Page 104 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
I say nothing, just hold his gaze. The muscle in my jaw twitches with tension.
He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Thing about secrets is, they all eventually come to light. And some,” he shrugs, “some are so obvious that only a blind person won’t see ‘em.”
My stomach tightens. So he knows about Vaylen and me. Or suspects, at least. The air between us grows heavy with unspoken accusations.
“Some secrets,” I finally reply, my voice steady despite the animosity building inside me, “are no one’s wyrm-rotted business but my own.”
Dakar laughs, patting my shoulder as he stands. “Then make sure you keep ‘em that way, Wyndward, else you… ruin things.” He walks away, leaving me with burning cheeks and the uncomfortable sensation that I’ve just confirmed his suspicions instead of deflecting them.
“Load up!” Dakar bellows across the yard. “Break’s over, you lazy wyrm-lovers!”
I haul myself up, muscles protesting. The next two hours blur into a haze of straps, crates, and shouted instructions. We load six dragons in sequence before Zephyros descends, his massive form casting shadows across the entire landing area.
“Your turn,” Dakar says, clapping me on the shoulder.
Zephyros lands with deliberate grace, his gaze flicking dismissively over the waiting supplies.
—I am no pack mule, he grumbles through our bond.Five thousand years of glorious conquest, and I am reduced to hauling tinned meat and wiping supplies for two-legged hatchlings who think fighting means tripping with flair?
—I’m sure you have to do this every time you get a new rider, don’t you?
He ignores my comment.
—I would rather return to sleeping in my cave at Sky’s Edge.
—Oh, so you wish I’d stayed gone so you could keep napping in peace.
He gives me a mental shrug.
—Gee, thanks. Remind me to disappear again next week.
When we finally finish loading, Dakar gives the signal,and we take flight. We travel a meandering route to South Pass, avoiding the most direct path in case of Screechclaw scouts. Below us, the landscape tells the story of our losing war. Vast stretches of blackened earth scar the rolling hills and green forests. Burnt villages. Empty fields where farms once stood.
“How bad has it gotten?” I ask when we land beside Dakar at a lookout point.
Dakar’s face darkens as he stares across the scorched landscape. “Worse than anyone’s sayin’. Lost two outposts last month alone.” He spits on the ground. “Whatever took you for that year picked a damn good time to steal a rider. War’s turned against us.”
In a distant ridge, four Skyriders circle endlessly, eyes trained on the horizon. Sentinels, watching for the enemy that increasingly slips past our defenses with their erratic behavior. Dakar looks in their direction with a combination of sadness and fury.
“When we go back, wear your goggles. You haven’t earned bypassin’ the rules and standards, Wyndward. Besides, I don’t want you givin’ my riders a bad example.”
Damn him and the standards!I hate the stupid goggles, but if it’s a privilege I have to earn, he better believe I will.
Unloading at South Pass is even more exhausting than loading was. My arms tremble as I direct wind currents to lower crates. Meanwhile, a couple of the stationed riders lounge casually around the perimeter, seemingly ready but wearing bored expressions.
“Must be nice,” Crooked Nose mutters, carrying a sack of grain on his back. “Standing around while we do the real work.”
“They’ve been fighting for three days straight,” Braylen says quietly beside me. “This might be theirfirst rest.” He has been staying close to me, watching me closely as if trying to learn what he can from me.
I give him an approving nod. The man might be painfully awkward, but he notices things others miss. While Crooked Nose complains, Braylen actually understands the bigger picture. He reminds me a bit of Phoebe with that observant nature, always collecting information, storing it away for later use.
Braylen returns my nod with a hesitant smile that transforms his serious face. His wind manipulation is precise too—not showy or aggressive like some fresh riders who think bigger gusts mean better control. He directs each crate with careful attention, adjusting for weight distribution.
I like him, but I can’t afford attachments right now. Anyone close to me could become collateral damage. My mother paid for that lesson with her life. Vaylen with his heart.
I strengthen my wind current, perhaps more forcefully than necessary, and the crate lands with a thud. No, this isn’t the time for making friends. This is the time to risk it all and convince Zephyros to help me.
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