his eyes narrowed, but I see the flicker of unease in their depths. Even Fragor, so powerful, shifts nervously beneath him. Silas’s face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Omari’s lips are pressed into a thin line, ice coating her boots.
We’re all new, untried, and facing a nightmare made flesh. The screeches intensify, a deafening wave of sound that threatens to shatter my eardrums. The harpy horde descends, a black avalanche of claws, teeth, and fury.
At the forefront of the flight, a creature unlike the others soars, larger, more powerful.
The Matron? What is she doing here? She’s their leader, the highest in their hierarchy. Why would she abandon Cinderhold for Hearthdale? It makes no sense.
This harpy exudes pure, malevolent energy. Her feathers are the color of midnight, streaked with blood red. Her eyes, burning coals in the gloom, fix on us with chilling intensity. Monstrous leathery wings sprout from her back, beating the air in a rhythm that echoes the pounding of my own heart. Her talons are the size of daggers and glint menacingly. This is no mere beast. This is a force of nature, a harbinger of death.
