Page 102 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
A lanky Claw with a buzzed head appears at Vaylen’s side, presenting a folded piece of paper. Vaylen breaks aside to readit, his brow furrowing slightly before he hands it back to the boy, who scurries away like he’s been dismissed by a god.
Around us, the courtyard buzzes with energy as other Clutches receive their orders from other Claws. Skyblazes huddle around Prime Emberstone, her flame-red hair visible even from here. The Skydunes form perfect lines for their Prime, while the Skytides cluster in a loose formation.
Vaylen clears his throat. “Skysingers, listen up.” His voice carries effortlessly across the yard. “These are your assignments. The eastern ridge needs fresh riders. Nightsong, take Breezehart, Dawnwind, and Cloudchaser to relieve the squat there.”
Eleonora Nightsong nods sharply.
“The Emberflow Pass has reported increased activity. Airglide,” he points at Morwenna, I think, to distinguish between the twins, “take your usual team plus Truewind and Galeforce.”
Morwenna makes a fist and pumps it. It seems she likes going by this pass Vaylen mentioned. I wonder why.
I study the courtyard as riders form into mixed squads. Each Prime assigns tasks in sequence, creating teams with riders from each Clutch. First assignees from all Clutches form Squad One, second assignees form Squad Two, and so on. This ensures each squad balances elemental powers.
The assignments continue, a few locations I’ve never heard of or must likely have forgotten from my lessons at the Academy, like Westhold Peaks, Ashwalker’s Gorge, South Vale. I commit each one to memory. If I’m to become just another Skysinger fighting this war, I need to know the battlegrounds as intimately as I know my own scars.
Just another Skysinger.The thought rings hollow as King Craven’s demand for weekly reports festers in the back of mymind. How can I truly be one of them when I’m supposed to be spying?
Finally, Vaylen’s eyes land on me. “Wyndward, you’ll join Cloudwalker’s squad.”
That’s all the instruction I get before Vaylen turns sharply on his heel and strides toward his own squad. His broad shoulders disappear as the others surround him for further instructions.
I scan the courtyard for Dakar’s signature messy topknot. The prospect of real action sends electricity through my veins. After a year of whatever hell I endured underground—after the indignity of Cragmere’s circus—I need this. I need to feel wind tearing through my hair as Zephyros and I dive through clouds. I need to watch Screechclaws scatter before us like tiny boats in a tempest.
I join Dakar, who is surrounded by a cluster of fresh-faced riders. Braylen Mistwalker stands among them, looking like a lost puppy despite his perfectly arranged uniform and crew cut. My steps falter.
Why is Braylen with Dakar’s team?
“There she is!” Dakar grins, waving me over. “’bout time you joined us.”
The circle of young riders—all fresh Skyriders from this year’s crop, I suspect—stare at me with wide eyes. One girl actually gapes.
“What’s this?” I ask, gesturing to the group.
“Training squad,” Dakar says, slapping Braylen’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “These fine specimens need someone to teach ‘em how to fly supply routes without gettin’ their arses attacked.”
My stomach plummets. “Supply routes?”
“Yep. Supply depot at South Pass needs inventory. Thenfood delivery to the eastern outposts. Might take three trips if the weather holds.”
“You’re joking.” I search his face for any hint of humor. “He’s putting me on a fuckingdelivery run?”
Dakar smirks. “High Prime’s orders.”
I turn toward the whispers, finding a guy with a crooked nose and thick eyebrows leaning toward another rider. His sandy hair’s been cropped short in regulation style. The Skyblaze emblem is emblazoned on his shoulder.
He elbows his companion and pretends to murmur, though it’s obvious he wants me to hear. “Pyrewing wasn’t wrong. She thinks she’s special.”
Heat flares across my skin. Of course Silas has kept poisoning everyone’s minds against me. The familiar burn of anger rushes through my veins. Dakar doesn’t react, just continues explaining the route as if no one spoke. But in fact, this suits me. I prefer to fight my own battles.
I step forward, staring directly at Crooked Nose. “Iamfucking special, whatever your name is. I’m a bonded rider, and one of my gales can swallow your best Fire Blast, youandyour dragon whole in a split second.”
Dakar steps between us, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You two finished? Because we got plenty to do, and it all starts with helping the Claws load the dragons.”
Everyone snaps to attention—even me, despite my burning indignation. There’s something in Dakar’s tone that brooks no argument, a reminder that despite his casual manner, he’s earned his reputation.
“Yes, sir,” Crooked Nose mutters, all earlier bravado vanished.
We march to the supply depot, a stone structure brimming with wooden crates and canvas sacks. For the next three hours, I’m just another body hauling supplies.
