Page 17 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
A nervous silence descends upon the hall. His courtiers, sensing his displeasure, exchange uneasy glances.
One of them, a man with a perpetually worried expression, steps forward tentatively. “Your Majesty, I believe there was a… miscommunication. It seems the throne was not brought in.”
Stonefall’s face flushes a shade of angry red. “Miscommunication?” he hisses, his voice rising. “This is an outrage! I am the King! I require a throne!” His gaunt frame trembles with barely contained fury.
He throws a final, withering glare at us and the assembled crowd, his expression a mask of wounded pride and barely suppressed rage. “This… this is unacceptable,” he sputters, his voice trembling. “I will not be subjected to such indignity.”
With a dramatic flourish, he turns on his heel, his heavy robes swirling around him like a petulant storm cloud. “We are leaving,” he announces, his voice dripping with icy disdain. “I have no time for such incompetence.” He storms off the dais, his courtiers scrambling to follow in his wake, leaving us standing there in utter bewilderment.
Silence reigns for a drawn-out moment.
“That was…something,” Silas murmurs next to me.
Slowly, the buzz of the crowd returns, gossip about the King’s latest tantrum hot on their lips.
And this is the King we serve?I shake my head.No, we serve Embernia, not this man.
Commander Voltguard retakes the dais. “Everyone,” the Commander continues, “the Skyriders will soon leave with their Primes to meet their dragons for the first time, so go ahead and enjoy their company and the rest of the party.”
Silas is the first to leave us, rushing to his family, wearing a huge grin that blots out his usually sardonic manner. His middle brother sits in a wheelchair next to Lord Pyrewing. I hadn’t seen him earlier. I had assumed he wasn’t here, the whole affair too painful for him to bear. He smiles when Silas shakes his hand, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes nor lasts more than a few seconds.
As Silas talks to his father, Merrill glares our way, his gaze going from Gilbert to me and back again. The animosity in his expression is undeniable and reminds me that he was a Skysinger, not a Skyblaze, an inheritance from his mother’s side.
Others rush to share their excitement with their families and receive their congratulations. I descend the dais, doing my best not to look awkward and out of place. There’s no one here to celebrate with me. My father is at home, the eternal recluse since my mother died. I meander toward a table laden with drinks and food. I’m not thirsty or hungry, but I have to do something other than stand here looking like an unwanted pariah.
I huff, thinking how little has changed despite my newly minted status. I’m not a member of their elite, at least not yet.
But they just gave me the key.
Now, as a Skysinger, there are fewer people who stand higher than me.
Taking the glass to my lips, I pretend to sip the expensive vintage. I find myself wishing Phoebe was here, but she’s gone—fated to be a Claw, at least for now. I have a feeling she won’t remain one for long. She’s quiet and sweet, but I often noticed her determination at the Academy. Few others matched it.
I can’t help but think I stole her spot.
Too bad, Phoebe. I’d say I’m sorry, but…
Gilbert appears at my side. His shoulders look massive in the padded jacket. He looks top-heavy, like a chicken.
“That scaredy cat, Phoebe Breezehart, didn’t deserve a place in the Sky Order.” His washed-out green eyes look me up and down. “I don’t think you do either.”
“Good thing it’s not up to assholes like you.”
His nostrils flare, and he steps closer. He’s into using his height to intimidate people shorter than him. Maybe he doesn’t realize that makes his throat highly accessible for a quick jab.
“You need to tread carefully around me, Wyndward,” he says between clenched teeth. “You could be my ally or my little bitch. It’s up to you.”
“Of course, it’s up to me,” I reply, anger boiling in my gut, “you just didn’t list all the options. You left out the one where I rip out your balls and stuff them in your filthy mouth. I don’t suffer bullies.”
“You stupid bitch! I’m going to teach?—”
Behind him, someone clears their throat.
Gilbert whirls, a rabid expression on his face that immediately falls off when he discovers who stands there.
High Prime Stormsong fixes Gilbert with his patented cold gaze, one that I’ve already cataloged as the most withering stare I’ve ever seen from anyone. I had several fierce professors at the Academy, but they have been dethroned.
“You were saying, Drifttown?” he asks.
