Page 48 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
I pull away from him, needing space, needing air. The symbols on the sword shimmer in my peripheral vision, taunting me with half-formed connections I can’t quite grasp.
“And these markings… they were everywhere, Vaylen. Carved into stone walls and ceilings, glowing. They seemed alive.”
Vaylen listens intently as I describe everything. His face darkens with each detail.
His fingers brush the glass case. “Maybe the Screechclaws are really connected to whoever took you and the swordbelonged to them? Or maybe it’s the opposite, and they were after them?”
This last suggestion clicks into place more easily than the first. “That makes more sense, actually, because I don’t see why the Screechclaws would be helping them abduct me or anyone else for that matter.” I push myself away from the sword case, my mind racing.
“And what if it wasn’t the harpies who took the women and children? What if it was…them.” Vaylen’s eyes light up with the thrill of connecting pieces.
The thought sends ice through my veins.
“What if those symbols connect to Heratrix somehow?” Vaylen’s voice drops to a whisper. “We know the Screechclaws have been our enemies since the Goddess disappeared. Perhaps these people are also connected somehow?”
The mention of Heratrix sends a chill through me. A Goddess vanishing a thousand years ago shouldn’t feel relevant to my missing year, yet something about it resonates like a struck bell.
“We need to write everything down,” Vaylen says. “Every theory, every connection, no matter how far-fetched. The sword, the symbols, the missing villagers, your abduction, the man, the ritual...” He rubs his chin. “And the Screechclaws’ new tactics. One of these threads will lead us somewhere.”
I nod with renewed purpose to find out what happened to me. This is the anchor that will keep me from drifting. I’ve always needed a goal. Whether it was surviving the Academy, killing Cindergrasp, getting through the Rite of Flight, having something to fight for has always been my salvation. And now that my body is stronger and my mind cleared thanks to Sandtide’s relentless regime, I feel a greater determination to find out whathappened to me.
The thought of digging through musty scrolls with Phoebe still isn’t exactly thrilling, but it’s better than the infirmary.
I look at Vaylen, at the twin determination etched in the lines of his face, and something inside me shifts. My heart pounds against my ribs with energy, and the last of my numbness leaves me, letting something warmer seep through.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I say, and for the first time since my return, I actually believe it.
17
Rhea
Later that afternoon, I step from the shadows, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin as Vaylen’s beckoning gesture pulls me into view. The morning sun cuts across Fort Ashmire’s courtyard, illuminating the faces of dozens of Skyriders gathered there.
“As you’ve no doubt heard,” Vaylen says, his voice carrying across the silence, “Skysinger Rhealyn Wyndward has returned to us.”
The weight of their collective stares feels like a hand on my throat. I’ve never been one to shrink from attention, but this feels different. Their eyes crawl over me, hungry for explanations I don’t have.
In the front row, Nate’s massive frame practically vibrates with excitement, his face split in a grin that threatens to crack his weather-worn features. Beside him, Adelaide’s pale eyes shine with unshed tears, her smile genuine and warm. The sight of them—familiar, unchanged—lodges something painful in my throat.
Then my gaze catches on Silas. His expression sours likehe’s bitten into something rancid. The shorn hair of a new recruit has grown back to his usual long style. His gray eyes narrow to slits, and if looks could bury someone, I’d be six feet under the Blighted Arcs right now.
I stare back at him, letting my lips curl into the slightest smile.Still here, Pyrewing. Deal with it.
“Some of you studied at the Academy with Skysinger Wyndward and battled in Hearthdale by her side prior to her disappearance,” Vaylen continues. “She’ll be resuming limited duties while recovering her strength.”
The whispers start, rippling through the crowd. I catch fragments—murder, missing, Neutro—and my fingers twitch with the urge to summon wind and scatter them like a handful of dirt.
Instead, I step forward. “I don’t remember where I’ve been,” I announce, cutting through the murmurs. “But I remember who I am. A Skysinger of Embernia. And I’m ready to fight alongside you again.”
Vaylen starts to speak, but Silas’s voice scorches the air between them like a flash of fire. “Are we truly being forced to fight alongside a murderess?” Spite drips from every syllable. “Someone who vanishes for a year and returns with convenient memory loss? Who knows what else she’s done, what she’s become. Her disappearance can’t mean anything good for anyone.” His lips curl into a sneer. “Will we need to watch our backs when she’s around now?”
I refuse to flinch or react to the heat that flushes through my body. I’m dying to give him a piece of my mind, but it seems my sense is back, and I’m able to reign in my temper. Instead, I let the High Prime take care of the nuisance.
Vaylen draws himself up, his broad shoulders squaring as he turns to face Silas. The three inches he has on him suddenly seem like several feet as he looms over.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak, Skyblaze Pyrewing,” Vaylen says, his voice deceptively calm. The kind of calm that precedes a well-aimed Wind Blast. “Interrupt again, and you’ll have a week of stable duties.”
Silas’s jaw works, a muscle twitching beneath his pale skin. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he visibly struggles to swallow his vainglorious attitude. Good. Let him choke on it.
