Page 128 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“Rhealyn?” I hiss her name into the darkness, keeping my voice low. I pull a dagger from the sheath in my boot.
Something brushes against my arm and I nearly strike before warm fingers wrap around my wrist. Rhealyn’s touch.
“Are you all right?” I ask, relief washing through me as I find her outline in the gloom. My free hand instinctively moves to her face, fingers tracing her cheek, confirming she’s real, she’s here.
“Yes,” she whispers, her breath warm against my palm. “But something’s in here with us.”
The clicking stops abruptly. I pull Rhealyn closer, positioning my body between her and the unknown threat. The bond between Fragor and me pulses with warning. Danger surrounds us, though I’ve never known Screechclaws to not kill when they have the chance. They threw Rhealyn in here for a reason.
A faint phosphorescence blossoms in the darkness ahead,weak at first, then strengthening with each passing breath. I angle my body to shield Rhealyn, dagger gripped in my right hand while my left summons a swirling vortex of wind. The currents gather strength, wrapping around my fingers like liquid mercury, ready to strike or defend at my command.
As my vision adjusts to the eerie light, a figure takes shape. The creature exudes pure, malevolent energy. Her feathers are the color of midnight, streaked with blood red. Her eyes, burning coals in the gloom, fix on us with chilling purpose. Terrible, leather-skinned wings unfurl from her spine, slicing the air in time with my own exhale of shock. Her claws, long as two handspans, gleam with a cruel shimmer. She’s no mere harpy.
It’s the Matron. Death incarnate.
Rhealyn gasps behind me, her fingers digging into my shoulder. My throat tightens at the sight of our most feared enemy, but I keep my stance firm, unwavering.
“You will not touch her,” I declare, voice steady despite the cold dread snaking through my veins. “Not while I draw breath.”
The Matron tilts her head, a parody of curiosity.
I blink, struggling to comprehend what my eyes are witnessing. The Matron holds her clawed hand outstretched, a dancing flame cradled in her palm, its orange light casting grotesque shadows across her face.
“Impossible,” I breathe.
No reports, no accounts in our centuries of warfare have ever mentioned Screechclaws wielding elemental powers. Fire belongs to the Skyblazes—not to these winged nightmares. Yet here she stands, controlling flame with casual ease.
My mind races through implications, each more troubling than the last. First their change in tactics, then their presence in Fort Ashmire and their targeted abduction attempt, andnow this? Something fundamental has changed in our ancient conflict, and it scares me to the bone.
I strengthen my wind, forming a barrier and drawing Rhealyn closer behind me. The flame in the Matron’s hand pulses in rhythm with her breathing, growing brighter, then dimming… a living thing responding to her will.
“Be ready,” I whisper to Rhealyn. “Whatever happens, stay behind me.”
Then to my utter bewilderment, the Matron speaks, her voice scraping against my ears like shattered glass, rising and falling in harsh, guttural tones, an animalistic language that should be meaningless to human ears. Yet as I glance sideways, I see Rhealyn’s face illuminated in the dancing firelight—her eyes wide, her jaw slack with recognition.
“What the fuck is she saying?” I whisper, tightening my grip on the wind barrier between us and the creature.
Rhealyn takes a step forward, her gaze locked with the Matron’s burning eyes. My arm shoots out instinctively to block her path, but she pushes against it.
“You understand her?” I ask, unable to mask my shock.
How in the name of the skies can Rhealyn comprehend any of that? No rider, no scholar in our history has deciphered their most basic utterances. Their sounds have remained as impenetrable as their Blighted Arcs for all our centuries of warfare.
Unless...
A cold dread seizes my heart as pieces click into place. Rhealyn’s missing time… did she learn while she was gone?
“Rhealyn,” I murmur, keeping my voice steady despite my racing thoughts. “What does she want?”
43
Rhea
The Matron’s eyes burn into mine, twin coals of hatred that freeze the blood in my veins. She’s so much worse up close, the midnight feathers slick with something dark that might be oil or blood, the massive wings that could envelop me entirely, the talons that could tear through flesh like parchment. Everything about her radiates the malice of a predator that has hunted humans for centuries.
But it’s those eyes that punch through my defenses. They glow amber in the darkness, eerily similar to Tahranis’s gaze. The similarity can’t be coincidence, can it? My stomach twists as terrible possibilities take shape in my mind.
The flame dancing in her palm hypnotizes me. How can she control fire? In all our histories, in all the stories of this long war, no one has ever reported Screechclaws wielding elemental powers. That’s our advantage, our birthright as Embernians. If they’ve somehow gained this ability...
