Page 16 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

Eliryn hesitated, then added quietly, “Though right now, I feel more like a starving woman who woke up in enemy territory.”

Silence cracked.

A soft, cautious clearing throat from the corner.

A boy—sixteen, maybe—stared at her with wide, frightened eyes.

“But you’re… polite.”

Eliryn’s lips curved. “Should I not be?”

The boy shrugged helplessly.

Someone whispered, “Her eyes glow.”

“Of course they do,” muttered a cook.

“But it’s not… bad,” the boy said, glancing around as if waiting for someone to argue. “It’s just… bright.”

Another voice: “The tattoos move.”

“Like fire.”

“Do they hurt?” asked a girl, flour smudged on her cheek.

Eliryn blinked.

“Not anymore.”

She let that settle.

“At first, yes.”

The older woman looked her over like she was sizing up a loaf. “You speak kindly for someone so marked.”

Eliryn met her gaze without flinching. “I was a healer.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Then, after a moment:

“Sit.”

Eliryn hesitated.

“You look too thin for someone so powerful.”

“I already ate.”

“There’s always room for honeycakes,” the boy said, hopeful.

Without thought, she smiled.

Eliryn stepped further in. “May I ask your names?”

They exchanged uncertain glances. The boy shifted his weight, rubbing at a bruise on his arm.

“People like us… we don’t usually get asked that,” he said, voice low.

She softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. I forgot—names are held close here, aren’t they?”

“Among the highborn, maybe,” said the man who was stirring the pot of soup. His mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But not for the likes of us.”

“I’m not so different from you,” Eliryn said gently.

Can I share my name? she asked Vaeronth silently.

Yes, his reply was instant.

She turned. “I’m Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge. My dragon is Vaeronth, the Endbringer.”

The older woman exhaled. “Well. Those are names worth remembering.”

One by one, they told her theirs.

The boy: Nim. Sixteen. Kitchen apprentice.

The older woman: Marta, third-generation palace baker.

The soup-stirrer: Reven, quiet, scar splitting his lip.

The guards didn’t speak, but one gave her a respectful nod.

Another stool was brought forth seemingly from nowhere, and Eliryn was seated with a plate of food in front of her before she could blink.

Nim hovered beside her, eyes bright.

“You really bonded with a real dragon?”

Eliryn nodded, mouth too full to answer.

“What’s it like?”

She swallowed. Then smiled.

“Like having a second heartbeat.”

She let that settle.

“Only… it argues with me.”

Marta huffed. “Never heard of such nonsense.”

Eliryn laughed softly. “He’s listening now, actually.”

She glanced down at the pendant resting warm against her skin.

“He says he can’t wait to try your bread.”

Nim beamed.

And the kitchen… softened.

Quiet. Calm.

For a little while, the kitchen felt like a sanctuary of her own.

But curiosity stirred.

She looked to Marta. “Are you happy here? Do you feel safe?”

Marta physically paused at her words.

Reven raised an eyebrow. Nim turned fully, as if anticipating the response.

“It’s work,” Marta said. “More than many have. We’ve food. Beds. But safety?”

She looked over her shoulder at the space the guards had vacated moments ago.

“That depends on which eyes are watching. And how much they fear what you might say.”

“The castle itself,” Eliryn said. “Does it feel… dangerous?”

Reven’s voice was low. “There’s always an air of unease here. But lately it’s thicker. Sharper. The king watches everything. He has spies no one ever sees.”

“Do you think the trials are making it worse?”

Nim hesitated. “I think…people go missing. Nameless bodies carried to the morgue. Everyone’s on edge.”

“The trials change people,” Marta said quietly. “There are rumors—”

Reven cut her off with a sharp hiss. His eyes darted to the archway that led back into the main hall, as if expecting shadows to peel free and listen.

“Rumors can get you hanged,” he muttered.

Eliryn studied his face. “If I’m going to survive this place, I need to know what I'm up against.”

Marta shifted her weight, rubbing her palms against her apron. “Some say the trials are not meant to test you. Not truly. They’re meant to break you down until you’re easy to shape.”

Nim’s voice was barely a whisper. “Or until there’s nothing left.”

Silence settled over the kitchen. A pot bubbled behind them, the only sound.

Eliryn felt the press of unseen eyes again, that prickling awareness crawling up her spine.

“What happens to the ones who survive?” she asked.

No one answered her right away.

Finally, Reven looked up. His expression was something between pity and resignation.

“They don’t come back the same,” he said. “If they come back at all.”

Eliryn nodded solemnly, sensing that her time here in the kitchens tonight was coming to an end. “Thank you. For your honesty. And your company.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” said Reven.

As she turned to go, Nim called out, “Eliryn?”

She turned.

“You’ll come back and tell us more about your dragon?”

She smiled. “I would like that very much.”

She walked back toward her chambers, the pendant at her chest humming with warmth, and Vaeronth’s voice in her mind was soft with approval.

Well done, Dragonrider. Connection is a quieter power—but no less fierce.