Page 2 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"The Flame answers not to time, but to thread. What has been woven must one day burn." —Spoken Legend, Dragonrider Chronicles

By the time the wind carried the first whispers of the prophecy, magic was already dying, and Eliryn was already going blind.

The scent of wild herbs and fresh earth filled the cottage, wrapping around Eliryn like a memory she didn’t want to forget.

The aroma carried more than comfort—it carried history.

These were the same herbs her mother had crushed into poultices when Eliryn scraped her knees as a child, the same bundles that once hung in her cradle to “keep the dark dreams out.” Her mother had said that in the old days, dragonriders carried these herbs in their saddlebags, a charm against the cold above the clouds.

She sat by the window—though “seeing” was a word she used loosely now.

What vision she had left was dimmed, more suggestion than sight.

The outlines of the world slipped through her grasp like smoke.

She could make out the light shifting against the wall, the shadow of a branch moving in the wind, but never enough to feel certain of anything she saw.

Her fingers traced the smooth curve of a salve jar.

The cool clay steadied her, grounding her in the moment, even as the rest of her began to unravel.

Her mother had made this jar years ago, clay pulled from the riverbank in a spring flood.

“It will last longer than I will,” she had said with a smile at the time.

Eliryn hadn’t understood the weight of those words back then.

Outside, the village stirred with tension.

Voices rose in anxious clusters, feet shuffled along the packed-dirt paths.

The trials were nearly upon them, and the air buzzed with fear thinly disguised as preparation.

Somewhere, a cartwheel rattled over cobblestones, and she imagined faces tight with suspicion, eyes quick to slide away from the cottage if they happened to glance this direction.

“Why me?” she whispered, not to be answered. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. It never felt any less hollow.

A wooden board creaked behind her, the familiar weight of her mother’s step. “They believe it’s a death sentence,” her voice cracked gently, “but I see more than they ever could.”

Eliryn didn’t turn, but her shoulders lowered, just slightly. The words were familiar—too familiar. Her mother had been telling her she was “meant for more” since she was old enough to sit at the table and listen to bedtime stories. But they had never felt real enough to hold on to.

“You’ve said that before,” Eliryn murmured. “I used to think it was just… comfort.”

Her mother crossed the room, the scent of lavender and pine drifting with her. She settled beside Eliryn, one hand finding hers. “It’s more than comfort, Eliryn. I’ve seen it. The prophecy has been waiting for its thread to be pulled. I knew before you even drew your first breath.”

Eliryn said nothing. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against the back of her mother’s knuckles.

“Our line carries gifts,” her mother continued softly. “You know that. Dragonrider blood did not vanish just because the dragons did. But sometimes, gifts bloom in strange ways.”

A tired smile tugged at Eliryn’s lips. “You get visions of the future, and I get blindness. Honestly? I feel robbed.”

Her mother chuckled—dry but warm. Eliryn hated that it still comforted her. “The blood always balances itself. Your sight is fading, yes. But that only means you’re meant to see in other ways.”

“Is that one of your visions?” Eliryn asked, only half-teasing.

“No,” her mother said, more quietly now. “That’s a mother’s knowing. The prophecy came to me long before you were born. I saw a girl with a pendant of black stone and a name spoken in fire. A rider without sight. The last hope for the realm’s magic.”

That stopped Eliryn. She turned her head slightly, as if it helped her see her mother more clearly.

“I’ve always known you were meant for more than this village,” her mother went on, voice barely above a whisper now.

“Even when the dragons fell silent and magic began to wither, I knew. The night you were born, the stars paused in their dance. Even the moon leaned closer, like she wanted to see you for herself. The air smelled of rain though the skies were clear—that’s how the old ones said destiny announced itself. ”

A long silence stretched between them, soft and heavy like snowfall.

Eliryn thought of the old tales her mother used to tell—of skies lit with fire as great wings blotted out the sun, of magic flowing in every river and root, and of the day that magic began to die.

She remembered believing those stories as a child, before the first hints of darkness clouded her vision, before she learned that her bloodline’s name was spoken with suspicion.

“When the Flame chose me,” Eliryn said at last, “I didn’t doubt it. Not even for a breath.”

She paused, the weight of memory pressing against her ribs.

“I felt it… like something ancient stirring in my bones. At that moment, I knew you’d been telling the truth. About all of it.”

Her mother didn’t speak, but her silence said enough. It always had.

“I didn’t want to believe you before,” Eliryn continued, voice cracking. “Because if the prophecy was real… then so was the ending. Your ending.”

She finally turned her face toward her mother fully, searching the blurry edges for something solid to hold onto. “I think part of me kept pretending you’d be wrong, just this once.”

Her mother’s hand slid to her cheek, warm and certain. “I hoped I would be. But the gods don't let us choose the path. Only how we walk it.”

Eliryn closed her eyes, pressing her face into her mother’s palm like a child again.

And for a moment, there was no prophecy, no trials, no fading sight—just the space between two heartbeats, shared.

“I’ll grieve you forever,” she whispered.

“No,” her mother said. “You’ll carry me forward. That’s different.”

The wind had teeth that night.

It howled through the cracks in the cottage walls, rattling the shelves and shaking the herb bundles strung above the hearth.

Sprigs of sage, thyme, and dried starflower quivered in the draft like they were shivering, shedding tiny flakes of brittle petals.

The chimney whispered in a voice too old to remember its own words, a low, steady hum that seemed to carry secrets.

Eliryn couldn’t sit still. She paced the length of the hearth like a trapped bird—short, quick steps, fingers flexing at her sides. The fire crackled low, casting restless shadows across the stone floor that leapt and fell like they were trying to escape.

Her mother sat in her chair, silent. Watching—not with her eyes, which had long since turned inward, but with that strange, weighty awareness she’d carried for as long as Eliryn could remember.

“I should go instead,” Eliryn said for the third time. Her voice felt sharp against the quiet. “I can handle the forge. I can—”

“No,” her mother said, gently but with finality. “They spit on our doorstep yesterday. You think they’d stop at words if they caught you out alone?”

“They won’t help you either,” Eliryn snapped. “Not gladly. Not without cruelty.”

A silence stretched between them. Heavy. Familiar. It reminded Eliryn of countless evenings before this one—her mother staring into the fire after a vision, her lips pressed thin, her gaze somewhere far beyond the walls.

“They won’t have to help,” her mother said at last. “I’ve bartered what I need. The forge is old, but the armor is sound. Dented, maybe. But strong.”

Eliryn turned sharply toward her. “Ma—”

“We both know,” her mother cut in, voice steady, quiet. “This is how it’s meant to go.”

That silenced her. Because they did both know.

Her mother had been preparing for this night long before Eliryn realized it.

Little things, hidden in plain sight: keeping the black pendant polished, showing Eliryn how to braid dragonrider knots into her hair, and the stories—always the stories.

Tales of the Flame’s choosing, of sovereigns forged in trial, of the Sightless Prophecy whispered in ages past.

It happened often—her mother waking in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and shaking, whispering truths she could scarcely bear to speak aloud. Her own death, painted in fractured glimpses: blood, cold iron, and Eliryn’s arms catching her as the world slipped away.

And after the vision of her death came the other vision, the one that tied it all together: the prophecy. Eliryn’s future braided with fire and ash. A rider without sight. A name spoken by the Flame.

Eliryn had tried not to believe. She had told herself that her mother’s visions were only dreams, or else mistakes in the reading. Because if the prophecy was real, then so was the ending.

But the moment her name had burned in light above the square, something in her had settled. A gravity, as if a door she hadn’t realized was closed had swung wide—and locked behind her.

So now here they were. On the edge of that ending.

“You could run,” Eliryn whispered. “We could both run. Take the pendant. Leave the trials behind.”

Her mother smiled, tired and sad and a little proud. “The Flame would find you again. And you’d go anyway. Because it’s in you, Eliryn. The blood. The call. You’ve already started to hear it.”

Eliryn thought of the quiet moments in recent months—how the wind sometimes carried voices she couldn’t quite make out, how the hum in her pendant deepened when she stood near the ridge. She had chalked it up to imagination. But maybe… maybe not.

She sank into the seat beside her mother, pressing her temple to her shoulder.

“Maybe I would have,” she murmured. “But not without you.”

Her mother’s hand came to rest over her own. Thin. Weathered. Steady.