Page 121 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
Vaylen raises his hand in silent signal, and Fragor takes to the sky, leading the way. One by one, we follow, our dragons carrying us over the jagged tops of the Flametop Mountains.
On the other side lies Hearthdale. Not two weeks ago, it was a lively town, its residents part of a peaceful community that kept to itself. And now…? I don’t know exactly what we’ll find there, but from Vaylen’s brief description, I know it won’t be pleasant.
As we crest the ridge, the scene below unfolds like a nightmare. The town is a ruin, its buildings reduced to charred skeletons. The streets are empty, littered with debris and the remnants of a massacre. A pall of smoke hangs over the broken homes, obscuring the details, but not the horror.
Thethud, thudof dragons’ wings and the mournful whistle of the wind are the only sounds reigning over the unnatural silence, a silence that screams of loss. We start our descent and prepare to face the aftermath.
The scene below sharpens into focus, each detail etching itself into my memory with painful clarity, snatching my breath away, and punching me in the gut with enough force to nearly drive me to my knees. Nausea rolls through me at the sight of the two missing dragons sprawled on the ground, their forms broken and ravaged. Their once-proud scales are scorched and torn, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. They lie utterly still, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky.
A keening sound fills my head, Zephyros’s grief for his fallen mates.
My throat becomes tight. My eyes sting with unshed tears. Such magnificent creatures reduced to this… it’s a violation, a desecration. Why did they have to do this? Why?! This isn’t just destruction. It’s a brutal, horrifying message. The Screechclaws loathe us.
Prime Emberstone, Silas, and Omari remain aloft while the rest of us land on the southern end of the town. With three dragons circling above for protection, we dismount and begin our trek over the broken terrain, looking for signs of life among the debris. The ground beneath our feet is soft with ash, which we disturb with every step. Blackened skeletons lie broken on the ground. The ruins crackle, still smoldering. Nothing lives here. Nothing.
In what must have been the central square, tied to two posts, the naked bodies of two riders slump, twisted and broken, their faces contorted in agony. Their leathers are torn and mangled on the ground, their bloody flesh covered in gashes. They were tortured. I look away, anger and impotence swelling inside me like a disease.
Caspian’s face pales. “This is… this is worse than I imagined.”
Vaylen’s jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed. “They made an example of them,” he says, his voice grim. “A warning to the rest of us to stay away. Why?” His voice is full of frustration.
In answer, wind whistles through the ruins, seeming to carry the chilling moans of pain from the riders. But they’re not here. They’re long gone. No one was here to help them, and they died all alone.
Vaylen’s voice, though quiet, cuts through the heavy silence. “Take them down. They deserve a proper burial.” He looks around at the assembled riders, his gaze firm. “We won’t leave them here to be desecrated further.”
Without another word, we get to work. Caspian and the senior Skydune—Henry Cliffbecker, I learn—use their powers to dig two tombs. We carry the fallen riders, their bodies light and fragile in our arms. We lay them gently in their final resting place, away from their homes. When the graves are filled, we stand in silence, the last of the setting sun barely breaking through the gloom.
Vaylen steps forward, his voice low but clear. “Peter Ashbar and Benedict Cirrus were our friends,” he says. “They were brave, good men. They didn’t deserve this, nor did their dragons. We will honor their memory and avenge them.”
He raises his hand in promise. We all join him, making the same vow.
Carrying the weight of grief and unanswered questions, Vaylen leads the way as we continue searching the ruined town. We peer in the remnants of homes, shops, and taverns, but we find no survivors, only the chilling evidence of the harpies’ brutal efficiency. We also find no sign of our enemies, or clue as to why they attacked Hearthdale with such ferocity.
After an hour of searching, Vaylen delivers another set of instructions. “We’ll camp outside the town tonight. We’ll conduct another search tomorrow, in daylight, before we depart. Maybe we’ll have more luck then.”
Silently, we follow him as he leads us to a relatively clear area outside the town’s perimeter. We set up camp, our movements methodical and efficient, but our hearts heavy with the unanswered questions that linger in the air.
The night is quiet, the only sounds the crackling of our campfire and the occasional rustle of wind through the ruins. We eat rations, chewing despondently. The conversation is subdued, and I catch several pairs of eyes darting my direction. They hold an accusation in them, as if what happened here was my fault too. They need someone to blame, even though we would’ve had to fight the Screechclaws one way or another.
An hour into our vigil—no one will get any sleep tonight—I glance up from the ground to find Vaylen approaching.
“Can we talk?” He gestures away from the group, extending a hand toward the dark fringes of our camp.
Everyone watches us as we move out of earshot. I don’t know what they expect from me. They have no idea I’m a Weaver, no idea I can talk to my dragon, so what sort of explanation do they think I’ll give for Zephyros’ behavior?
Vaylen stands in front of me, crossing his arms. “What is going on, Rhealyn?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t…” I shake my head, unable to finish. I’d like to tell him. I really would. It would be nice to trust someone with it all, especially him. But I can’t.
“What are you hiding from me?”
My gaze falls to the ground. “Nothing.”
“Look me in the eyes and say that again.”
