Page 16 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
7
Rhea
We, the chosen, return to the party to the awaiting guests. I stand proudly on the dais among my mates, chin held high.
The robes we wore during the tests are gone, replaced by form fitting brown leather outfits: dragon rider gear. My new trousers are reinforced at the knees to increase durability. My boots are sturdy, with a strong, non-slip sole to grip my feet securely to dragon scales, and sheaths for hidden daggers, which we’ll wear once in battle. My jacket is waist-long and embraces me like a friend. The insignia on my left arm marks me as a Skysinger, the compass rose with fierce winds swirling around it.
A Skysinger! Not only a simple Singer anymore.
By Heratrix! I did it!
The guests look at us as if we are divine—not the same lowly candidates who left little more than an hour ago. Even if we were the best of the best of Aerie Academy, it is now that all those years of work really matter.
Commander Voltguard takes center stage. “I give you our new Skyriders. The best of Aerie Academy now chosen into the Sky Order to protect Embernia and all its citizens from the tyranny of those who would steal our freedom.”
The guests cheer and clap, their wine glasses and delicacies momentarily forgotten. Both married and single women eye the men with hunger. I’m afraid for them. As a woman rider, the men only eye me with distrust. Few men want to be with a woman more powerful than they are. That’s why most female riders marry male riders—when the dalliance rules allow it.
“And now…” She smiles and gestures with both hands toward the hall’s entrance, where two heralds take horns to their lips and play a fanfare.
The gilded doors are thrown open, and King Craven Stonefall waltzes in, followed by a retinue of courtiers. Almost swallowed by the heavy velvet of his robes, he weaves his way through the throng of guests. I watch him closely, curious as this is the first time I lay eyes on the man. I’ve heard many things about him, but I’ll make my own judgment.
The first thing I notice are his shifty gray eyes, and the way they dart furtively from face to face, taking in the scene with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. A smirk plays on his lips, what seems like a calculated attempt to mask insecurity. A narrow, yet ostentatious crown rests atop his head, limp blond hair beneath it.
Behind him, his vain crew scurries to keep pace.
“Observe the awe, Your Majesty,” one of them says.
One of the guests, a woman in a pink dress, curtsies. “Such grace, such majesty. Truly, a king among men,” she says.
Stonefall, buoyed by their praise, puffs out his chest, though the gesture only serves to emphasize his lack of substance. The man is a wraith, looking like a coat rack with too much fabric weighing him down. He raises his weak chin, his gaze sweeping across the crowd with a practiced air of contempt.
Stonefall, finally reaching the dais, ascends the steps with a delicate, almost theatrical flourish. He pauses at the top, his gaze sweeping over us. A flicker of something crosses his thin face. Fear? It’s gone in an instant, replaced my haughtiness.
Mouth twisted, he gestures with a languid wave of his hand, his voice a reedy drawl that barely carries over the hushed murmur of the crowd.
“Down,” he commands. “I require this space.”
We exchange bewildered expressions but obey. The King watches us, his smirk widening as we take our proper place below him, literally and figuratively.
Once we’re settled, he spreads his arms, his thin frame attempting to fill the space, clears his throat, and looks out at the hall, not us.
“New Skyriders,” he says, his voice attempting to project an air of regal authority, but falling short, “you stand before me, the victors of the Rite of Flight. Your skill and courage are… commendable.”
His words are laced with a saccharine sweetness, but his body betrays him. His shoulders are tense, his hands fidgeting with the heavy rings on his fingers. Those gray eyes, which never quite settle on anyone for long, hold a flicker of suspicion, a cold distrust that belies his carefully chosen words.
“Embernia,” he continues, “faces perilous times. We need strong wings and loyal hearts to defend our borders. And you,” he gestures vaguely in our direction, “are those wings. I am… pleased,” he adds, the word sounding forced, “to welcome you into our ranks.”
He offers us a thin, tight-lipped smile, a gesture that does little to mask the underlying animosity. It’s clear he sees us not as heroes, but as necessary evils, tools to be used and discarded. He speaks of loyalty, but his gaze suggests he expects none, offering none in return. The air crackles with unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgment that he feels this alliance is built on necessity, not trust.
It seems everything I’ve heard about him is true. This man is a weasel, and he doesn’t trust us. They say he fears our power because it’s real, unlike his. He’s only Embernia’s King because Heratrix blessed his family with her protection, because she made all the dragons swear fealty to the realm and its leaders.
But with Heratrix gone… how much longer will that fealty last?
The answer is: a long time. Heratrix has been missing for centuries, and yet, here we are. Except this Stonefall king is not like others who have come before. He seems to be nothing but a paranoid coward.
Done with his speech, the King scans the dais, a flicker of annoyance shaping his features. He seems to be searching for something, his eyes darting from one side to the other. A frown creases his brow, and he shifts his weight impatiently.
“Where is it?” he mutters, his voice barely audible, but carrying an edge of irritation. “The throne,” he says, louder this time, his voice laced with petulance. “Where is my throne?”
