Page 137 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“What did the feathered bitch say?” Dakar asks, eager.
Vaylen runs a hand through his hair, mussing those brown and gold strands I’ve come to love. “Here’s where things get tricky. Wyndward and I have been going crazy withconjectures, and we need fresh perspectives. We need your help.”
The words sound so strange coming from him, the ever-capable High Prime asking for help.
“The Matron’s words were choppy,” Vaylen continues. “Like trying to piece together a scroll that’s been torn to shreds.”
Phoebe lifts her pencil to her notebook.
Vaylen nods in my direction, letting me talk now that he set the tone.
I clear my throat. “She said something about curses lifting and time being near. She mentioned Heratrix and said she… awakens.”
The room goes deadly silent. Cliffbecker pales.
“Heratrix awakens?” Phoebe whispers breathlessly.
“She also said to choose a path,” I add, trying to keep my voice steady.
“What else?” Cliffbecker asks.
“That’s it because she went from talking to trying to kill us pretty fucking fast.”
Dakar whistles low. “That’s some heavy wyrm-shit.”
“The craziest part?” I say, forcing myself to meet their eyes. “She controlled fire like a Skyblaze.”
Nate’s massive fist slams into his palm. “That’s impossible.”
“I saw it,” Vaylen confirms. “She nearly burned Rhealyn’s face off.”
I look at their faces—suspicious, concerned, curious—and wonder which of them will be the first to run out the door and call the Commander. I put my goal on Cliffbecker.
“That’s not all,” Vaylen says, his voice lowering to a grave tone that makes my stomach knot.
Dakar throws his hands up dramatically. “Slow down, HighPrime. I’m still tryin’ to digest the Matron spittin’ fire like a pissed-off Skyblaze. Give a man a moment before you drop more wyrm-shit on his head.”
Trust Dakar to find humor in apocalyptic revelations. A small smile tips my lips.
Vaylen’s eyes find mine, silently asking permission. I give him a slight nod, my throat suddenly dry. He’s still protecting me by not revealing I’m a Weaver, but we can’t hide everything if we want their help.
“Wyndward started regaining memories about her time under the mountain,” he announces. “Things she experienced during that missing year.”
All eyes swing to me like compass needles finding north. The weight of their stares presses against my skin.
“Tell them what you saw,” Vaylen urges softly.
I take a deep breath, forcing the words past the fear clogging my throat. “I saw… I saw Heratrix,” I say bluntly. No point dancing around it. “Not just legends or stories. The actual goddess of all dragons, sleeping under that mountain.”
Phoebe’s pencil falls from her fingers, clattering against the stone floor. No one moves to pick it up.
“She was... massive,” I continue. “Her color was different. Nothing like our dragons.” The memory flashes vividly, scales that seemed to hold galaxies within them, wings that could blot out the sun. “And behind her… there were thousands of dragon eggs.”
The shock in the room is palpable. Cliffbecker’s face has gone ashen. Nate’s mouth hangs open. Even Dakar, for once, has nothing clever to say.
Vaylen steps forward, taking charge again. “Now you understand why we’re only trustingyouwith this information. If word spreads, half of Embernia would call us mad while theother half would tear apart every mountain in the realm looking for dragon eggs.”
“Total frenzy,” I add, following his lead. “Can you imagine? The desperate, the power-hungry, the zealots, all scrambling to claimHeratrix’s legacy? We’d have civil war before the Screechclaws could even sharpen their claws.”
