Page 12 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
No answer.
I knock again, more firmly. “Skysinger Breezehart, report.”
Silence. Unusual for Phoebe, who values punctuality almost as much as I do.
I push the door open, half-expecting to find her asleep at her desk after another night of research. Instead, the chamber stands empty, save for an open trunk in the middle of the floor.
Books spill from its confines—ancient tomes, their leather bindings cracked with age. Papers marked with strange symbols lie scattered beside carefully labeled scrolls.
I remember Breezehart’s reaction at Rhealyn’s disappearance once the news spread through Fort Ashmire, despite our efforts to contain it. The details of what happened in Hearthdale were meant to remain between those involved, the Commander, and the Primes, but secrets in the Sky Order are like diseases. They spread fast.
Breezehart cornered me in the courtyard just a couple ofweeks after our return from the first thorough search of the cave system around Hearthdale that yielded no answer.
“The mountain didn’t swallow her. Not exactly,” she insisted, her red hair wild and her green eyes ablaze with purpose. “It was the Goddess.”
“Heratrix?” I almost laughed, but how was Rhealyn’s disappearance less strange than this claim? Besides, Breezehart was the only one offering any sort of conjecture about what happened. So, against my better judgement, hope made me listen.
“I read it…somewhere,” she said, pale face blushing. “A bedtime tale about the Goddess Heratrix and her rider resting beneath an ancient, sleeping giant.”
“Children’s stories?” I shook my head, reason returning, but she persisted.
“The Flametop Mountains, High Prime. That’s the giant. And that man who took Rhealyn… he must be the rider from the tale.”
I nearly laughed then, the idea too fantastical. But I’d seen the mountain open like a doorway, watched it swallow Rhealyn whole. My training insisted on rational explanations, but my eyes had witnessed something beyond reason. What Breezehart said made no sense, but little else did.
“Where exactly did you read this?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes. “I can’t remember. It’s been a long time, and I’ve… I’ve read a lot of stories about the Goddess.
I nearly dismissed her then, thinking she was one of those people obsessed with Heratrix, but she seemed so sure of herself.
“I wish we had an explanation, Breezehart, even one involving the Goddess herself.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, fatigue weighing my shoulders. “But what can we possibly do with a half-remembered bedtime tale? The SkyOrder deals in facts, in tangible threats we can face with steel and elemental powers.”
Her face fell, but determination still burned in her eyes.
“I understand your frustration, but...” I softened my tone. “If you recall anything more concrete, bring it to me immediately. For now, we have duties we can’t ignore while we chase shadows and stories.”
I meant it. Any thread, however thin, that might lead to Rhealyn, I would pursue it. I started to leave, but she spoke once more.
“High Prime,” she said, her voice steadying. “I request formal access to the restricted archives in the Sky’s Edge library.”
I turned, studying her face. “The restricted archives? Those texts are centuries old.”
“The Sky’s Edge collection is the most extensive in Embernia.” She straightened, professional determination shaping her stance. “I give you my word as a Skysinger that I’ll find that tale. I’m sure it exists somewhere in those old tomes and scrolls.”
Her conviction stirred something in me, not hope precisely—that had burned out after our failed attempts at the caves. But perhaps its shadow.
“Very well.” I nodded curtly. “I’ll speak to the Commander to request permission. But your duties to the Sky Order come first, Breezehart.”
“Always, High Prime.”
I remember the Commander’s reaction all too well. When I approached her with Breezehart’s request, her eyebrows shot up, suggesting I’d gone crazy.
“Fairy tales, Stormsong?” She adjusted her tight bun, skepticism etched into every line of her face. “I have Screechclawstearing through our eastern border, and you want one of your Skysingers researching bedtime stories?”
I stood at attention before her desk, my face betraying nothing. “I understand your concerns, Commander. But we still have no explanation for what happened at Hearthdale.”
“The war doesn’t pause for mysteries,” she snapped, rifling through reports with agitated fingers. “That attack was an anomaly.”
