Page 7

7

Rhea

W e, the chosen, return to the party to the awaiting guests. I stand proudly on the dais among my mates, chin held high.

The robes we wore during the tests are gone, replaced by form fitting brown leather outfits: dragon rider gear. My new trousers are reinforced at the knees to increase durability. My boots are sturdy, with a strong, non-slip sole to grip my feet securely to dragon scales, and sheaths for hidden daggers, which we’ll wear once in battle. My jacket is waist-long and embraces me like a friend. The insignia on my left arm marks me as a Skysinger, the compass rose with fierce winds swirling around it.

A Skysinger! Not only a simple Singer anymore.

By Heratrix! I did it!

The guests look at us as if we are divine—not the same lowly candidates who left little more than an hour ago. Even if we were the best of the best of Aerie Academy, it is now that all those years of work really matter.

Commander Voltguard takes center stage. “I give you our new Skyriders. The best of Aerie Academy now chosen into the Sky Order to protect Embernia and all its citizens from the tyranny of those who would steal our freedom.”

The guests cheer and clap, their wine glasses and delicacies momentarily forgotten. Both married and single women eye the men with hunger. I’m afraid for them. As a woman rider, the men only eye me with distrust. Few men want to be with a woman more powerful than they are. That’s why most female riders marry male riders—when the dalliance rules allow it.

“And now…” She smiles and gestures with both hands toward the hall’s entrance, where two heralds take horns to their lips and play a fanfare.

The gilded doors are thrown open, and King Craven Stonefall waltzes in, followed by a retinue of courtiers. Almost swallowed by the heavy velvet of his robes, he weaves his way through the throng of guests. I watch him closely, curious as this is the first time I lay eyes on the man. I’ve heard many things about him, but I’ll make my own judgment.

The first thing I notice are his shifty gray eyes, and the way they dart furtively from face to face, taking in the scene with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. A smirk plays on his lips, what seems like a calculated attempt to mask insecurity. A narrow, yet ostentatious crown rests atop his head, limp blond hair beneath it.

Behind him, his vain crew scurries to keep pace.

“Observe the awe, Your Majesty,” one of them says.

One of the guests, a woman in a pink dress, curtsies. “Such grace, such majesty. Truly, a king among men,” she says.

Stonefall, buoyed by their praise, puffs out his chest, though the gesture only serves to emphasize his lack of substance. The man is a wraith, looking like a coat rack with too much fabric weighing him down. He raises his weak chin, his gaze sweeping across the crowd with a practiced air of contempt.

Stonefall, finally reaching the dais, ascends the steps with a delicate, almost theatrical flourish. He pauses at the top, his gaze sweeping over us. A flicker of something crosses his thin face. Fear? It’s gone in an instant, replaced my haughtiness.

Mouth twisted, he gestures with a languid wave of his hand, his voice a reedy drawl that barely carries over the hushed murmur of the crowd.

“Down,” he commands. “I require this space.”

We exchange bewildered expressions but obey. The King watches us, his smirk widening as we take our proper place below him, literally and figuratively.

Once we’re settled, he spreads his arms, his thin frame attempting to fill the space, clears his throat, and looks out at the hall, not us.

“New Skyriders,” he says, his voice attempting to project an air of regal authority, but falling short, “you stand before me, the victors of the Rite of Flight. Your skill and courage are… commendable.”

His words are laced with a saccharine sweetness, but his body betrays him. His shoulders are tense, his hands fidgeting with the heavy rings on his fingers. Those gray eyes, which never quite settle on anyone for long, hold a flicker of suspicion, a cold distrust that belies his carefully chosen words.

“Embernia,” he continues, “faces perilous times. We need strong wings and loyal hearts to defend our borders. And you,” he gestures vaguely in our direction, “are those wings. I am… pleased,” he adds, the word sounding forced, “to welcome you into our ranks.”

He offers us a thin, tight-lipped smile, a gesture that does little to mask the underlying animosity. It’s clear he sees us not as heroes, but as necessary evils, tools to be used and discarded. He speaks of loyalty, but his gaze suggests he expects none, offering none in return. The air crackles with unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgment that he feels this alliance is built on necessity, not trust.

It seems everything I’ve heard about him is true. This man is a weasel, and he doesn’t trust us. They say he fears our power because it’s real, unlike his. He’s only Embernia’s King because Heratrix blessed his family with her protection, because she made all the dragons swear fealty to the realm and its leaders.

But with Heratrix gone… how much longer will that fealty last?

The answer is: a long time. Heratrix has been missing for centuries, and yet, here we are. Except this Stonefall king is not like others who have come before. He seems to be nothing but a paranoid coward.

Done with his speech, the King scans the dais, a flicker of annoyance shaping his features. He seems to be searching for something, his eyes darting from one side to the other. A frown creases his brow, and he shifts his weight impatiently.

“Where is it?” he mutters, his voice barely audible, but carrying an edge of irritation. “The throne,” he says, louder this time, his voice laced with petulance. “Where is my throne?”

A nervous silence descends upon the hall. His courtiers, sensing his displeasure, exchange uneasy glances.

One of them, a man with a perpetually worried expression, steps forward tentatively. “Your Majesty, I believe there was a… miscommunication. It seems the throne was not brought in.”

Stonefall’s face flushes a shade of angry red. “Miscommunication?” he hisses, his voice rising. “This is an outrage! I am the King! I require a throne!” His gaunt frame trembles with barely contained fury.

He throws a final, withering glare at us and the assembled crowd, his expression a mask of wounded pride and barely suppressed rage. “This… this is unacceptable,” he sputters, his voice trembling. “I will not be subjected to such indignity.”

With a dramatic flourish, he turns on his heel, his heavy robes swirling around him like a petulant storm cloud. “We are leaving,” he announces, his voice dripping with icy disdain. “I have no time for such incompetence.” He storms off the dais, his courtiers scrambling to follow in his wake, leaving us standing there in utter bewilderment.

Silence reigns for a drawn-out moment.

“That was… something ,” Silas murmurs next to me.

Slowly, the buzz of the crowd returns, gossip about the King’s latest tantrum hot on their lips.

And this is the King we serve? I shake my head. No, we serve Embernia, not this man.

Commander Voltguard retakes the dais. “Everyone,” the Commander continues, “the Skyriders will soon leave with their Primes to meet their dragons for the first time, so go ahead and enjoy their company and the rest of the party.”

Silas is the first to leave us, rushing to his family, wearing a huge grin that blots out his usually sardonic manner. His middle brother sits in a wheelchair next to Lord Pyrewing. I hadn’t seen him earlier. I had assumed he wasn’t here, the whole affair too painful for him to bear. He smiles when Silas shakes his hand, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes nor lasts more than a few seconds.

As Silas talks to his father, Merrill glares our way, his gaze going from Gilbert to me and back again. The animosity in his expression is undeniable and reminds me that he was a Skysinger, not a Skyblaze, an inheritance from his mother’s side.

Others rush to share their excitement with their families and receive their congratulations. I descend the dais, doing my best not to look awkward and out of place. There’s no one here to celebrate with me. My father is at home, the eternal recluse since my mother died. I meander toward a table laden with drinks and food. I’m not thirsty or hungry, but I have to do something other than stand here looking like an unwanted pariah.

I huff, thinking how little has changed despite my newly minted status. I’m not a member of their elite, at least not yet.

But they just gave me the key.

Now, as a Skysinger, there are fewer people who stand higher than me.

Taking the glass to my lips, I pretend to sip the expensive vintage. I find myself wishing Phoebe was here, but she’s gone—fated to be a Claw, at least for now. I have a feeling she won’t remain one for long. She’s quiet and sweet, but I often noticed her determination at the Academy. Few others matched it.

I can’t help but think I stole her spot.

Too bad, Phoebe. I’d say I’m sorry, but…

Gilbert appears at my side. His shoulders look massive in the padded jacket. He looks top-heavy, like a chicken.

“That scaredy cat, Phoebe Breezehart, didn’t deserve a place in the Sky Order.” His washed-out green eyes look me up and down. “I don’t think you do either.”

“Good thing it’s not up to assholes like you.”

His nostrils flare, and he steps closer. He’s into using his height to intimidate people shorter than him. Maybe he doesn’t realize that makes his throat highly accessible for a quick jab.

“You need to tread carefully around me, Wyndward,” he says between clenched teeth. “You could be my ally or my little bitch. It’s up to you.”

“Of course, it’s up to me,” I reply, anger boiling in my gut, “you just didn’t list all the options. You left out the one where I rip out your balls and stuff them in your filthy mouth. I don’t suffer bullies.”

“You stupid bitch! I’m going to teach?—”

Behind him, someone clears their throat.

Gilbert whirls, a rabid expression on his face that immediately falls off when he discovers who stands there.

High Prime Stormsong fixes Gilbert with his patented cold gaze, one that I’ve already cataloged as the most withering stare I’ve ever seen from anyone. I had several fierce professors at the Academy, but they have been dethroned.

“You were saying, Drifttown?” he asks.

“Um, nothing, sir.”

“Are you implying I’m hearing things? Because I’m sure you were saying something.”

Drifttown’s mouth opens and closes.

High Prime Stormsong’s glare comes with a raised eyebrow, accompanied by tightened lips, the perfect picture of impatience.

Drifttown realizes he won’t get away with a non-answer. “I was trying to… let Wyndward know that she needs to learn her place.”

“Learn her place? And what place would that be?”

I cross my arms and jut out a hip. This is getting interesting. Drifttown isn’t stupid. Stupid people would never make it to Aerie Academy, much less to the Rite of Flight. He realized he had to tell the truth, so with his answer, he decided to paint himself as some sort of leader—a characteristic rarely discouraged in an Academy graduate or a Skyrider.

But it seems the High Prime isn’t going to let him skim over the surface.

“Under me,” Drifttown replies, his mouth twitching as he tries to suppress a satisfied smile at his double meaning.

“That’s what I thought.” The High Prime stands still, not a twitch of an eyelash betraying the fact that he’s made of flesh and bones and not stone.

His fierce stare, I discover, has a lever that gives it an upgrade. My skin shivers with the chilling aura building up around him. This man is dangerous. I have no doubt about it in my mind.

“There is a clause in the Sky Order code that gives Primes the ability to dismiss any riders under their command. At the moment, I already find myself quite tempted to make use of it. There is, after all, a more than suitable replacement waiting in the wings.”

Gilbert’s smug expression melts and is replaced by pure terror. If he thought he had become untouchable, he just got stripped of that notion.

Oh, Heratrix, please make the High Prime get rid of Gilbert!

“I apologize, High Prime Stormsong,” Gilbert replies, at last coming down from whatever cloud he caught a ride on.

“I run a tight Clutch , Drifttown. Tread carefully.”

His Skysinger Clutch is rumored to be the best at the moment, and I just became part of it. To say I’m delighted is an understatement.

“Sir.” Gilbert clicks his heels and leaves faster than I’ve ever seen him move.

I like to see him cower, but I’d like it more if it were under my ministrations.

“Don’t look at me like that, Skysinger Wyndward,” the High Prime says.

“Like what?” I ask, curious as to what he thinks my expression means.

“With that air that says you can take care of your own problems. I’m sure you can, but this is my Clutch, and I run it as I see fit.”

“If I’m not allowed to set him straight, he’ll keep it up when you’re not there.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance,” he assures me.

Interesting . I guess I’ll have to wait and see.

“Thank you…” I’m supposed to add High Prime or Sir to the end of that phrase, but if I’m to seduce him, I have to find a way to ease the formality he demands. It may be a long row to hoe, but I have to chip away at it, and no better time to set the tone than now. So instead I add, “… Everett .”

His dark eyebrows go up in surprise. He certainly wasn’t expecting that.

Perhaps I should be asking him what happened during my last test, but I don’t want to remind him he thought something was wrong with me . So instead, I plow ahead with my lifetime plan to craft a better future for myself.

Taking advantage of his surprise, I pretend to scan the guests. “Whose name did you borrow?”

Straightening his back, he breathes deeply, regaining his composure and the coldness he wears like a cloak. “No one’s,” he says. “Everett is my middle name.”

“Vaylen Everett Stormsong,” I say, savoring each syllable and keeping eye contact. “Nice name.”

“Skysinger Wyndward…” he leans close, sending my heart into a wild patter. Could it possibly be this easy? “Earlier, I thought you were a mere guest. Your pin was missing. If it hadn’t been, I would have never… interacted with you the way I did. In no way, shape, or form are you to entertain any ideas that there could ever be anything between us besides the relationship between a Skyrider and her mentor and leader. Is that clear?”

Nope. Not easy at all.

Delicious .

“Erase that smirk off your face, Skyrider. This is not a joke. Or should I remind you of the clause I mentioned earlier?”

I compose my features into a stern mask. “No need, High Prime .” I pause, then decide to give it one last push. “May I ask one question?”

His eyes tighten, a few small lines appearing at their corners. I can tell he wants to say yes . He’d like to know what query my curious mind has concocted. Yet, this code that rules his life dictates he denies me permission. Something tells me that whatever he chooses will reveal whether my carefully laid plans are destined to succeed or fail.

“What question is that?” he says at last, confirming that the sizzle of attraction we felt earlier is quite real—not only that… it’s strong enough to make him ignore his code, if only for a second.

I don’t let my satisfaction show when I ask, “Why didn’t you say your name was Vaylen? Do you prefer your middle name?”

He smirks. “No, I don’t prefer my middle name.”

I wait for more, but he stops there. Oh, that’s not fair.

I’m trying to think of a way to pry more when someone comes running into the room, his high-pitched voice laced with panic.

“Neutro Cindergrasp’s been murdered in the privy!”