Page 50 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Vaylen leads me through several corridors into a large study hall lined with bookshelves. Long tables stretch down the center, a few scattered with open tomes and papers. The smell of old parchment and leather bindings hits me, oddly comforting.
“Now, it’s time to go see Phoebe,” Vaylen says, nodding toward the far corner where a familiar redhead sits hunched over a mountain of books.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I survived my public reintroduction. I survived Silas’s accusations. I can survive whatever research project Phoebe has cooking, even if all that squinting might drive me to jump out the nearest window before the day is through.
Phoebe looks up from the large tome in front of her, blinking owlishly as if she’s forgotten there’s a world beyond the yellowed pages. Her bloodshot eyes take a moment to focus on us. Her hair is pulled into what was probably once a neat bun, but now resembles a bird’s nest with strands escaping in every direction.
“Find anything useful?” I ask, dropping into the chair across from her.
Vaylen remains standing, taking in Phoebe’s disheveled appearance with a frown. “How long have you been here, Breezehart?”
She shrugs, her fingers still tracing lines of text. “What time is it now?”
“Almost midday,” Vaylen says, his frown deepening.
“Oh.” Another noncommittal shrug. “A while, then.”
I snort. “That’s specific.”
Vaylen crosses his arms. “You came back from patrol last night. Have you slept at all?”
Phoebe’s gaze drifts back to her book. Another shrug. By the Goddess, if she shrugs one more time, I might shake her until her teeth rattle.
“Breezehart,” Vaylen’s voice takes on that High Prime commanding edge. “You can’t exhaust yourself like this. We need you battle-ready, not half-dead because you don’t knowhow to take care of yourself. You’re playing with your life in case you don’t realize it.”
“Understood, Sir. I’ll do better,” she replies, her cheeks turning as red as her bloodshot eyes.
I lean forward, snatching the book from under her nose. “What’s so fascinating that you can’t catch some sleep?”
She tries to grab it back, but I hold it out of reach, scanning the page. The text is dense, written in an archaic form of our language that makes my eyes cross.
“It’s a nursery tale.” She looks up at Vaylen, pointing at the tome. “It finally came.”
I frown.
Vaylen explains, “Phoebe once read a nursery tale that talked about…” He trails off and gestures to her to continue.
Phoebe snags the tome back, handling it protectively like it’s her firstborn. “It’s about Heratrix,” she says, her eyes wide with excitement. “There’s an old nursery tale about the Goddess being trapped under a mountain.”
I freeze, a chill slithering down my spine. “Under a mountain?”
“Exactly!” Phoebe nearly bounces in her seat. “When you disappeared like that, it triggered something in my memory about a book I once read. It said Heratrix didn’t really abandon us but was locked away beneath the earth by someone who hated her and wanted control of Embernia.”
A blurry, shimmering image flashes through my mind. I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself.
“I’ve been searching for more written evidence for months,” Phoebe continues, flipping pages with reverent fingers. “I finally found mention of it in Sky’s Edge’s archives, but the actual text was locked away in the royal collection.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Do you have any idea how many forms I had tofill out to get this? How many official channels I had to navigate? But it was worth it.” She turns the old tome toward me, pointing to an illustration of a massive dragon—all iridescent scales and thunderous wings—disappearing into a mountain split open like a ripe fruit. “The tale says Heratrix was betrayed by someone she trusted, sealed away where no one could reach her.”
I lean closer, my heart pounding against my ribs. The mountain in the drawing looks eerily similar to where I disappeared.
“What if it’s not just a story?” she whispers, meeting my gaze. “What if that’s where you were taken? What if Heratrix is actually there?”
Vaylen finally sits, taking the chair next to me. He catches my eye, a silent question in his gaze. “Tell her what you remembered about the sword.”
“The sword?” Phoebe’s head snaps up like a hunting dog catching a scent. She reaches for her small leather-bound notebook, pencil already poised.
I take a steadying breath. “I’ve had... flashes. Not complete memories, but fragments that break through.”
“Tell me everything,” she demands, leaning forward so eagerly I’m surprised she doesn’t topple face-first onto the table.
