Page 20 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Illusion is the most faithful servant of power—because it does not need to be true, only believed.” —The Writ of Nine Flames, forbidden volume

Eliryn stretched slowly, her muscles warm from the heat of the enchanted bath, her mind hazy with too many hours spent curled in the folds of her borrowed sanctuary. The air in the chamber had no breeze, no sun to rise or fall, and time had become a slippery thing—soft and unmarked.

But Vaeronth stirred.

It is close now, his voice echoed in her mind, low and solemn. The next trial waits.

She stood, brushing damp hair from her face. “You can feel it?”

Something stirs beneath the stone. A gate with blood in its memory.

"Fantastic. Bleeding stone. Nothing ominous about that."

She swallowed, pulse ticking at her throat, and glanced around the chamber—its strange, gentle luxuries still alien. The plush carpet that never gathered dust. The beautiful tub always filled with warm water. The corner shelf now stacked with books to accompany the one Malric had given her.

She moved to the armoire.

The doors creaked open at her touch.

Inside hung a new garment.

She hesitated. The fabric shimmered dark as obsidian in the low light—tight-fitting leathers layered with shadowy cloth. Sleek. Precise. Quiet. On the left shoulder, stitched in thread that flickered like firelight, was the same symbol that had adorned her first borrowed armor—her family crest.

A single dragon's eye, slit-pupiled and unblinking, embroidered in fine lines.

A slender starburst hovered over the eye, as if the light itself would crack the creature's gaze. Encircling the emblem was a delicate crescent moon, its points curling protectively around the eye’s edges.

Along the lower curve, a scatter of small scales hinted at the beast that had borne the mark, a subtle reminder of power and fire long vanished from the world.

It looked made for someone far braver than she felt.

Her fingers brushed the embroidery. “It knows my family crerst.”

It honors you, Vaeronth replied. And it prepares you.

She dressed slowly, wrapping herself in the dark leathers with careful movements. Beneath the leathers, the inner lining was soft and warm—as though tailored only for her.

She looked like a warrior now. But inside? She still felt like a healer wearing a dead woman's skin.

A loud knock sounded, single and deliberate.

She opened the door.

The same guard stood waiting—straight-backed and silent, dark eyes flickering down to her new attire before rising to meet her gaze. A glint of something like approval passed through his features.

“Well,” she said, leaning in the doorway. “You again.”

His gaze flicked over her, lingering a fraction too long on the faint glow of her bond marks, but his face remained neutral. “My assignment hasn't changed.”

“Mine either.” She studied him a beat. “If we’re going to keep doing this, I need something to call you that isn’t ‘hey, shadow.’”

A pause—then the smallest concession. “Silas.”

She tasted it. “Silas.”

He inclined his head once, as if that settled a contract.

“You’re ready?” he asked.

“No. But let’s go before I change my mind.”

He led her in silence at first, his stride steady and precise.

“I’m guessing you can’t tell me what the next trial is,” she said after a while.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A few beats.

“But,” Silas said, glancing sideways, “I can tell you what they call it.”

“Dare I ask?”

“The Bloodfall.”

“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “Is it named that because there’s an actual waterfall of blood, or do they just like to traumatize people early?”

Silas almost smiled. Almost. “I’ve never asked.”

“Right. Fewer questions, fewer funerals.”

Silas didn’t answer, which she took to mean that her joke was actually accurate.

They descended deeper, the air cooling, the silence lengthening.

“Do you ever get tired of escorting people to their probable deaths?” she asked.

“Orders.”

She huffed a laugh. “Have you considered a career change? Something less murder-adjacent? Baker, perhaps?”

“I’m not good at baking.”

She blinked at him. “That was a joke.”

“I know.”

“Stars above, there’s hope for you yet.”

Silas’s mouth twitched again. Once more, almost a smile.

The deeper they descended, the darker the stone. The motifs carved into the walls began to shift—from elegant dragons and stylized flames to something older, cruder. Symbols gouged deep into the stone, glinting with flecks of metal dust.

“I’ve never seen this part of the castle,” she murmured. “Even the air feels… wrong.”

“These lower halls are older than the royal line,” Silas said softly. “The trials were built into the bones of the mountain.”

“That would explain why it feels like the stone is listening.”

“I believe a great many things I don’t say aloud,” he replied, eyes flicking to the carvings. “Especially here.”

These stones remember fire older than your blood, Vaeronth whispered, heavy and patient. I walked here before the first gate was carved.

A narrow fissure in the wall exhaled a cold, damp breath.

“I used to think castles were all glory and war banners,” she said, hugging herself slightly. “But this place—it feels like a cage made beautiful.”

So much for fairy tales and glory.

Silas’s voice was quieter now. “I think many would share that opinion.”

They walked in silence for a while, until the weight of it grew too much.

“Why are you a guard?” she asked suddenly.

Silas hesitated. “I’m sworn to the crown.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Another pause. Then he said, more quietly, “Because loyalty buys safety.”

“For you?”

“For my family. My little sister works the grain stalls outside the inner ring. My mother can’t work anymore. Guards get food stipends, even when there’s drought. If I wear the colors of the sovereign, they’re left alone.”

Eliryn stopped walking for a moment. Just stopped. “Oh.”

Silas kept walking. His voice didn’t waver.

“I’ve seen too many who chose rebellion over survival. I don’t judge them for it. But I chose different.”

She caught up, silent now. And ashamed of the earlier teasing. He noticed that, too.

“You’re not wrong to ask.”

“I wasn’t expecting such an honest answer.”

“Most don’t.”

“Do you… hate it?”

Silas didn’t look at her, but his voice was steady.

“I hate the choice.”

The silence stretched after that.

Then, softly, he added: “But sometimes… sometimes you get assigned to someone who makes you hope the world might change.”

She tripped.

“Wait. Did you mean me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my gods, you’re bad at lying.”

Silas looked down at her then. Actually looked. “Then maybe don’t die.”

She snorted despite herself. “I'm actively working on it.”

At last, the corridor narrowed. The arch ahead loomed: a carved threshold etched with old runes that shimmered faintly like something breathing in the stone. Another guard waited, hooded and silent.

“This is where I leave you.”

She hesitated. Then, against her better judgment: “Do you want to tell me good luck?”

Silas shook his head slowly. “Luck won’t help you.”

“Thats fine, I've never been very lucky.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She blinked.

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to come back.”

Eliryn’s throat tightened. She made herself smirk instead.

“No pressure.”

“Don’t make me regret hoping.”

“Silas?”

He looked at her.

“I’m really not good at this whole ‘hope’ thing.”

“Neither am I.”

And with that, she stepped toward the arch.

At the top of the spiral descent, she paused once more, hand pressed to the cold wall. Torchlight flickered across the narrow steps ahead.

She glanced back.

Silas still stood there, unmoving.

Watching.

Hoping.

She swallowed.

And went down.

The stone door beyond rumbled open, revealing a corridor lit by red crystal. The light was low, flickering. The shadows stretched long.

She walked in.

The door sealed shut behind her.

Steady now, Eliryn. Vaeronth cautioned.

The corridor led into a vaulted chamber carved from black-veined stone. The walls pulsed faintly, alive with some ancient rhythm. She stepped lightly onto a polished floor that mirrored her shape in a distorted silhouette.

Overhead, the ceiling arched like a cathedral vault, inset with spiral constellations of crystal. The room thrummed with quiet magic. As she moved, hovering glyphs ignited and faded, recognizing her dragonmarks.

This room knows your kind, Vaeronth murmured. It remembers every trial-taker who survived. And every one who did not.

At the center stood a pedestal of obsidian, a single scroll resting atop it. No guards. No attendants. Just stone, time, and judgment.

She approached carefully.

The moment her fingers brushed the scroll, it unfurled. A deep voice—not Vaeronth’s—rang through the chamber:

“Trial Two: The Arena of Veils. You shall face illusion and blood. See through the false, strike through the real. There is no mercy within. Only reflection and reckoning.”

The scroll snapped shut.

“Veils,” she murmured, uneasy. “Illusion magic?”

Likely, Vaeronth said. T he mind is the cruelest battlefield. If they cannot break your body, they will fracture your will.

A mirror slid into view from the stone wall. Its surface gleamed like water, so flawless it unnerved her. Her reflection stared back—tall, strong, clothed in black. Harder. Sharper. A stranger who might survive.

She looked away.

But the reflection didn’t turn.

A breath caught in her throat. When she looked back again, it matched her movements once more—too smoothly.

She turned toward the corner, where a stone basin filled silently with glowing water. Without hesitation, she dipped her hands in. Warm. Luminous. It left a shimmer on her skin like moonlight.

A final boon, Vaeronth said. Memory-threaded waters. To help hold onto what is real.

“Will it be enough?” she asked, drying her fingers on her thighs.

Only if you trust yourself more than your fear.

She looked down at her hands—the ones that had once mended broken bones and soothed fevers. She hadn't prepared for her destiny like she should have.

No weapons. No map. Only her, her dragon, and the hollow certainty that the next battle wasn’t just physical—it would be fought inside her mind.

“This is going to suck,” she muttered under her breath.

A quiet rumble stirred in her mind.

That’s the spirit, Vaeronth said dryly.

She almost smiled. Almost.

Fear pressed against her like a second skin. Not just the fear of death, but the deeper fear: of being small again. Of not being enough.

She closed her eyes. Felt the thrum of the bond. Vaeronth’s steady presence, curled around her mind like smoke and steel.

The chime sounded overhead—low and resonant, like a bell tolling for something long dead.

The mirror split.

Light fractured in the doorway beyond. Flickering. Waiting.

Eliryn flexed her hands. The glow of her bondmarks pulsed once, steady and sure.

“They’re going to regret putting me through this,” she said softly.

Make them. Vaeronth answered.

She squared her shoulders and stepped forward, unflinching.

Let the mind be the battleground.

Let the fear come.

She’d burn through it.