“It was… well—they were angry, at first. And I can’t blame them. Most of that damage wasn’t from soldiers. It was from us.”
Veronyka nodded as Tristan shrugged out of his formal Rider uniform—a leather vest stamped with spread wings that tied down the middle with red-dyed laces. It was a remnant of before the war, a formal, decorative bit of armor that identified a soldier as a Rider and indicated their rank and position. It deliberately resembled the Ashfire sigil and was almost as old. The Riders hadn’t worn them under Cassian’s new regime until recently, when he’d wanted to present a united—and slightly more impressive—front to the locals in the wake of the empire’s attack. Even Veronyka had one, simpler and less finely made than Tristan’s and stamped with a single wing to indicate she was still an apprentice.
Tossing the leather aside, Tristan stretched and settled back more comfortably in the soft brown tunic he’d been wearing underneath.
“I mostly just listened to their stories. They want to be heard, to feel like we care. They’re scared, I think—scared there’ll be more attacks, that Pyra will become a battleground again like it was during the war.” He sighed heavily, ruffling his hair as he sank lower into the packs. “I have to thank you, Nyk,” he muttered, voice drifting off. “Veronyka,” he corrected, straightening slightly and darting a glance in her direction. She could just make out the edge of his face in the darkness, brows arched apologetically, but she only smiled. She’d told him he could call her whatever he wanted, and she meant it. She even missed the moniker from time to time. Seeing that she wasn’t upset, he continued. “They warmed considerably to me when they heard what you guys were doing… with all the cleanup.” He yawned widely. “They have plans for a new bridge already drawn up, plus an estimate of the supplies they think they need.” He paused. “I don’t know what help the commander will give them.”
Veronyka leaned next to him, their shoulders just barely brushing together. Her body was heavy with fatigue, but there was a peacefulness that came with it. She’d done something of value today—they all had—and it eased some of the restlessness that had been gnawing at her for weeks.
“Even if he refuses to send more aid, we’re not expected back for another day at least, right?”
“Right,” Tristan said through another yawn. “I didn’t expect to finish our meetings in a single day.”
“So we’ll stay tomorrow, finish whatever we can?”
His head bobbed up and down. “Yeah… I think they’d appreciate that. It’s the least we can do, after everything. Plus, they want to meet you.”
“Me?” Veronyka asked in surprise.
He smiled, a flash of teeth in the darkness. “The local girl who became a Phoenix Rider.”
Tristan went quiet after that, and Veronyka settled down deeper onto her pack. She supposed she was a local, in a way, though she wasn’t from Vayle originally.
Or am I?
Veronyka had no idea. Still, she felt strong ties to this place—to the cabin she and Val had shared. It would be good to see it again, even if it brought up painful memories. Veronyka needed to see it. She needed to say goodbye.
Tristan’s slow, steady breathing filled the silence as the campfire burned low. Before long Rex shuffled over, huddling down next to him and burying his face under his wing. Warmth enveloped Veronyka as Xephyra settled into a similar position on her other side.
They slept there, under the stars, while the tent beside them stayed empty.
Pyraean folktales claim that during the Dark Days, every time a strix fell from the sky, a deathmaiden was born. They were shadows made solid, darkness personified, who took on the form of the dead and haunted battlefields. Instead of letting the dead find their place among the stars, the deathmaidens tried to ensnare the lost souls and lead them into the endless black abyss of the dark realms.
This concept likely originated from the clusters of black flowers that cover the upper reaches of Pyrmont, shifting and whispering in the breeze, their color so deep and dark that they seem to absorb light. Superstitious locals likely saw these Shadow Blooms as deathmaidens themselves, and believed their presence was meant to mark some ancient battle fought long ago where a strix had fallen from the sky.
Others maintained that the death of a strix merely lured the deathmaidens, and from this belief arose the custom of using Shadow Blooms as a means to draw and distract the deathmaidens, helping lost souls avoid their clutches and find peace in the heavens.
—Myths and Legends of the Golden Empire and Beyond, a compilation of stories and accounts, the Morian Archives, 101 AE
Sometimes I think we were nothing more than two
lost girls with the weight of an empire on our narrow
shoulders. What might we have been if we’d been born
in a different time… under different stars?
- CHAPTER 9 - VERONYKA
THE NEXT DAY WENT by in a blur. Veronyka and Ronyn continued their cleaning efforts, while Tristan scouted local forests for ideal trees to supply wood for the bridge, and Anders, Latham, and Lysandro helped build a small shed to store their burgeoning supplies and tallied materials.
Before Veronyka knew it, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and Tristan’s patrol was walking back to the campsite.
Veronyka’s muscles ached, and the others complained of splinters and sore backs—but it was in a familiar, companionable way. Their group was in high spirits, and they had the night to themselves before they left the following morning.
She had hoped to find an opportunity that day to hop on Xephyra and sneak down to the cabin, but time had gotten away from her, and she was too tired to fly tonight.
Veronyka was walking next to Tristan at the back of the group as they made their way to camp. “Are we leaving first thing tomorrow?” she asked.
“Probably. We’ve done all we can for now, and I want to get my report to the commander as soon as possible. Why?”
Veronyka wavered. She’d told Tristan a bit about her upbringing, but he didn’t know everything she had discovered relating to Val after the battle at the Eyrie. It was hard to explain what she intended to do—to bury her past and her connection to Val, literally and figuratively—but she knew he’d support her regardless.
“I thought I might go to my old house. Just for a visit. I don’t think my sister lives there anymore, but…”
The last time she’d been in that cabin, she’d left Val—and Xephyra’s cold ashes—inside. And though Tristan didn’t know everything about Veronyka and Val, he knew that Val had poisoned Xephyra, and he’d seen her cruel, calculating ways firsthand in their short acquaintance at the Eyrie. He understood their relationship was fraught and that Veronyka might find solace—or closure—in seeing the home they’d once shared.
Tristan straightened. “There should be time for that. How far is it?”
“Probably an hour both ways on phoenix-back.”
Tristan nodded as he considered. “If we fly before sunrise, we could make it back before the others are up and moving,” he said, indicating the rest of his patrol.