Page 25 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

Younger. Freckled. Barefoot. Wild-haired and free. No sword. No shame. Just a girl, smiling so hard her whole face glowed.

Before her eyes changed.

Before the village turned cold.

Before they whispered things about her when they thought she couldn’t hear.

Eliryn’s throat closed. She took a step back.

“I don’t want to see this,” she whispered, sword lowering.

But you need to, Vaeronth murmured in her mind, voice gentle as rain on ash. The maze shows you your burdens.

The younger Eliryn stepped forward, grinning.

“You don’t belong anywhere,” the girl said softly, tilting her head. “Not here. Not in the trials. Not even with the dragon.”

Eliryn’s chest tightened. “Stop.”

The girl’s smile sharpened, cruel in its innocence.

“They hated you before you left. You think they’ll welcome you back if you survive?” Her eyes gleamed obsidian-dark. “There’s nothing waiting for you. No love. No family. No home.”

“No—” Eliryn’s voice cracked. “That’s not true.”

But her heart clenched, because somewhere deep, some small, jagged part of her believed it.

Behind the girl, the laughter twisted—slipping into something colder. Children crumpled to the ground like dolls with their strings cut. Honey turned to rot. The air reeked of smoke and burnt grass.

Eliryn flinched. “This isn’t real.”

Isn’t it? whispered the maze. Or maybe it was her own mind.

The girl stepped closer, voice rising, cruel and bright. “You’ll never be one of them. You weren’t enough for your village. You won’t be enough for the throne. Not with those eyes. Not with that cursed blood.”

“I’m not cursed,” Eliryn rasped, fists trembling.

“Then why do they all look away?” The illusion hissed.

The younger version lunged—suddenly, violently—eyes wild, blade in hand. Her movements were fast, feral, a perfect echo of Eliryn’s own style but stripped of dragonblood. Unhoned. Angry.

“You left me behind!” she shouted, slashing downward. “You left the girl who didn’t know how to fight!”

Eliryn parried with a cry, metal ringing. Her hands burned. Her body felt too heavy. “You’re me,” she hissed, locking blades. "I grew up, but I never stopped carrying you.”

The girl snarled, pressing close. “You hate who you were. You hate where you came from.”

Eliryn bared her teeth. “I don’t hate my past.”

"Liar."

The other children closed in, shadows now, limbs sharp and broken, eyes empty. They carried no faces anymore. Just twisted weapons made of bone and iron, screeching like wind through a broken door.

Eliryn spun, striking fast. One, two, three. They dissolved into ash as her blade passed through them. But more came.

“Vaeronth—” she gasped.

I am with you. But this battle must be yours.

The younger Eliryn circled, voice breaking. “You’ll never be more than what they made you. A strange girl with strange eyes, chasing a title that was never meant for her.”

For half a heartbeat, Eliryn’s blade dipped.

Then her chin lifted.

“I am strange,” she said softly. “And maybe the gods should have chosen someone better for their prophecy.”

She stepped forward.

“But here I am.”

She met the girl’s gaze—her own gaze—and stepped into her.

“I didn’t survive this long just to lose to a memory,” she rasped. “Not now.”

Their swords clashed. Once. Twice. Sparks flew. Her body burned, her arms screamed, but she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t leave you behind,” Eliryn snarled, locking blades again. “I carried you. Every mile. Every night. Through every scar.”

She knocked the blade from the girl’s hand with a final, brutal strike. The younger version stumbled, breath ragged, tears falling silently.

“I just wanted to belong,” the girl whispered, voice cracking.

“So did I,” Eliryn breathed. “But we were made for more.”

She didn’t strike.

She didn’t have to.

She pressed her palm gently—against her younger self’s chest.

“I see you,” she whispered. “And I forgive you.”

The girl blinked once—then cracked like glass, shattering into a thousand glowing shards. The remaining children turned to dust with the wind.

Silence fell.

Eliryn stood alone again, shoulders shaking, breath ragged.

You faced yourself, Vaeronth said quietly, voice proud yet soft. And gave yourself the grace you deserve. Your pain is not weakness.

Eliryn wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, hating the tears but unable to stop them. “I still want to belong,” she whispered, hollow.

I know, Vaeronth replied, closer now, steady as the earth. But now you belong to something greater.

“I belong to you.”

You belong to yourself, came the gentle correction. I am simply fortunate enough to be yours.

She laughed then, raw and broken.

“Alright, old man. That was… actually quite nice.”

A pause.

I have my moments.

Her blade felt lighter now. Or maybe her heart did.

Eliryn raised her chin, took a shuddering breath, and stepped forward.

Let the next illusion come.

Let them all come.

She was ready.

You did well, Vaeronth said softly. You faced your own self-doubt and didn’t let it shake you.

“Then why,” she whispered, “does it still feel like losing?”

Because the pain you feel is not a puzzle to solve, he replied gently. It’s a price. And you’re still paying it.

She wiped her blade clean on her sleeve, movements sharp but hollow.

“I thought pain had a peak—you climb it and it’s done. Turns out it’s just a path that doesn’t end.”

A pause. Then, dry as ever: You'll grow stronger. Eventually.

She huffed a small, bitter laugh. “Stars, you’re insufferable.”

And yet, I'm not wrong.

She fell quiet, her breathing slowing as she pressed a hand against the stone wall for balance. Then, gripping her sword tighter, she pushed forward.

She thought she’d reached the heart of it.

But the maze had one more truth to unearth.

The corridor narrowed, pressing inward until she had to shoulder through sideways, stone scraping her bare arms, jagged edges snagging against her skin like the world itself was trying to hold her back.

Her breathing grew tighter. Shallow. The pendant at her chest pulsed wildly, the rhythm panicked, too fast, too loud.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I really, really hate this.”

So does the maze. That’s why it’s fighting you now.

She barked a bitter laugh. “Why does that almost make sense?”

Because you’re finally beginning to trust me.

She shoved herself forward—and then, suddenly, an opening.

A circular chamber.

Carved not from rough stone, but from black-veined obsidian. Smooth as glass. Gleaming like water.

No doors. No sky. No exit.

Only a pillar in the center.

And atop it—

A mirror.

She approached warily, every part of her body screaming to stop, her blade still drawn, still shaking faintly in her grip.

Be ready, Vaeronth warned, lower now. Almost sad.

“I’m so, so tired of hearing that.”

Nevertheless, be ready. He repeated.

The mirror shimmered.

And then it stepped out.

Herself.

Not a younger version. Not a ghost.

This was now.

Clad in the same dark leathers. Holding an identical sword. Every movement mirrored her own. Even the expression was the same: steady. Guarded. And cold.

But the eyes.

The eyes were wrong.

“Another illusion,” Eliryn muttered, half-hopeful.

Not quite, Vaeronth said softly. This one is not made of your fears. It is made of your potential.

Eliryn took a step back.

“Meaning?”

It is what you become… if you surrender to the path without restraint. If you choose power without purpose. Survival without soul.

Her reflection lifted its blade and stepped into the air, dropping form the platform in a silent, predatory glide. Stone took the impact with a hollow thud; dust rose in a tight halo around its boots as it came to rest a breath away from Eliryn.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Eliryn lunged.

Metal met metal in a bone-jarring clang. Sparks scattered like spilled starlight. She pivoted, struck again, but her mirror blocked her every blow with calm precision.

“This isn’t fair!” she snapped, parrying desperately.

Her skin split open as the hilt bit into her hand. Blood slicked her grip, hot and sticky, but she refused to loosen her hold.

Pain was just another thing she'd have to carry.

“Vaeronth!” she gritted.

I’m here.

“How do I beat myself?”

You don’t.

She nearly cursed aloud.

Vaeronth’s voice growled inside her mind.

You cannot outfight yourself.

“I’m open to ideas!”

She rolled to the side, barely avoiding a downward slash that cracked the stone floor where she’d just stood. She scrambled upright, sword sagging in her grip.

Her copy fought in silence. No taunts. No gloating. Just relentless, precise brutality. It was… clinical.

“I miss the creepy children,” she gasped.

That is concerning.

She ducked another strike, her whole body screaming.

“What do I do?”

Choose what she never will.

Her reflection advanced, blade raised, silent and merciless.

And then she saw it.

Her reflection was perfect.

Flawless.

Empty .

Eliryn’s chest tightened.

“I get it.”

She stood straighter.

Her sword wavered once—then she let it fall from her grip.

It clattered to the floor.

Her copy hesitated.

“I choose not to become you.”

Silence rang louder than swords.

Her reflection faltered, head tilting.

“I’m not just prophecy,” Eliryn whispered. “I’m not just power.”

Step by step, she crossed the glass floor.

“I remember who I was. I remember hands that healed. I remember wanting something more than glory.”

The mirror hesitated. The copy’s head tilted, confused.

“I’m not just a blade,” Eliryn rasped. “I didn’t ask for this life. But if I had known that all this was possible… I think I would’ve welcomed the prophecy. To prove that legends could be real again.”

The mirror’s surface cracked, spider-web thin across its chest.

“If the world wants to burn me down, I’ll be the one setting the fire.”

The mirror-Eliryn trembled.

Eliryn whispered, steady now:

“I am not afraid of myself anymore.”

And the reflection shattered.

A single crack—then a hundred.

Shards of obsidian spiraled upward, dissolving to dust as they rose.

She stood alone.

Silence. Total and complete.

And then—

A doorway bloomed from the wall.

Real. Solid. Lit with golden light.

Vaeronth’s voice came, reverent now.

You’ve done it. You’ve reached the end.

Eliryn staggered toward her blade, scooping it up off the ground before heading for the opening, each step leaving blood behind.

“I’m not sure I won,” she whispered.

Today, you survived. That is victory enough.

“What if there’s more?”

There will be, Vaeronth said softly. But not today.

She paused at the threshold, glancing back at the pile of dust where her reflection had shattered.

Then, voice bone-dry:

“Next time I fight myself, she better show up with sass, not steel. I might stand a chance at winning a verbal argument.”

A pause. She let her sword hang low, dragging it halfheartedly behind her.

“And if these dragon marks don’t start coming with built-in stamina soon, I’m filing a complaint.”

You are being very dramatic, Vaeronth rumbled dryly.

She huffed. “Says the creature who gets to hitch a ride in my pendant while I’m over here doing all the cardio.”

There was a pause, like even the ancient dragon had no rebuttal.

Technically, you are correct, he conceded at last.

She smirked. “Damn right, I am.”