Page 60 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
I snort. “Let me guess… you wanted to charge straight into battle?”
“Maybe.” His grin is sheepish. “I have to avenge my father. You know that.”
“After what happened to you,” Phoebe says, “I felt that if I fought hard enough, I could somehow bring you back. I never wanted to believe you were dead.”
The raw emotion in her voice makes me look away. I don’t deserve this loyalty—not when I’m not being true.
“When did they finally let you off the leash?” I ask, redirecting.
“Two months in,” Adelaide says. “We got ambushed near the eastern ridge. Lost three riders that day.”
Nate’s face darkens. “Since then, it’s been this strange dance. Small skirmishes, probing attacks. Nothing like Hearthdale.”
“The Matron?” I ask, my skin crawling at the memory of those burning eyes fixed on me.
“Vanished,” Phoebe says. “Some think she died that day in Hearthdale, but...”
“That harpy’s too tough to die,” I finish. “I saw her take wounds that would kill anything else.”
Adelaide leans forward, her voice dropping. “It feels like we’re sitting on a volcano, Rhea. The silence between attacks is almost worse than the fighting. And now they’re stealing supplies. It’s so odd. Those bitches eat carrion.”
“Everyone’s on edge,” Nate agrees. “We’ve lost good riders, and five dragons. Five! And nine riders.”
“Phoebe mentionedthat.” My stomach drops.
Nate starts calling names and faces flash through my mind—a few I trained with at the Academy. As the list continues, I drain Phoebe’s tankard in one long swallow, needing something to burn away the hollow feeling in my chest. I should have been here. The anger rises hot and fast.
“This will come to a head,” I say, cutting off the litany of names. “And when it does, I have to be there. The Matron and I have unfinished business.”
“Rhea—” Phoebe starts.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I’ve been gone long enough. They may be responsible for what happened to me, so whatever those bitches took from me, I’m taking it back. And then I’m taking their heads.”
“And I’ll be right there with you,” Nate says. “I’m dying to create a Fire Vortex with you.”
“And how about we blind them too?” Adelaide twirls her fingers and little ice daggers form in the air.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
Phoebe sighs.
“Maybe Phoebe can bring her dusty scrolls to throw at their head,” Adelaide suggests, crystalline ice daggers still hovering above her palm. “One good smack with ancient parchment, and they’ll be blinded by history.”
I expect Phoebe to bristle at the joke—the old Phoebe would have—but instead, she throws her head back and laughs.
“I’ll have you know thosedusty scrollscontain forgotten wind techniques that could strip the feathers off a Screechclaw from a hundred paces,” she retorts with a grin. “But sure, we can start with paper cuts.”
The easy banter between them catches me off guard. There’s a rhythm to their conversation that speaks of countless nights like this one, of shared battles and inside jokesforged in my absence. They’ve grown closer, these three. Stronger.
I should feel like an outsider, but somehow, I don’t. They’ve left space for me at their table—in their lives—as if I never left.
“To killing Screechclaws,” Nate raises his tankard. “Together.”
“Together,” we echo, tankards clinking.
A year stolen from me, but not this. Not these people who believe in me when I barely believe in myself.
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