Page 146 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Wind Spears form instantly in both Dakar’s and Vaylen’s hands, glowing with deadly intent. Vaylen’s face has gone deathly pale, his eyes locked on the man before us.
Robert Silverin doesn’t waste breath on questions. Daggers slip from sheaths at his waist, hovering in mid-air like metal hornets, their points aimed at Tahr’s heart and eyes.
Tahranis merely smirks, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from flame. He doesn’t look at any of them—only at me. His gaze holds mine, a possessive claim that makes my stomach lurch.
“Hello, my Omneira,” he says softly. “Have you enjoyed the game so far?”
“You’ve been Silas since… the Matron,” Vaylen growls.
I want to scream, to run, to bury a Wind Spear in Tahr's throat, but I’m paralyzed by the ongoing flood of memories as his hands move over me, his voice guiding me through dark passages, the warmth of acceptance wrapping around me. My breath catches as everything locks into place like tumblers in a vault. It’s as though I’ve been living with half a mind, and now the missing piece slams into me with staggering force.
I volunteered to come back. I starved myself and faked injuries so no one would distrust me.
Goddess, it was all my idea!
King Craven had been growing desperate, his paranoia reaching fever pitch. With every passing day, he became more certain that the prophecy his ancestors had passed down from generation to generation was at the brink of coming true. So he sent spies to Hearthdale.
Tahr and I captured them.
I remember the terror in their eyes as we—we, not only Tahr—delved into their minds, stripping away their secrets like peeling an orange. Craven had his trusted scholars going over the ancient texts that described the prophecy. He didn’t believe Heratrix was coming back. Instead, he thought there was a conspiracy to steal his throne. So he was planning to send the entire Sky Order to Hearthdale, an invasion force that would have destroyed everything. But we wiped their minds of our presence and sent them back thinking they’d found nothing.
“You remember now,” Tahr says, his voice honey-smooth with satisfaction.
I nod slowly, feeling Zephyros’s confusion pounding through our bond.
—Little one, your thoughts are… I cannot make sense of them.
—I remember, Zephyros. All of it. It’s all right. I’ll explain. It’ll all make sense.
—You are my rider, he insists, protective rage building.Whatever this creature has done to you?—
—No. I chose this. I chose to forget so I could return, so my presence could pacify the King.
Vaylen moves closer, Wind Spear still aimed at Tahr’s heart. “Rhealyn, step away from him.”
I shake my head. “It’s too late for that.” I turn to Tahr. “Your timing is absolute shit. We needed more time.”
“Time ran out, darling,” Tahr replies simply.
“What the wyrm-shit is goin’ on here?” Dakar growls, wind whipping around his lean form.
I face them all, these men who thought they could trust me. “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it despite everything. “But there’s a greater purpose here than you can understand.”
My gaze lands on Vaylen, his handsome face contorted with confusion and betrayal. Something in my chest aches at what I must do.
“Rhealyn?” he whispers, and for a moment, I waver.
But the memory of Heratrix, of thousands of unborn dragons waiting to change the world, steadies my resolve.
“Enough!” Dakar shouts.
His Wind Spear flies through the air toward Tahr before I can react. Robert doesn’t hesitate either, releasing his hovering daggers with deadly accuracy. The weapons streak toward Tahr in a blur of light and steel. Time seems to slow, and Tahr simply raises one elegant hand, palm outward. The spell breaks. The daggers hit some invisible barrier inches from his skin, falling uselessly to the ground with a pathetic clink. Dakar’s Wind Spear—a weapon that can tear through Screechclaw hide—dissolves into nothing, like smoke scattered by a breeze.
“What the actual fuck?” Dakar’s jaw hangs open, eyes wild with shock. “He’s a dual.”
Phoebe shakes her head, green eyes huge.
Vaylen steps forward, his face hardening into something terrible and beautiful. “What in all the hells are you?”
