Page 11 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
What we have was stolen, forbidden moments under the starlight, our bodies and passion finding what our words couldn’t confess. The high walls of duty, honor, and rules stood between us. I was High Prime. She was my subordinate and a Weaver at that. What we experienced wasn’t the beginning of love. It was treason against everything I stand for.
Yet I’d commit it again without hesitation.
Goddess, how do I end this pain? Even a year later, it continues to cloud my judgment and focus—the very things this war demands more than anything.
I wonder if this wound will ever truly heal. Or if I even wish it to. The pain keeps her memory alive when all other traces have vanished into that fucking mountain.
I flex my hand, remembering the brush of her fingertips against mine before she was taken. So close. Had I been stronger, faster, better...
My gaze drifts west toward Hearthdale. I watch the horizon as though she might appear on Zephyros’s back. That accursed dragon. The Sky Order needs him more than ever. The war intensifies with each passing day, and a dragon of his power could turn the tide of a dozen battles. Yet he refuses all riders.
The keepers say he spends his days curled in the darkest corner of his lair in the western caves of the plateau. They leave food at the entrance, but he ignores it, preferring to hunt alone under cover of night. No one dares enter his domain.
What they whisper about in hushed tones troubles me most. How in the dead of night, when the moon has crossed the sky and most souls sleep, he keens in mourning, a sound so haunting it brings tears to their eyes.
I understand his grief. I feel it too.
“High Prime.” A voice behind me. My new Skysinger seeking instruction.
I tuck away Rhea’s ring and turn to face the young man standing at attention behind me. Braylen Mistwalker, barely twenty four, with copper hair cropped short against his skull and eyes the color of spring leaves. A new Skysinger, still wearing his leathers with uncomfortable stiffness.
“High Prime, we’re nearly ready to depart, Sir.” He holds his chin high, a worthy rider for Sylpharen.
I nod to Mistwalker, appreciating his promptness if not his eagerness. He’s my only fresh Skysinger recruit this season, a blessing of sorts. Our Clutch hasn’t suffered many losses this past year, save for Sylpharen’s previous rider who fell in Ashenville, and... Rhealyn.
Her name still stings like acid through my thoughts.
“At ease, Mistwalker,” I say, noting how he stands with textbook precision.
His brilliant mind earned him early graduation from both university and Aerie Academy, yet that same intelligence makes him overthink the simplest social interactions. Yet, I’m fortunate to have him.
Mistwalker is a quick study. His mind absorbs battle formations and aerial maneuvers faster than any recruit I’ve trained. What he lacks in natural grace, he compensates for with precise calculation and unwavering focus. The training season passed without incident, a welcome respite after a year of constant challenges.
The Rite of Flight proved mercifully uneventful this time.No accusations, no arrests, no Cragmere with his pinched face and perpetual scowl.
Of course, the Chief Inspector caused quite the uproar when Rhealyn wasn’t delivered to him as promised. For several days, the little man stormed through Fort Ashmire demanding explanations, his gray mustache quivering with indignation. His beady eyes followed me everywhere, suspicion plain on his face. To this day, he believes I had something to do with her disappearance, helped her escape justice somehow. The thought is almost laughable. If it were up to me, she would be here now, not lost beneath stone and earth.
In the end, even Cragmere had to accept the contingent’s unified account. Eight Skyriders witnessed her vanish into the mountain with that strange figure. What could he do but retreat to Emberton, muttering about conspiracies and corruption within the Sky Order?
Damn it all!There I go again, thoughts circling back to her like a falcon returning to the falconer’s glove. A year has passed. The war continues. My duty remains. Yet my mind betrays me at every turn, seeking her in memories when I should be focused on the battles ahead.
“Sir?” Mistwalker shifts his weight, uncomfortable with my prolonged silence. “Should I fetch Skyrider Breezehart.”
I straighten my shoulders. “No. I’ll do that.”
The plateau’s familiar sounds filter back into my awareness, sounds I deliberately shut out as I lost myself in memories. Dragons snorting and rumbling as Claws secure supply packs to their harnesses. Metal clasps clinking against scaled hides. Excited chattering of novice Skyriders preparing for their journey to Cinderhold. Leather creaking as saddles are adjusted. Orders being called across the plateau as the Primes check weapons and provisions.
“Tell Prime Emberstone to lead the formation,” I add. “I’ll bring up the rear with Skysinger Breezehart.”
Mistwalker salutes, fist to his shoulder, and hurries away.
I cast one final glance toward the Dragon’s Teeth Range, then I head to one of the lifts. Breezehart better be ready.
The machinery hums as the lift sinks into the heart of Sky’s Edge, the metal cable sliding smoothly through the pulley system controlled by a group of Bolts somewhere deep in the plateau.
When it stops with a clank, I slide the metal door open and stride through the corridor toward Breezehart’s quarters. The torches cast long shadows against the stone walls as I approach her door.
I rap my knuckles against the wood. “Breezehart? We depart in ten minutes.”
