Page 103 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Braylen and I use wind currents to lift the crates, earning side-eyes from the others who struggle physically. Let them stare. There’s only one talent I need to hide. Sweat trickles down my spine as I guide crate after crate to the landing field where dragons will approach one at a time.
“Careful with that!” Braylen yelps when I nearly drop a container marked MEDICAL SUPPLIES. He helps by using his own air current to right the container. “The tinctures in there could be volatile when mixed.”
I adjust my wind stream, shoulders burning from the constant focus required to maintain control. This isn’t the vengeful fighting I’d imagined for my return.
After the crates come the saddles—massive leather contraptions with straps, buckles, and attachment points for cargo. Each must be perfectly balanced or risk injury to dragon or loss of supplies.
At midday, I collapse onto a wooden bench, my legs trembling traitorously. The simple act of hauling crates and saddles shouldn’t leave me this winded. Before my disappearance, I could maintain wind currents for hours during training without breaking a sweat. Now my arms tremble as if a gale beats against them, testing their strength.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, massaging my quivering muscles.
The other riders sprawl across the yard, laughing and passing around canteens. They don’t look half as exhausted as I feel. Even Braylen, who’s about as physically imposing as a sparrow, sits comfortably against a post, looking up at the clouds.
I grab a canteen and gulp greedily, wondering about my weak body. Was I starved the entirety of that missing year? Did I continue to refuse Tahranis’s food out of stubbornness until my body began consuming itself? Or maybe at some point, they simply stopped bothering to feed me? And why did theylet me go? Or did they? I like to think that I escape, but what if that’s not true? What if there’s a more sinister reason behind my return?
—You push yourself too hard, Rhealyn.
Zephyros’s voice slides into my thoughts, smooth as silk. Through our bond, I feel his massive form circling high above, enjoying the warm air currents.
—I’m fine,I shoot back, wiping sweat from my brow.Just out of practice.
—Your body needs time to heal.A pause, then,I am glad the Stormsong whelp didn’t send you to the front lines.
—Back to calling him a whelp, are we?I glare up at the sky where I know he’s circling.
—I thought we did not like him anymore,Zephyros replies, sarcasm coloring his tone.
—Younever liked him in the first place.I take another swig, nearly choking when I swallow too fast.
—I was starting to,Zephyros admits.That whelp explored the tunnels beneath Hearthdale looking for you, and he remained loyal to you while you were gone.
My throat tightens as unwanted warmth spreads through my chest. The image of Vaylen crawling through dark, cramped tunnels, calling my name. And he remained loyal while I…
—Don’t,I snap, my mental voice as sharp as Zephyros’s talons.Don’t remind me about any of that. Don’t talk to me about Vaylen. Not now, not ever.
The bond between us goes still for a moment, like the eerie quiet of a funeral.
—Fine,Zephyros finally answers, his tone deliberately neutral.Then tell me about your plan. The one brewing behind those angry eyes since we left Castle Stonefall. How are we going to get answers about our memory gaps?
I instinctively glance around to make sure nobody’swatching me have this silent conversation. The other riders are still lounging, paying me no attention. I’m about to explain when Dakar strolls in my direction and sits next to me.
“So, what’s your story?” he asks.
I frown, turning to face him fully. “My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” He stretches his legs out, leather pants creaking. “Everybody’s talkin’ about you. The rider who disappeared for a year, came back with no memory, got a royal pardon for killin’ a Neutro. There’s gotta be more to it.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, and I wasn’tpardoned. I’m innocent.” I don’t needthatparticular rumor to be seen as fact, even if it is. Cindergrasp deserved to die, and I would kill him all over again if I had to. What I hate the most, however, is the idea of people thinking the King did me a favor because I’m one of his pets.
I take another swig from my canteen, buying time. The liquid is warm now, almost unpleasant.
“I’m not the kind who goes around sharing my story with just anyone.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you that kind of person, Cloudwalker?”
He grins, the red loops in his ears catching sunlight. “Sure. Got nothin’ to hide.” He gestures at me with an open palm. “Ask me anythin’. Anything at all.”
I study him, considering. The questions pile up in my mind—about Vaylen, about what happened during my absence, about Eleonora. But I remain silent. Every question I ask means one he’ll throw back at me.
Dakar’s smile widens. “So you’re one of those people with many secrets then?”
