Page 28 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
The fumes invade my body, crushing the air out of my lungs. Each breath drags me closer to blackness, no matter how tight I clamp my mouth shut.
Zephyros. Vaylen! Their names claw up my chest, a rising scream trapped in silence, swallowed before I can push it free.
“Why?” I manage in an intelligible croak.
The shadows peel from the cavern wall as if dragged by unseen hands. They coil around Fern’s thin body before slipping back toward the one standing behind her. My chest tenses. The living dark releases its hold in slow slivers, each unveiling another shard of his face until I can no longer look away.
Hair, white as chalkstone cliffs, cascades to his shoulders, strands captured in braids so exact they appear spun from glass filaments. The contours of his face cut sharply, the kind of beauty that wounds rather than comforts, young in form yet etched with ancient burden. Those eyes—amber, blazing like flame—impale me like a lance through the heart.
He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t have to. Flame burns there, too steady to be natural. His gaze sinks into me until I forget to breathe. My lungs seize against the smoke Fern forced down my throat.
“All in good time, Omneira. All in good time.”
The name scrapes across my skin. Omneira. Not Rhealyn. Not me. My blood churns hot with rage sparked from terror.
“My name is Rhealyn,” I croak, bucking, kicking by bound feet against the wall as if I could crack it by denial alone. “You’ve… got… the wrong person, you… idiots.” I cough.
His expression doesn’t change, but the fire in his eyes flickers brighter, a flare of sun caught in molten glass. I should look away, but the light drags me forward, burning through me, and I wade deeper than I should.
“Let me—” My voice falters, words tearing like cloth as the brilliance swallows everything else. Heat sears beneath my ribs, spreads up through my throat. I choke, but he only watches with those blazing eyes that promise nothing, demand everything.
Brilliance bursts behind my lids like the crack of lightning too close to dodge. It blinds until there’s nothing left but white. My body thrashes against it and finds only air, my limbs entangled with emptiness.
Then darkness drops.
RHEA
I jolt upright,lungs screaming for breath that doesn’t come fast enough. Cold air strikes wet against my cheeks. My body shakes. Sweat soaks my collar.
The tent walls flicker. Shadows bow beneath the campfire beyond. My chest heaves hard as I rake in air, knuckles braced into the furs.
Not a dream. Too sharp, too close. His fire still burns in my vision.
The tent flap snaps open, dragging firelight in with it. Vaylen fills the space, wide shoulders brushing both sides as he squats. His eyes lock on me, sharp, searching, blue cut with golden specks.
“Rhealyn?” My name comes rough, but it bends into a question.
I swipe the sweat from my brow with the heel of my palm, heat still dragging down my neck.
He crawls closer, knees sinking into the furs, gaze sweeping from head to heel like he expects to find an arrow sticking out of me. “What’s the matter?”
“Nightmare. That’s all.” The words spill before I can think, because admitting what really just clawed its way through my skull would sound like madness.
“You’re ill.”
I snort at that. “I’m not?—”
His hand lifts, brushing my forehead before I can turn away. His palm is cooler than the sweat soaking me. I catch the tick of his jaw when he realizes how hot my skin runs.
Dragon’s breath. He actually looks worried. A year, and he still feels this way?
“I told you, it’s nothing.” I swat at his wrist, but his arm doesn’t move. He stays there, reading me like I’m some battle map.
Without a word, he pushes toward the flap and ducks back out. Crisp air rushes in before the closure falls again. Silence. Only the thud of my heart against my ribs. I try to breathe past it, hands splaying open on the furs. The fever glow clings behind my eyes, and the name he spit at me—Omneira—crawls along my bones like a spider. I lie back down with a whimper.
The flap stirs again, and Vaylen’s there, crouching, canteen in one hand and the small leather satchel every rider knowstoo well in the other. A first aid kit. Of course he’d grab it like he can stitch and salve away demons.
“Drink.” He presses the canteen toward me.
