Page 55 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
—Apologies. It is probably nothing. Go.
—It’s always like this with you. Shutting me out when it suitsyou, like with your offspring. You said we’d talk about it, and we still haven’t.
—Everything in good time. Now go. Don’t hide. Show them your fire. They respect strength, these riders.
Zephyros’s voice warms my blood with renewed courage. Though I can tell something worries him.
—They want to see if you are broken?he adds.Show them how tough you are. Drink. Eat. Talk. Be among people again.
His consciousness retreats as I sense his massive body unfurling from his perch, wings snapping wide. The sensation of flight floods our bond—vast open sky, wind rushing past scales, the world shrinking beneath powerful wings.
I lift my chin, imagine armor around me. Fuck their stares. I’ve survived worse than tavern gossip.
“Wyrm’s rot,” I say to the silent room. “Take a sketch, it’ll last longer.”
Someone snickers. Another coughs awkwardly. A few turn away, conversation reluctantly resuming in hushed tones.
“Well?” I call out. “Anyone going to offer the resurrected woman a drink?”
My hands tremble at my side, and I curl them into fists. This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed with the dusty scrolls and ghosts of the past. But I’m already here, and turning tail now would only confirm their worst suspicions.To all the hells with them. If they want to stare, let them stare at a bonded Skysinger who isn’t afraid, even if that Skysinger is lying through her teeth about the dread coursing through her veins.
A man rises to his feet in the back corner, chair scraping against wooden floorboards. I recognize him instantly—Dakar Cloudwalker, Vaylen’s closest friend in the Skysinger Clutch, my Clutch. He’s sitting with a group of veterans, their stern faces and hard eyes marking them as survivors of countless Screechclaw attacks.
Shit. Of all the people to call me over.
I’ve never even exchanged a word with Cloudwalker before, though we fought side by side at Hearthdale. His reputation precedes him—fierce in battle, loyal to Vaylen, and fucking legendary. My stomach knots.
“Wyndward!” His voice carries across the tavern. “Get over here. I’ll buy ya that drink.” He gestures to an empty chair at their table. “Good to have a strong Skysinger back in our Clutch.”
The entire tavern watches, waiting to see what I’ll do. I scan desperately for Nate’s bulk or Adelaide’s silver-streaked hair, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I’ve got perfect timing, as always.
I force a smile that feels more like baring teeth. “How generous, Cloudwalker,” I say, sounding nonchalant. “I didn’t know you were aware of my existence or cared.”
“Don’t,” he replies with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But seein’ how you came back from the dead, figure I should see what makes you so special.”
The challenge in his voice is unmistakable. Walk away now, and I’ll be marked as a coward. Face him, and at least I keep my dignity.
I take a steadying breath and walk toward the veterans’ table, feeling dozens of eyes tracking my every step. My legs are steady but my insides quiver like a bowstring. Cloudwalker and the others have fought alongside Vaylen for years while I went up and disappeared after my first battle? What right do I have to sit among them?
Every step feels like marching toward my own execution, but I lift my chin high. If Cloudwalker wants to test me, let him. He can’t be worse than Silas.
At least, I hope so.
I take the empty seat beside Dakar, bracing myself as hisdark gaze sweeps over me. He raises a finger, and the barkeep nods, sending a serving girl scurrying with a fresh tankard. The wood beneath my arms is sticky with spilled beer.
“Drink up, Wyndward,” Dakar says, his black hair tied in a messy knot atop his head. The red loops piercing his ears catch the tavern light as he leans forward. “Hear you don’t remember where you’ve been the past year. That true?”
Before I can answer, I mark the other occupants at the table. The Airglide Twins sit opposite me, Madeline and Morwenna, identical in their pristine Sky Order uniforms despite the late hour, cousins to the King. They stare at me with matching expressions of detached curiosity, like they’re psychopaths and I’m the cat they plan to dismember.
And then there’s Eleonora Nightsong. Her mass of dirty blond hair is pulled back in a severe braid, those slate-colored eyes narrowed as they lock onto mine. The woman is tall and lean as a spear, and just as deadly, and if I’m not mistaken she has a thing for Vaylen—at least she did last time I was here.
“Not a damn thing,” I reply, grabbing the tankard as it arrives and taking a long swallow. The beer is bitter and strong, exactly what I need. “Trust me, I wish I did.”
Eleonora’s lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. “Convenient,” she says, her rich contralto voice carrying an edge sharper than dragon claws. “Disappear for a year, return with no memory, and yet the High Prime himself escorts you back.”
I could snap at her, make this uglier than it needs to be. But what good would that do?
After I take another swallow of beer, I meet her gaze head-on. “Well, if I’d known I was going to vanish for a year, I’d have kept a journal. ‘Dear diary, today I was swallowed by a mountain. The accommodations are terrible.’”
