Page 6 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
My desperation to save Rhealyn must seem peculiar at best, suspicious at worst. After what happened here… the obliteration of Hearthdale, the way the Screechclaws fought for the seemingly inconsequential herding town, the appearance of a man from the bowels of the mountain, logic dictates I should be organizing patrols, securing our position, planning what to do next, not throwing every resource into rescuingone woman.
A woman who deceived me.
I stand alone at the edge ofcamp, my gaze fixed on the mountain, its outline black against the darkening sky. The enormity of what’s happened crashes over me in waves, each revelation sharper than the last.
She lied. From our first meeting, Rhealyn wove deception as skillfully as she wielded the wind. A Weaver, a forbidden and dangerous elemental. The knowledge settles like ice in my veins. For centuries, Weavers have been suppressed or eliminated. Their power to reach into minds, to influence thoughts... it caused the Dual Blight and the subsequent ban of their kind.
Goddess!Did she rummage through my thoughts like one does through an old trunk?
And Cindergrasp… Rhealyn killed him. Not by accident, not in self-defense. She murdered him. Blood spilled by her hand, vengeance taken outside the bounds of the law. My orders from Commander Voltguard were explicit. I’m supposed to bring Rhealyn back.
I picture Chief Inspector Cragmere’s smug face, his thin lips curled in anticipation. He’s wanted Rhealyn since that interview in Sky’s Edge. And now I know he has cause enough to imprison her for life.
The irony slices through me, sharp as a Wind Dagger against flesh. My duty demanded I turn her in, yet my heart resisted at every turn. Now fate has rendered my conflict moot. She’s simply gone. Vanished into stone and shadow, beyond my reach, beyond my protection. Beyond even my arrest. How strange that I spent hours dreading the moment I’d have to surrender her to the Chief Inspector, and now I’d give anything to have that bitter choice restored to me.
I run a hand through my dust-coated hair. Dakar gives me a sidelong glance. The rational part of my mind understands his wariness. High Primes don’t abandon duty for a single rider. I’ve lost people before, and I never acted like this.
He must think I’ve lost my senses. Perhaps he’s right.
I clench my fists, forcing air through my lungs. This madness must stop. I’m the High Prime of the Sky Order. My riders watch me, await my leadership—not this spectacle of desperation.
Logic, not emotion, will find Rhealyn. The mountain defies our power now, but every fortress has a weakness. Perhaps tomorrow, in the light of day, we’ll find a way.
I straighten my shoulders, schooling my features into the mask of command that has served me well these many years. My personal feelings for her—complicated, betrayed, yet undeniably present—can’t overshadow what needs to be done.
The towering peak will keep through the night. Strategy, not brute force, will be our weapon come dawn.
4
Vaylen
Morning brings no relief, only harsh light illuminating the destruction around us. The sun crests the eastern ridge, washing the landscape in amber hues that seem to mock our futile efforts through the night. Not one of us has slept. The shadows beneath my riders’ eyes mirror my own exhaustion.
I’ve watched that accursed mountain all night, pacing, planning, fingering Rhealyn’s ring in my pocket, searching for answers that refuse to reveal themselves. Logic dictates I must shift our focus, but the image of Rhealyn’s face as she was taken away haunts me.
“Gather,” I call, my voice carrying on a small breeze of my own making. The Skyriders assemble, their weariness evident in slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes. Even Dakar’s usual easy demeanor has hardened into something grimmer.
“We need to understand what happened here beyond Skyrider Wyndward’s...” I pause, unwilling to name what occurred. “Everyone, your task is to scout Hearthdale and its perimeter. Our enemies’ attack pattern was unusual. TheScreechclaws abandoning Cinderhold to strike this place makes no sense. We need to know the reason for their actions. This morning, we’ll focus on looking for clues. Note anything unusual no matter how small. Understood?”
“Yes, High Prime,” they reply in tired voices.
Caspian Stonefist steps forward. “High Prime, we should continue digging. If she’s?—“
“I haven’t forgotten.” How could I?
“Rhea… saved my life last night, Sir,” Stonefist says. “I’ll do anything it takes.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Skydune.” My voice rises so everyone can hear. “Brute force didn’t serve us last night. We need intelligence, patterns, anything that might explain why this location matters and who might have taken… one of ours.” I point to the ruined village, smoke still rising from its blackened timbers. “Screechclaws don’t abandon prime targets like Cinderhold for isolated villages without purpose. Find me that purpose. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Disturbed earth, strange markings, abandoned items. Anything.
“Prime Emberstone and Pyrewing take the northern quadrant. Dakar and Reefsong, south. Cliffbecker and Stonefist, east. Sparkcaller and I will take the west end. Check every dwelling, every abandoned cellar. The answer has to be here somewhere. And when you’re done on foot, take to the sky, look for patterns in the destruction.”
I watch my riders disperse, each moving with grim purpose despite their weariness. Only when they’ve gone do I allow myself one more glance at the mountainside and let my thoughts wander back to Rhealyn. The memory of her fingertips brushing mine before she vanished replays in my mind like a cruel taunt.
Zephyros remains perched on the ridge above, a silversentinel against the morning sky. His massive form hasn’t moved since he settled there, those ancient eyes fixed on the spot where his rider disappeared. The bond between dragon and rider runs deep. Perhaps deeper than I’ve ever understood. He seems destroyed in a way no battle has ever affected him.
“I’ll find her,” I whisper, though whether to reassure myself or her dragon, I can’t say.
The great beast shifts slightly, acknowledging my presence without looking away from the mountain. His grief and rage are palpable, a living force that makes the air around him whirl.
