Page 131 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
The weight increases, forcing our backs to curve. The dome now barely creates enough space for us to huddle together. Dust chokes every breath. My arms shake violently, muscles screaming in protest.
The crushing pressure suddenly pauses, then—impossibly—lessens. Just a fraction at first, then more noticeably.
Zephyros’s thoughts flood my mind, carrying images of Cliffbecker above us, the veteran Skydune’s weathered face contorted with concentration as his hands move in precise gestures, earth and stone rising away from where we’retrapped, floating in defiance of gravity before being cast aside.
“Cliffbecker,” I gasp to Vaylen. “He’s moving the earth.”
“How do you know?”
“Zephyros is showing me.” I push harder against our shrinking dome, finding new strength. “They’re coming for us.”
The pressure continues to diminish. Through our bond, Zephyros projects fierce determination mixed with relief.
“Don’t let the barrier drop yet,” I warn as the weight lessens further. “We don’t know how stable it is.”
A shaft of sunlight suddenly pierces through, striking my face with blinding intensity. I squint against it, my heart leaping at this promise of freedom. I look at Vaylen. Sweat streaks paths through the dust coating his face.
“There!” A distant voice—Cliffbecker’s—calls out. “I can feel their air pocket!”
More stone shifts away. Our barrier expands slightly, allowing us to straighten our bent spines. The relief is so intense I nearly sob.
“Just a little longer,” I say, willing my exhausted arms to hold.
With a final groan of shifting earth, the remaining weight lifts away. Above us, Cliffbecker’s lean form appears, silhouetted against the sky.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he calls down, his mouth stretching into a relieved smile. “Need a hand?”
The moment we’re free, I almost collapse from exhaustion, my legs quivering beneath me. Wasting no time, Zephyros creates a Vortex Lift, wrapping us both in gentle winds that carry us from the depths. His gaze locks onto mine as we rise, his thoughts flooding my consciousness.
—I heard everything. The Matron spoke to you... as a Weaver.
Relief for my well-being pours through our bond alongside his utter bafflement. His mind churns with confusion, attempting to make sense of what he witnessed.
—These portents scare me.His admission rattles me because if he’s scared, what hope does anyone else have?
Letting my eyes adjust, I squint, taking in the scattered bodies of Screechclaws and the worried faces of our mates. Cliffbecker rushes to Vaylen, examining the deep gashes in his leg.
“Hold still, High Prime,” Cliffbecker mutters, getting strips from his first-aid kit to stanch the bleeding.
My gaze drifts across the clearing until it lands on Silas fucking Pyrewing. He stands casually against a dead tree, looking supremely unconcerned despite sporting a few superficial scratches on his face and arms. The bastard should be dead after that fall, but the branches must have caught him like a mother cradling her precious child.
“Quite the adventure, Wyndward,” he calls, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Trapped with our High Prime in a dark hole. How terribly unfortunate for you both.”
“Go fuck yourself, Silas,” I snarl, too exhausted for cleverness. “While you were getting beauty scratches, we were fighting for our lives.”
His eyes narrow. “And yet here you are, miraculously alive. How fascinating.”
The implication slithers between us like a venomous snake. I step toward him, fingers already curling into fists, hand slick with blood.
Zephyros’s calming presence floods my mind.—Let the worm crawl back to his hole. We have greater concerns than his petty quarrels.
I exhale, letting go of my rage toward Silas. The Matron’s impossible fire, her brokenwords about choice and curses, these things are more important than Silas. Yet, as we soar back to Fort Ashmire, I can’t shake the feeling that I missed something monumental.
RHEA
Sandtide’sfinal warning aboutstaying put this timefades as she exits the infirmary. The sharp scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Mine and Vaylen’s.
I sit up against the pillows, wincing as the movement pulls at the freshly stitching in my arm. Vaylen limps toward my bed, his face a patchwork of cuts and bruises. The Matron’s talons did a number on his thigh, though Sandtide’s and her staff’s magic repair the worst of it. That along with intermittent Tide magic applications to increase blood flow will speed up the healing process, and he’ll be as good as new quickly.
