Page 15 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
My heart is lodged in my throat as I wait. When the door opens, I spring up, straightening my back. Gilbert Drifttown comes in. He looks smug and struts about the room as if he’s already been chosen.
Has he?!
No. High Prime Stormsong wouldn’t have told him yet.
“Looking kinda sickly there, Wyndward. Didn’t go well for you?” he says, stopping in front of me and looking down his nose, surely trying to make himself feel bigger.
I don’t reply. He’s never been worth my time, much less now.
He sneers, mouth twisting with sardonic delight, and goes back to pacing. He’s good at posturing, and it has taken him this far. I’d love to see him as a Claw while Phoebe and I command him to polish our boots. But what if the High Prime doesn’t choose Phoebe? My stomach sours at the thought. Training with this fool would be about as fun as searing my own eyeball with a hot poker. I can only hope it doesn’t come to that. All I know is I won’t be polishing anyone’s boots if I don’t make it.
At last, the door opens again and High Prime Stormsong appears at the threshold. Phoebe isn’t with him.
Oh, shit!
Gilbert grins hugely.
“Come with me, please,” he says. “Singer Breezehart is waiting.”
Oh, he hasn’t decided yet. Gilbert’s grin turns upside down.
Back in the large chamber, Phoebe stands with her hands interlaced in front of her. Nothing about her expression betrays satisfaction or disappointment, no hint to indicate how her duel went.
“Good luck,” I mouth as I stand next to her.
She mouths it back.
Gilbert takes his spot by my side. We stand shoulder to shoulder as the High Prime appraises us.
“Singer Drifttown, you are chosen. Please, go back to Commander Voltguard.”
“Yes, sir,” Gilbert says with such gusto that I suspect his head will grow to three times its size before the night is over.
My stomach clenches. It should have been Phoebe and me, and now… I scan High Prime Stormsong’s face, hoping to cleave the next name from his features. The temptation to read his thoughts assaults me. A chilled horror floods my chest. I’m not a Weaver. I’m not.
His gaze locks with mine. My breath freezes. I don’t know him, but something behind his gaze suggests doubt… like he wants to choose me, but he isn’t sure it’s the right thing to do.
Heratrix, whisper my name in his ear, please. Don’t desert me now.
High Prime Stormsong lowers his eyes to the floor. He’s quiet for a long time. A cold line of dread descends along my spine. I’m done for.
Wyrm’s rot! What is wrong with her?
He sensed it. I’m a broken liar, pretending to be a perfect candidate deserving of the ultimate honor for an Embernia citizen: a dragon. When in reality, I’m considered a plague, a danger, an elemental with two abilities, a freak of nature who should have been cleansed.
“Singer Wyndward, you are chosen. Please, go back to Commander Voltguard.”
My heart leaps, and the relief that floods me feels like a life-giving elixir after a long drought. I nearly cheer and have to shrink inside my robe, tightening every muscle to contain myself. I don’t think of Phoebe until I’m halfway to the Commander.
Heavy of heart, I glance back.
High Prime Stormsong is resting a hand on her shoulder, telling her something. There is tenderness in his demeanor, something that strikes me as unexpected. It’s there and gone before I can fully register the change in his expression, the way the hard lines around his mouth and eyes had softened.
Phoebe smiles and nods gratefully, then heads toward the changing room. Our eyes meet. She offers me a smile, too. She seems genuinely happy for me. I feel genuinely sorry she’s not coming.
High Prime Stormsong starts in my direction. I look straight ahead, hurry my step and join the Commander and the other chosen.
Later tonight, there will be a different kind of choosing. A dragon will stake his claim on me.
