Page 7 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
I turn toward Hearthdale’s ruins, duty pulling me forward while my heart remains tethered to this spot. Sparkcaller shadows me silently, his face grimmer than I’ve ever seen it. There must be answers hidden within the ash and rubble. Some thread to follow. Some path that will lead me back to her.
We pick our way through the village, the scent of ash and death hanging thick in the air. Sparkcaller catches my eye, gesturing to a row of collapsed buildings.
“I’ll search that quarter, High Prime,” he says grimly. “We can rejoin at the other end.”
I nod my assent, watching as he veers left.
Charred timber frames reach skyward like skeletal fingers. Bodies lie where they fell, cut down as they fled. The Screechclaws showed no mercy here.
A soft sound breaks the silence. I pivot sharply, my hand instinctively lifting and forming a Wind Dagger.
From behind a half-burnt shed, a sheep emerges, its once-white wool stained gray and black with soot, eyes wide with animal fear. It bleats softly, trembling. The creature stares at me, lost and bewildered in a world suddenly turned hostile.
I gaze beyond the dwellings to the green pastures in thedistance. The villagers’ herds must be scattered there, grazing oblivious to their masters’ fate. This one wandered back, perhaps seeking familiar hands that will never comfort it again. The creature is like me, searching for something it’s missing.
The sheep bleats again, more plaintive this time. I’ve no time for shepherding, yet the sight of this lost creature strikes something raw within me. One survivor in a sea of devastation. I shake my head as the sheep wanders away, disappearing between broken buildings. Every moment spent here is a moment Rhealyn remains lost. I press on, pushing through collapsed doorways and charred timber frames.
The bodies tell a grim story. A weathered man clutches a pitchfork, his final stand frozen in death. Another lies face-down, arms outstretched toward something unseen. I kneel beside each fallen villager, examining wounds, positioning, anything that might yield information.
After the fifth body, a pattern emerges like a whisper. I examine another, then another, moving with increasing urgency through the ruins. My mind catalogs each detail.
“Where are the children?” I mutter, scanning the destruction around me.
I find no small bodies among the fallen. No women either, from what I can discern of these charred remains. Only men, judging by what remains of their clothes and the size of their bones.
Something cold settles in my stomach. Screechclaws have never shown such... selection. They kill indiscriminately, taking equal pleasure in all human suffering.
I stand perfectly still, letting this revelation sink into my bones. This was no ordinary raid. The women and children were taken. Or worse…
Turning, I face the mountain and think of the awful powerthat emerged from its depths. They took Rhealyn, a female. But… I shake my head. They didn’t take Prime Emberstone and Omari Reefsong. They’re still here, so that theory doesn’t hold, at least not completely.
I rejoin Sparkcaller near the village’s edge, finding him crouched beside what appears to be a singed sheepskin.
“Found the only survivor,” he announces with a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I fear it’s missing most of its parts.”
I shake my head at his costumery gallows humor. “Anything else?”
“Nah.”
We return to our makeshift camp practically empty-handed. The lack of concrete evidence is frustrating.
“High Prime,” Emberstone acknowledges with a formal nod when we arrive. Her amber skin gleams in the sunlight, her posture impeccable despite our grim circumstances. “We found nothing of significance in the northern section. Just more destruction and bodies. Curiously, they were all male.”
“You noticed that as well?” I ask, my suspicions confirmed.
“Yes,” she replies. “Not a woman or child among the fallen. Strange tactics for Screechclaws.”
The sound of footsteps draws our attention. Cliffbecker and Stonefist approach from the east, their faces as grim as I feel.
“Nothing, High Prime,” Cliffbecker reports, running a hand through his graying hair. “Only more tales of death.”
Dakar and Reefsong return last, and my gaze fixes upon the weapon in Dakar’s grip, a sword far beyond any village craftsman’s skill. Its hilt gleams with intricate engravings, the metal burnished to a flawless sheen. A blood-red gemstone nestles within the crossguard, catching the harsh sunlight.
“Found this,” Dakar announces, holding it aloft. “It’s notsomethin’ these sheep farmers would be carryin’. Too fancy for the likes of ‘em.”
I take the weapon, testing its weight and balance. The craftsmanship is exquisite, far beyond what common folk could afford. The metal feels strangely warm against my palm.
“Where?” I demand.
