Page 5 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
But the mountain remains whole. A low growl rumbles from Zephyros, the sound laced with confusion, then frustration. He strikes again, and again, each blow met with the same resistance. He’s getting nowhere.
He pulls back, a colossal shadow against the darkening sky. He lands heavily on a distant ridge, head low, wings slack. Defeat radiates from him, a palpable wave of despair. Confusion tightens my chest. He hasn’t given up, has he? Zephyros is tenacious, fierce. He doesn’t give up easily. It makes no sense.
Notos and Lithos circle above him, their cries high-pitched and distressed. Even Fragor joins them, a wave of disquiet rippling through our bond.
I stare at the immense landmass, the cursed, unyielding stone, wondering what manner of sorcery it possesses.
Closing my eyes, I reach through the connection binding me to Fragor.
Rhealyn. Zephyros. Help us understand.My silent plea travels skyward to my dragon. Fragor’s consciousness brushes against mine in acknowledgment, his attention shifting toward his silver kin hunched upon the ridge.
After a moment, Fragor’s thoughts swirl back to me, a confusing eddy of sensations. Nothing clear. Nothing useful. Just fragments of anger, frustration, impotence. My jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth. Not even Zephyros’s bond can tell me where she is.
Confusion tears at my mind, sharp as a blade.How?How can the mountain resist even a dragon?
“High Prime.” Cliffbecker’s voice, rough with exhaustion, pulls my attention back to the task at hand. “We can’t… we can’t break through.” Sweat glistens on his brow, mirroring the strain in his eyes. Stonefist stands beside him, shoulders slumped, his youthful face etched with defeat.
“Keep digging!” I bark the order, more to drown out my own rising panic than out of genuine expectation. Their earth magic, strong as it is, proves futile against whatever power holds this mountain captive. Every handful of dirt and stonethey manage to dislodge reappears within moments, as relentless as the tide returning to shore.
“But it heals faster than we can break it,” Cliffbecker protests.
“Continue.” The clipped order leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. I refuse to accept this.
Dakar approaches, his footsteps heavy in the dust. His leathers are still stained with Screechclaw blood, and fatigue lines his face.
“Vaylen.” He plants himself directly in my path. “Call ‘em off.”
My jaw tightens. “Step aside, Cloudwalker.”
“Look at ‘em.” He gestures toward Cliffbecker and Stonefist, both hunched over. “They fought the Screechclaws. Now they’re pourin’ the last of their strength into this... impossibility.”
“I won’t abandon her.”
His expression softens, surprising me. “No one’s askin’ you to. But this...” He waves at the unyielding stone face. “The mountain rejects our magic. Even her dragon can’t breach it, mate.”
I glance at Zephyros, still motionless on the ridge. His connection to Rhealyn runs deeper than blood, yet even he has halted his assault. The knowledge settles like lead in my stomach.
“We need rest,” Dakar continues. “Food. Time to think. Cliffbecker’s half out cold, and the new Skydune’s hands are raw and bleeding. What use will they be if they keel over?”
Logic wars with desperation inside me. I want to deny him, to order everyone to continue until their last breath. But a High Prime must see truth, even when it cuts like a blade.
Finally, I relent. “At first light, we’ll try again.”
Dakar nods, relief visible in the slump of his shoulders. “We’ll find a way,” he promises. “Whatever took her, wherever she is, we’ll track her down.”
I turn away, unable to voice the fear lodged in my throat… that wherever Rhealyn is now, she’s utterly alone.
“Set up camp.” The words taste sour like an admission of failure.
The Skyriders move silently around me, gathering the remains of tents shredded by the mysterious man and his damn storm. No one speaks. The mountain looms over us, a silent soldier guarding its secrets.
Guarding Rhealyn.
Silas approaches with his dragon’s saddlebags, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Need some help with your tent, High Prime?” The question is innocent enough, but his eyes hold accusation.
“I require nothing.”
He walks away, jaw set in a rigid line. Prime Emberstone watches me with curiosity as if she’s discovered a new specimen. Even Dakar keeps his distance, tending to Notos, his dragon, with unusual focus. In fact, they’re all watching me. Analyzing my reactions. They pretend to busy themselves with camp duties, but their sidelong glances burn into me like brands.
