Page 12 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Sometimes the castle changes its halls to protect what it fears.” —Anonymous guard of the North Wing

The silence in the Hall of Holding was brittle as glass.

Eliryn's ragged clothes clung to her frame—where steel had once protected her, only the script of flame now remained, etched into her skin like holy writ. She willed her eyes to cooperate with her, wanting to see the others who had survived.

She figured she was younger than most here, though she was nearing her twenty-seventh year. There was a boy with copper hair, who seemed impossibly young, far less blemished by what was undoubtedly a lavish life.

Across the room, someone shifted—a grizzled warrior whose frame looked carved from granite.

He was perhaps twenty years older than her, with a beard dusted in gray and arms thick with old scars; undoubtedly a veteran of countless battles.

His eyes were dark, unreadable, set in a face that had seen siege and slaughter, and likely caused both.

He watched her like one might watch a weapon being forged—equal parts interest and caution.

Eliryn started scanning the room now, taking note of the other survivors.

There was another woman, tall and wiry, perhaps just past thirty, hunched over someone’s leg, trying to stabilize a broken bone with a length of belt.

Nearby, others lay on the ground in a messy heap of bloodied bodies, their asynchronous breaths making it hard to guess exactly how many were left.

She could feel their pain. The healer in her flinched with every shallow breath, every shudder from broken ribs or unseen wounds. Her fingers twitched. Memories of poultices, of pressure, of whispered words meant to pull the dying back from the brink.

The healer in her still fought for control.

But she did not move. She wasn't allowed to.

Do not reach for them.

The voice of her dragon came from low in her mind, coiled like smoke in her ribs.

They do not see a healer anymore. They see power. Keep it.

She swallowed the instinct. It hurt more than she expected. But he was right. Any show of softness now would only confuse them—or worse, make her seem mortal again.

Then—footsteps.

The hush of the hall deepened into tension as the door at the far end of the chamber groaned open. The steward entered, flanked by two silent wardens. His robes were pristine, untouched by the night’s horrors, but when his gaze found Eliryn—he faltered.

Just for a moment.

But she noticed it.

His breath caught. His expression cracked, paling like wax under heat. His eyes widened, and in them she saw not curiosity but r ecognition. Maybe a flash of fear.

And from within his obsidian vessel, Vaeronth purred.

Good. Let them fear.

The steward gathered himself with effort, clearing his throat.

“Of the twenty who entered the first trial,” he said, his voice echoing around the high stone walls, “ten remain.”

A beat.

He did not name the dead. He didn’t have to. Their absence was already a wound stitched into the room.

“They were found… shredded. Torn limb from limb. One body was barely recovered.” A pause. “The Undermine was not kind.”

The tall boy with copper hair clutched his ribs, wincing. The older warrior merely nodded, stone-faced. The other woman looked down at her bloodied hands, expression unreadable.

The steward’s voice cut through again, less steady now.

“The second trial will begin in two days. You will be given a place to rest until then. Rebuild what you can.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

Rebuild what? A soul? A sense of purpose?

He hesitated—just a second too long—before adding, “Survival is not victory. It is only permission to continue.”

And with that, he turned and fled.

Smart man, Vaeronth murmured.

When the heavy doors closed behind him, the hush did not lift. It only thickened. The steward had barely vanished into the shadows beyond the hall when a wave of guards arrived.

Steel echoed against stone—guards entering in tight formation, armor dull with soot and ash, each carrying a set of glowing manacles etched with faint runes.

They were not weapons, not chains of brute force—they were bindings of obedience, pulsing with soft blue magic that shimmered like captured breath.

The room tensed.

The guards stepped forward one at a time, each saying a name heavy with expectancy.

“Stormthresh.”

The tall woman with blood on her hands rose to her feet, stepping forward from the injured body on the ground. The guard locked the cuffs around her wrists without a word. She flinched as they clicked into place, a small shudder running through her.

“Tarn’s Hill.” The copper boy.

“Stonefell.” The older warrior stepped forward without hesitation.

“Whitvale.” A slender figure slipped past her, not a speck of blood marring his expensive-looking tunic.

One after another, the names were spoken—village names, not personal ones—and the chosen moved toward the guards. None resisted, though several struggled to stand and walk. The bindings glowed brighter once affixed, sealing themselves with magic finality.

The air in the hall grew tighter with every set.

The final guard approached Eliryn slowly, gaze hidden behind his helm. His steps were careful- measured in a way none of the others had been.

Then, loudly, for all to hear:

“Dragonrider.”

The title dropped like a guillotine.

Every head turned.

Every breath caught.

She closed the distance to the guard with measured steps, as if her pulse weren’t pounding hard enough to shake her ribs. The silence that followed her title wasn’t absence—it pressed in on her, dense and waiting, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Her rags clung to her ribs, streaked with dried blood and soot. Her dragonmarks shimmered faintly under the hall’s dim light. She lifted her arms automatically, presenting her wrists.

Oh, lovely,Coordinated restraints. Every girl’s dream, she thought dryly.

She braced herself for the chill of magic.

It didn’t come.

The guard stood before her, but he didn’t move. His helm shadowed his face, but his stillness conveyed plenty.

He was hesitating.

Eliryn frowned. “If you're trying to build suspense, congratulations. It’s working.”

No response.

Her hands hovered in the air awkwardly. She shifted slightly. “It's not polite to keep a lady waiting.”

Still nothing.

Vaeronth stirred in her mind, his voice like cool stone brushing molten steel.

He is afraid.

She almost said something. But her throat locked.

Afraid… of me?

Yes.

Her gut twisted.

She forced a crooked smile. “I promise I won’t kill you unless you try something with those cuffs.”

It was a joke. Mostly.

He didn’t take it that way.

The manacles in his hands shook slightly.

“Oh,” she muttered under her breath, “I wasn't serious.”

Vaeronth’s presence curled warmer, steady, a flicker of amusement brushing her thoughts like a tail-swipe of smoke.

He believes your threat.

She blinked up at the guard, feeling awkward now. “Look, I was joking.”

No response.

The guard did not move.

She looked up, trying to see the expression in his gaze but her eyes struggled to cooperate.

The hall had fallen completely still. One of the oldest contestants—a sharp-eyed man with sallow cheeks and a suspicious bend to his spine—broke the silence.

"Why isn’t she being bound like the rest of us?" he asked, voice low and bitter.

The guard hesitated. His gloved hand hovered near the cuffs at his belt… but he didn’t reach for them.

Instead, his voice came out quiet, unsure—meant to sound certain but wasn’t .

“The cuffs wouldn’t hold her anymore,” he said, voice low. “She’s… beyond them.”

A ripple moved through the room like a dropped stone in water.

Her smile faltered. She glanced around as unease slithered across the chamber, the survivors watching her now not like a threat… but like something worse.

Eliryn’s throat went dry.

She lowered her hands slowly. “Right. That’s… interesting.”

Vaeronth stirred, molten gold in the back of her mind.

Dragonblood cannot be leashed.

“Oh, that’s comforting.”

It should be.

She barely held back a snort. “For you, maybe.”

One of the chosen near the wall spat. “Dragonblood.”

Eliryn flinched harder at that than she should have.

Vaeronth’s voice coiled gentle and cold.

Let them wonder what you are. Let them wonder what it means.

“Fantastic,” she muttered. “I'm reaching a whole new level of outcast.”

She felt the shift, the unspoken verdict settling into the air like dust after collapse; she was different and now there was no denying it.

One by one, the guards motioned for the contestants to follow them—no words, only sharp gestures and the occasional grunt of command. Heavy doors at the far end of the Hall of Holding creaked open, revealing a dim corridor lined with tall torches and iron sconces.

“Come. Your rooms are ready,” said a captain from the front.

The group was herded forward, the clink of enchanted cuffs echoing like dull chimes in the dark.

The guard hesitated beside her as the others were led away. For a moment, Eliryn stood awkwardly, unsure whether to follow.

She glanced up at him, nerves tightening her throat.

“So…” she said softly. “Do I… go with you? Or am I just supposed to… stand here and radiate menace?”

The guard near her startled slightly. She could hear the shift of his armor.

“I—uh… right. No. You’re supposed to come with me.” His voice cracked at first, then steadied, and he cleared his throat. “If… you want.”

She huffed, trying to mask her exhaustion. “If I want? Is it optional? Honestly, even if there was a choice, a nap sounds pretty good right now.”

That earned a small, surprised sound from him. Not quite a laugh. But close.

He gestured toward the side hall. “Rooms are this way.”

She cleared her throat. “So... what happens now?”

The guard didn’t answer at first. Then, “One room per survivor. Hot water, clean clothes. Food.”

She raised a brow. “There’s food?”

That actually pulled a dry laugh from him—a huff of amusement that surprised them both.