Page 72 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Alone again, I slide down to the cold floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. What’s the point ofhonesty when lies could have kept him here? What’s the point of truth when it cuts so deep?
Next time—if there is a next time—perhaps I’ll learn to guard my happiness better with comfortable lies. They hurt less than this hollowness truth has carved into my chest.
25
Rhea
The cell door swings open with a rusty creak. Cragmere stands framed in the doorway, his gray-clad officers flanking him like guard dogs.
“Up,” he orders, not quite meeting my eyes.
I remain seated, watching him through strands of hair that have fallen across my face.
His gaze drops to my wrists—to the severed manacles dangling uselessly—and his eyes widen. The blood drains from his face so quickly I almost laugh.
I rise slowly, deliberately, savoring the unease that ripples through the three men. Even the officers shift nervously, their hands tightening on their weapons.
“Worried, Inspector?” I cock my head. “You should be.”
“Restrain her,” he orders his men, but his voice wavers.
“With what?” I hold up my arms, letting the broken chains dangle. “These didn’t work so well.”
The officers exchange glances, neither eager to approach.
“Where’s the Commander?” I ask, stepping forward.
Cragmere swallows visibly. “None of your concern. You’re coming with us now.”
I smile, all teeth and threat. “Let’s go then. I’m curious to see what comes next.”
I have to give Cragmere credit. He’s got balls coming here with nothing but two men. He’s relying on a system that’s now broken, the same one Zephyros shattered when he refused to continue fighting with a new rider.
Letting them follow in my wake, I walk ahead. The officers shuffle to position themselves on either side of me, but I can sense their hesitation. They know what I’m capable of now.
We exit onto the courtyard, where the sun barely peeks over the eastern mountains, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The air carries the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of dragon fire, and I find that, despite the early hour, the courtyard teems with people—riders, Claws, medics—many looking like they’re fresh from the battlefield, the way Vaylen looked.
Faces streaked with soot and blood turn toward me. Some wear bandages, others lean on comrades for support. Their expressions range from exhaustion to curiosity to outright hostility. The battle must have been brutal. These people should be resting, licking their wounds, not gathering to watch my trial.
I spot Nate supporting Adelaide, whose arm is wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. Phoebe stands nearby, her face drawn with fatigue but her eyes alert as they meet mine.
Across the courtyard, Silas stands with Lysander Oreton. He became one of Silas’s new allies after Nate decided he was done being friends with an asshole. Robert Silverin was another of his cronies, but he’s not with them. Silas’s smirk widens as he watches me being paraded like a criminal. The little shit practically vibrates with satisfaction.
His eyes burn with a hatred that makes no sense. We were friends once, training together, sharing meals, even confiding our dreams. But somehow Zephyros became the villain in his story, and Silas hates me by association.
I still don’t understand how Merrill ended up in that wheelchair. Zephyros has never told me what happened, brushing aside my questions with cryptic growls. Silas acts like I personally crippled his brother, like Zephyros and I planned it together. His animosity follows me like a shadow, growing darker with each passing day. Perhaps I should press Zephyros again for answers. The truth couldn’t possibly be worse than the stories Silas has constructed in his mind.
Another mystery still stands. How did Silas learn about my struggles with Wind Spear? That humiliating failure was known only by Vaylen and my closest friends. Yet Silas used my struggle to mock me. How in the seven hells did he know? Curiosity gnaws at me so badly that I’m suddenly in Silas’s mind, searching for answers. This goes against my long-held instincts, but I can’t help myself.
I feel Silas’s thoughts swirling around me—slick and bitter. His satisfaction bubbles to the surface.
—Can’t wait to watch her kick when they hang her. His hatred seethes like a primeval oil pit.
No. That’s not what I want. I press deeper, searching for something specific.
—How did you know about my training struggles?I ask.
His memories rush backward, a dizzying tableau of moments. His fire scorching Screechclaws with precise Fire Blasts. Boasting at the mess hall. Drinking at the tavern, night after night, his cup never empty, his stories growing taller with each round.
