Page 18 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"Knowledge does not protect you. But it might prepare you." —Unknown

Eliryn wandered.

The warmth of the kitchens still clung to her like a fading cloak, but the castle beyond those heavy doors was vast and colder—its stone corridors humming with silence, its air threaded with a hush that made her feel like an intruder.

She hadn’t meant to stray far from her quarters, but curiosity gnawed at her, as did restlessness.

The trials loomed, and every instinct in her healer’s mind told her that information—truth—was the best medicine for fear.

But the Citadel did not give up its secrets easily.

She passed grand staircases and closed archways, narrow windows that looked down on gardens cloaked in moonlight.

Once, she paused before a massive tapestry depicting an ancient dragon alighting on a mountain pass, gold-threaded fire curling from its mouth.

Another time, she turned a corner and found two guards in black armor speaking low in a tongue she did not recognize.

They fell silent the moment they saw her, eyes sharp, unreadable.

She kept walking—slower now, but not turning back. They didn’t follow her, but a prickling unease crawled along her spine.

Someone was watching her.

More than once, she glanced behind her, catching only shifting shadows cast by flickering sconces. But the feeling did not go away.

Vaeronth, she whispered silently.

I know, came the calm voice of the dragon. Eyes follow you. But no blades are drawn—yet.

“Comforting,” she muttered.

At last, she came upon a high archway, its iron-banded doors half open. Lanterns glowed within—and beyond them… books. Hundreds, maybe thousands, lining dark oak shelves that rose endlessly toward the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, old leather, and candle wax.

Eliryn stepped inside, tension sliding off her shoulders like a poorly-fitted cloak. “Thank the gods,” she whispered. “A room that keeps its violence pressed between pages.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

She spun, pulse lurching.

A man waited at the end of the aisle, shadow holding to him the way cloth holds a crease. He didn’t lean so much as occupy the space—still in the way weapons are still.

Lantern light found him reluctantly. Dark hair, cut close but unruly at the collar.

A clean jaw with the faintest pale line along it—almost a scar, if you knew how to read one.

His build read like a blade: lean, balanced, made to move only when it mattered.

The coat was matte charcoal, tailored to disappear; the fall of it hinted at weight near the hip that wasn’t fabric.

Hands bare. Knuckles disciplined, palms callused.

Boots that made no sound on stone. He carried the faint scent of leather and cold air—the smell of rooftops.

His eyes—gray-green—had the flat patience of something that hunts at dusk.

Eliryn stopped just inside the threshold. She hadn’t reached for a book; she had counted exits. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you counted the doors before you counted the shelves,” he said, stepping just far enough into the light to be a choice.

“You don’t sound like a librarian.”

“I’m not.”

“Scholar?”

“No.”

“Hunter, then.” Her tone didn’t rise at the end. Statement, not guess.

“Some nights.”

“Is this one of them?”

“If it were,” he said mildly, “we wouldn’t be speaking.”

“Hmm...”

Silence opened between them. Not empty—measured. She watched for tells and found none. Even his half-smile looked stored rather than spontaneous, a thing he could sheathe.

Her skin prickled. “You’ve been following me.”

“Observing,” he corrected again. “There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

He smiled at that. “Well. You’re standing rather defensively.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice with that lately.”

“I noticed.”

The easy way he said it unnerved her more than any threat could have.

“You were with the guards,” she said suddenly, realization sparking. “The one at the back. You didn’t speak much.”

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something darker.

“You remember.”

“I remember thinking you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “I stayed.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

His answer came without pause, smooth as a blade sliding free. “Watching people is what I do.”

A beat.

“And now?”

Now his smile sharpened, not unkind, but not comforting.

“Now I’m interested.”

A pulse of warning lit in her chest. Vaeronth stirred, the bond flaring slightly in her mind.

Easy, she thought to him. He's not threatening us.

Yet, Vaeronth rumbled.

She couldn't argue that.

Instead, she shifted her weight slightly, her tone dry. “Interested in what, exactly?”

“In seeing what you do next.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Only if you’re predictable.”

She crossed her arms. “Is there a reason you’re talking in riddles? Or do you just like annoying strangers in libraries?”

“I like libraries.” His gaze swept her—slowly. Deliberately. Intimately . “And you don’t feel like a stranger.”

That stopped her.

For a breath.

Then: “If I don’t feel like a stranger, you’ve been too close for too long.”

He laughed. It was low, real, and disturbingly warm. She hated how much she liked the sound of it.

“I’m Malric.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

“No,” he said softly. “But it want it to.”

Before she could answer, he flicked two fingers.

The lantern breath shivered. Air folded—no words, no circle, no chalk—and a book arrived between them, weightless for a heartbeat before settling into his palm. Her runes prickled along her forearms; the pendant warmed as if the room had inhaled.

Records of the Trials: A History of Ascension and Ruin.

He hadn’t even looked at the shelves.

She didn’t reach for it.

“What’s the catch?”

He smiled like she’d passed a test. “No catch. Call it professional courtesy.”

“I’m not a professional.”

“No. But you’re something.”

She hesitated. He grabbed it and held it out towards her, their fingers brushed in her haste to grab it quickly.

Gods, his hand was cold.

“I don’t owe you for this,” she said, stepping back.

“Of course not.”

She hated how flippant he sounded.

“Why help me?”

His smile was soft. Sad, even.

“Because I’ve seen too many people die without knowing why.”

She blinked.

And for one disorienting moment, she thought maybe he meant it.

Malric nodded toward the book. “Read carefully. They lie even in records.”

And with that, he turned.

“No cryptic goodbye?” she called after him, pulse still racing.

At the threshold, he paused.

“I already said it.”

“Did you?”

He glanced back.

Then he was gone.

Eliryn stood in the empty silence for a long while, the book warm in her hand.

In her mind, Vaeronth spoke.

I do not like him.

“Neither do I.”

A beat.

Then softly, she admitted: “I’m not sure that’s going to matter.”

And she hated how true that felt.

She stood alone for a while longer, staring at the place where he’d stood. The shadows swallowed the space easily, leaving nothing behind- no lingering warmth, no presence.

Only the book in her hands, still faintly warm from his touch.

Malric .

She turned the name over like a stone in her mind. It didn’t feel false. But it didn’t feel like the whole of him, either.

Her steps found her chambers, though she wasn’t sure how. Lost in her thoughts, she barely remembered leaving the library, let alone the hallways and turns she took to get back.

The pendant at her neck pulsed softly, as if in reassurance that Vaeronth was there to guide her.

Her quarters welcomed her like she’d been expected—the door giving way without resistance, the fire already lit. She stepped inside and only then let herself take a deep breath when the door clicked shut behind her.

Only then did her hands begin to shake.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

Malric had known her. He'd been watching her. And while his presence should have felt like danger, it hadn’t. Not quite. More like a blade held in expert hands—potentially lethal, yes, but controlled. Intentional.

She settled on the bench beside the fire, set the book before her.

The book was old. Ink faded, brittle pages.

Her heart sank. In the firelight, with her vision, she wouldn't be able to make out the words.

But as her fingers brushed the page, the ink shimmered. Just slightly. A quiet glow rose from the letters—gold and faint blue. They resolved into clarity. Not imagined. Real.

She blinked, startled, and reached for the pendant beneath her robe.

Is this you? she asked Vaeronth.

It is the room, he replied. It has a vast amount of magic and it seems to like you.

Eliryn glanced up at the lanterns, at the tall, listening shelves. “Thank you,” she said softly—to the room, to whatever old will lived in its bones.

The air seemed to smooth around her. She looked back down. Clear, sharp words stared up from the page.

For the first time in years, she read with ease.

Page after page. Names of the chosen. Where they came from. How they ended.

Some had dates. Some were crossed out. Some bore only the word vanished .

There were sketches. Notes. Symbols she didn’t recognize.

One, in particular—a jagged triangle inked in crimson—had been circled several times. Beneath it, someone had written:

Seen on the bodies of the marked. Unknown origin.

She touched the symbol lightly. Her skin tingled.

Vaeronth? she called again.

But the dragon was silent now. Resting. Or thinking.

She leaned back, eyes fixed on the fire, the book open beside her.

Why give this to her?

Her skin prickled. Not from fear, not exactly. From not knowing.

She wasn’t sure which unsettled her more: the book in her hands…

Or the man who wanted her to read it.