Page 51 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“There was a child named Fern.” My voice drops lower. “She drugged me with something. And the man who took me...” I swallow hard, the memory of those amber eyes making my skin crawl. “He had eyes like fire. Called me something strange… Omneira.”
Phoebe scribbles frantically, her pencil scratching across the page.
“The sword they found in Hearthdale,” I continue, “those symbols were in the chamber where they brought me. They glowed on the walls and pulsed like they were alive.”
“Alive?” Phoebe’s voice rises with excitement. “Like magic?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know.” Frustration flares hot in my chest. “Why can’t I remember anything useful? Just these useless scraps that don’t make sense!”
My fist slams the table hard enough to make the books jump. Pain shoots up my arm, but it feels good, this pain. It’s real.
Phoebe doesn’t even flinch at my outburst. Instead, her green eyes soften with understanding, her pencil pausing mid-sentence. Vaylen shifts slightly closer, his presence offering silent comfort as my knuckles already begin to redden from my outburst.
“I’d be doing worse if I’d lost a year of my life,” he says matter-of-factly.
“If I were in your place, I’d probably be hurling books at the wall and alphabetizing my curses,” Phoebe adds with a small smile.
The tension bleeds from my shoulders. They don’t look at me like I’m broken or dangerous—just someone struggling to piece their life back together.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “For not treating me like I’m crazy. I’ve been angry about all the time lost, and anxious about the trial.”
The urge to throw my arms around them both nearly overwhelms me, to feel anchored by their solidity, their unwavering presence. But I resist, not trusting myself to hold it together if I give in to that impulse.
“Shit,” I mutter instead, blinking rapidly. “When did I get so sentimental? Next thing you know I’ll be writing poetry about sunsets and picking flowers.”
Phoebe laughs. “I’d pay good gold to see that.”
The blue depths of Vaylen’s eyes hold a warmth thatspreads through my chest like an embrace. They seem to say what his lips don’t,I’ve always known you’re good. Not just useful or skilled, but good at my core. The conviction in his gaze makes my throat tight.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says, his voice steady and certain. “Together.”
The word hangs between us, weighty with promise. Not leader and subordinate. Not High Prime and wayward Skysinger.Together.
I open my mouth, but the perfect sarcastic retort dies on my tongue. For once, I don’t want to hide behind sardonic words or quick wit. I just nod, not trusting my voice.
A soothing rumble fills my mind, like distant thunder across a summer sky.
—You have me as well, little one.
Zephyros. His presence wraps around my consciousness like a familiar blanket. Even when I was lost to myself, he waited. Even knowing me completely, he chose me.
—You are not alone in this fight,he continues, his ancient voice resonating through me.You never were.
I close my eyes briefly, savoring the dual shelter of Vaylen’s steady presence and Zephyros’s unwavering loyalty. The world may think me a monster. Silas and his ilk may whisper behind my back. The King himself may demand my execution. But at this moment, with the High Prime’s trust and my dragon’s devotion, I feel like the luckiest person alive.
Let them come for me. I’m not afraid.
18
Rhea
Vaylen rises from his chair, reluctance written in the slowness of his movements. “I should return to my duties. There’s a Council of Primes meeting about the new Screechclaw patterns.”
I feel his absence already, like a shadow falling across the warmth of a fire. “Wait,” I say, reaching for his arm before I can stop myself. I manage not to touch him, however, salvaging the moment. “Has there been any word from Emberton? About my trial?”
His expression clouds, jaw tightening. “Nothing yet. The Commander hasn’t mentioned anything, but...” He hesitates.
“But what?” I press.
