Page 134 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Above us, the stars emerge as night claims the sky. On the flight back to Fort Ashmire, I catch Vaylen watching me, concern evident even at this distance.
Tomorrow everything changes. Tomorrow I step into the light and hope I’m not burned by it.
RHEA
I standstiff as a new recruit, watching Vaylen’s eyes track across my careful handwriting. The letter took me three hours to craft—a masterpiece of boring observations and utterly inconsequential details about Fort Ashmire’s operations. My first report to King Craven.
Vaylen frowns slightly at one passage, and I frown. I want this over with so we can focus on tonight’s meeting. The thought of revealing myself to our chosen allies has my nerves stretched thin as spider silk. I don’t even care about this stupid report.
“It’ll do, I suppose,” he finally says, placing the letter on his desk.
“It’ll do? I spent half the night on that.” I snatch the parchment up and read my own words. “Commander Voltguard continues to maintain strict adherence to protocol in all communications. That’s quality wyrm-shit right there.”
“The part about me beingrigidly focused on routine patrolslacks imagination.”
“Would you preferThe High Prime spends his nights ravishing a known criminal in shadowy corners?”
His lips twitch. “That might raise royal eyebrows.”
I drop into the chair across from him, suddenly bone-tired. “I hate this. Playing spy, writing lies. He’s not going to believe any of this.”
“He might.” Vaylen reaches across the desk, his fingers brushing mine. “He thinks you’remindlesslyloyal to him,right?”
“I guess,” I mutter.
“You should send it now.” He takes the letter, folds it, and offers it back. “Are you ready for tonight?”
“No. But waiting is killing me.” I rise, taking the letter. “Time to get it over with.”
I walk away from Vaylen’s office, the parchment burning in my pocket like a hot coal. The Communications Room appears ahead, its door ajar. Through the gap, I catch a glimpse of crimson hair, Lieutenant Arick Fellstorm, the King’s personal Bolt.
Perfect. Just the man I need. He’s been giving me narrow-eyed glances any time he sees me, his gaze letting me know something is expected of me, and I’m failing.
I slow my pace deliberately, passing the doorway without stopping. My footsteps echo just loudly enough to be noticed but not so loud as to seem intentional. From the corner of my eye, I see Fellstorm’s head snap up mid-sentence, shifty pale blue eyes fixing on me.
Keep walking. Don’t look back.
I round the corner and stop, leaning casually against the wall with one foot braced behind me. Though no one’s around, my heart pounds as I examine my fingernails with feigned fascination, picking at an imaginary hangnail. Footsteps approach. Light, measured, proper soldier steps. I don’t look up when they stop.
“Skysinger Wyndward.” Fellstorm’s voice is crisp, formal.
I glance up, arching an eyebrow as though surprised. “Lieutenant.”
Pushing away from the wall, I slip the folded parchment into his palm as we brush past each other, a move so smoothed it seems we’ve been practicing it.
“You know what to do. Do it immediately,” I murmur, barely moving my lips.
Fellstorm’s small ears redden. “I am the King’s personal Bolt. I don’t take orders from?—“
“From what? A proper Skyrider?”
I’ve hit a nerve, as I intended. His face hardens as he wrestles with the insult. Every Academy graduate without a dragon carries that wound, the bitter knowledge they weren’t chosen, weren’t special enough.
Fellstorm’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains controlled. “You and I are the same, Wyndward. Both pawns delivering messages, both expendable when our usefulness ends.”
His words land like a slap. I want to shove him against the wall, tell him I’m nothing like a royal puppet. Tell him I’d die before truly betraying the Sky Order. Instead, I force myself to swallow the rage building in my throat. Instead, I walk away, cursing myself. So much for playing it cool.
I smile sweetly. “Just do your job, like a good little Bolt.”
