Page 47 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“The fort’s old archives. Predates the Sky Order by centuries.”
Two Claws round a corner ahead, freezing as they spot us. When they recognize the High Prime, they continue on their way, scurrying past with hurried salutes, not daring to glance back.
The room Vaylen finally leads me to looks like some sort of museum. Stone walls lined with glass-fronted cabinets house objects that seem pulled from different times and places: crumbling scrolls with faded script, crystalline structures that catch the light in impossible ways, a cloak that seems to shift colors when I blink. Weapons of various designs hang on the walls: curved blades with jeweled hilts, a bow made from some pale material that can’t possibly be wood, and what looks like armor fashioned from scales larger than my hand.
“What is this place?” I breathe, turning slowly.
“A Chamber of Anomalies. It turns out there are severalacross the realm. They hold things found throughout Embernia that don’t... belong. I didn’t know they existed until we tried to show the sword to scholars, hoping they could help us decipher the glyphs.”
My attention snaps to the center of the room where a glass case sits on a stone pedestal. Inside, lying on deep red velvet, is a sword. Even through the glass, I can feel it. Not physically but something deeper, like a whisper aimed directly at my mind.
“This is it?” I step closer.
The sword’s craftsmanship is extraordinary, a perfect balance of deadly function and artistic beauty. But it’s the symbols etched along the metal that make my blood run cold. Curved glyphs that seem to flow into each other, almost like?—
“Like they’re moving,” I whisper, pressing my hand against the glass.
Visions flash behind my eyes, more symbols, covering walls, floors, ceilings. Amber light pulsing through them like blood through veins.
“Rhealyn?” Vaylen’s voice sounds distant. “What is it?”
My fingertips press harder against the glass, leaving smudges. “I’ve seen these marks before.”
The symbols pulse, and I’m no longer in the Chamber of Anomalies. I’m somewhere else, somewhere deep within stone walls where dancing flames cast long shadows. I can’t move my head. My body isn’t mine to control. I’m both inside and outside my body, able to see myself and outward.
Above me, carved high into rock, those same symbols stretch across the ceiling, glowing with fire that seems to burn from within the stone itself. They aren’t static carvings but living things, rippling with power that makes my skin crawl and my mind ache.
I’m being carried. Strong arms hold me against a broad chest. My limbs hang limp, my thoughts sluggish and scattered like debrisin a whirlwind. Whatever Fern forced me to inhale still clouds my mind.
I see my own face, blood-red stripes cutting across my cheeks and forehead like war paint. My eyes are vacant, unseeing. Tears slide down my face, cutting channels through the red, but I can’t wipe them away. Crimson tears of impotence. Can’t move. Can’t fight. All my fierceness, all my power, trapped inside a body that won’t respond. I’m a prisoner in my own flesh.
The man sets me down on a cold stone table. The chill seeps through my leathers, but I can’t shiver, can’t do anything but sway where I sit, my head too heavy for my neck.
Figures encircle us. Shadows, nothing more than outlines, shifting at the fringes of the flickering light. I can’t see their faces, only silhouettes waiting, their expectation pressing in, heavy as smoke.
Fern stands behind the man, a deep frown etching her young face as she stares at me with naked distrust. Such hostility from a child, her eyes too old for her small frame.
A woman emerges from the shadows that pool at the edges of my vision. She moves with deliberate grace, and even through my drugged haze, I see the resemblance immediately—an adult version of Fern, with the same sharp features and calculating eyes, but tempered by years and confidence.
The crowd parts for her. The man—I catch a glimpse of his profile, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones—steps aside with a head nod. The woman approaches, stopping directly in front of me. Her eyes catch the light, reflecting it back twofold. She studies me like I’m a rare specimen, a curiosity she’s not quite decided the worth of.
“What is your name?” she asks, her voice smooth as river stones.
I clamp my mouth shut, determined to give her nothing. But my lips part against my will, and words spill out unbidden.
“Rhealyn Rose Wyndward.”
No! I didn’t want to say that. I didn’t choose to tell her who I am. Horror cuts through the fog in my mind as I realize whatever drug Fern gave me isn’t just making me compliant, it’s stripped me of my will entirely.
The woman’s lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good,” she says, “now we can begin.”
I surface back to reality with a violent jerk, gasping like I’ve been underwater too long. My knees buckle, and I catch myself against the glass case, leaving sweaty palm prints over the sword.
“Rhealyn!” Vaylen steadies me, his hands gripping my shoulders. “What happened? It’s like you went somewhere else just now.”
I shake my head, addled. My throat feels raw, as if I’ve been screaming, though I know I haven’t made a sound. The memory—vision, whatever it was—clings to me like smoke, refusing to dissipate completely.
“I remembered something,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “The man who took me... there was a woman too. And the child named Fern. Whatever drug she gave me,” I say, the words tumbling out faster now, “it made me compliant. There were others watching, like some kind of ritual.”
