Page 26 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“A true warrior isn’t the one who strikes hardest, but the one who carries ruin without letting it shape his name.” —Torren Vex, war-widow of Stonefell

The gate hissed open.

Stone groaned in protest as it parted, mist uncoiling across the threshold like something alive. Eliryn stepped through, her boots striking bare flagstones. For an instant, she half-expected more illusions to pounce. More traps. More visions gnawing at her mind.

But no phantoms came.

This space was plain, almost insultingly so after the labyrinth’s torments.

A long, rectangular hall stretched before her, empty except for a row of benches bolted to the walls.

The air was cool, damp with salt, and the ceilings arched overhead in silent mockery of some grand temple.

Gulls wheeled beyond high, barred windows, their cries thin and hungry.

It felt like the maze had simply spit her out here. Like she hadn’t earned her exit so much as been expelled, too stubborn to die.

Only one figure waited beyond the gate: tall, robed in silver and charcoal, spine straight as a swordblade. The steward.

He stood alone in the center of the room, a brass bell dangled from his wrist.

He did not ring it, though his hand was posed as though he wanted to.

His eyes fixed on her like she was something sharp. Dangerous.

“The dragonrider,” he said, voice cool. “You’re the first.”

Eliryn didn’t answer right away. She stepped forward slowly, wary.

The steward’s gaze flicked briefly from her sword, to her pendant, to her eyes, lingering on her ghostlight irises.

“Yeah. They do that,” she said flatly, catching his look. “Spooky eyes. Part of the new aesthetic.”

He flinched. Barely.

But she saw it.

Vaeronth’s voice curled in her mind, dry. People will fear what they do not understand.

She flicked her eyes toward the steward. He should be terrified then.

“So,” she said softly to the steward, shifting her stance like someone preparing for a punch, “you’re afraid of dragonblood.”

“I am not afraid,” he replied too quickly.

“Right. That’s why you’re holding that bell like it’s going to save your life.”

The steward’s knuckles whitened subtly on the bell handle.

“If you’re going to call for backup,” she added, “you should do it now. Before my cursed blood decides to do something unexpected.”

Vaeronth rumbled. You are enjoying this far too much.

“I have to get my entertainment somewhere,” she muttered.

The steward didn’t answer. Not at first.

“I’ve read every account of the dragonriders that exists,” he said finally. “And every account agrees on one thing: the deeper the bond, the more... inhuman the rider becomes.”

“Inhuman,” she echoed, rolling the word on her tongue like something unfamiliar. “Huh.”

She flexed her fingers once on the sword's hilt, then consciously forced them to relax. “Is that what you see when you look at me? Something inhuman?”

“I see someone without full sight who has survived the second trial,” he said tightly. “And I wonder how.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”

A beat of silence. Then she smiled, small and sharp.

“Maybe it’s all the running. I'm getting stronger.”

Vaeronth huffed in her mind, half exasperation, half fondness. Or perhaps you simply refuse to die.

“I prefer my version.”

The steward’s lips thinned further, understanding that she was probably speaking with her dragon.

“Time will decide,” he said coldly.

She wondered if he realized how pitiful he looked wearing his fear so obviously.

Before she could press further, the gate behind her groaned. Footsteps echoed—heavy, grounded, purposeful.

She turned.

And though her muscles tightened automatically, she said, mostly to herself—

“If it’s another trial, I swear I’m sitting this one out.”

You won’t, Vaeronth said, far too knowingly.

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”

But her fingers stayed tight on her sword anyway.

A man emerged from mist: tall, thick-shouldered, with scars like old maps across his arms. His face was lined with sun and blood and time.

He carried no weapon now, but Eliryn didn’t doubt he could make one from anything at hand.

He moved like someone who had learned to survive by force, not finesse.

Eliryn’s mind supplied his village name, remembering from the first trial.

Stonefell.

Old mountain blood. Warriors raised with steel in their hands and legends in their marrow.

His brow lifted when he saw her standing there.

“You?” he said, voice rough like a whetstone. “I thought I would be the first.”

“You’re only a little late,” Eliryn said, almost smiling despite herself. “Not that it’s a race or anything.”

He huffed, a sound halfway between amusement and disbelief. “So the girl with dragonblood proves worthy after all.”

She tilted her head slightly. “As does the warrior with iron bones.”

They stood for a moment, measuring each other like soldiers weighing whether or not they were on the same side.

Then Stonefell nodded, once. “I heard stories of dragonriders when I was young. Thought they were just legend and song.” His gaze flicked to her family crest, then her eyes. “But I’ve also heard they were monsters. Weapons in skin.”

“You sound like the steward,” she said, dry.

“Do I?” Stonefell glanced at the pale-robed man. “Then maybe he’s wiser than he looks.”

Vaeronth rumbled in her mind, unimpressed. That one does not strike me as wise.

“Agreed,” she murmured back.

They stood for a long moment, both too stubborn—or too wary—to look away.

Then, Stonefell’s gaze flicked toward the empty benches lining the wall. He shifted slightly, the barest hitch in his stance, as if his legs had only just remembered they could ache.

Eliryn caught the glance, then glanced at the benches herself. Her legs were already protesting, and her shoulder felt like it had been ripped out and jammed back into place by some drunk deity.

“Don’t suppose you’re as tired as I look?” she asked dryly.

Stonefell’s mouth twitched. “That's a bet I'd take.”

She huffed softly, stepped toward the nearest bench, and dropped onto it like a collapsing siege tower.

Stonefell followed, slower but steady, settling beside her with the weight of a man used to carrying grief as armor.

Neither of them spoke for a few breaths. Not out of discomfort.

Just… because silence, for once, wasn’t an enemy.

“I’ve seen some strange things in my time,” Stonefell said after a moment, scratching absently at one of his scars. “But nothing that cut as deep as what I saw in those chambers.”

Eliryn nodded. “They weren’t just fake illusions. They were more like… truths twisted sideways.”

“Your family?”

She hesitated, then nodded again. “And pieces of myself I thought I’d buried deeper.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You came out steady.”

“I came out alive,” she corrected. “That’s enough for now.”

Stonefell leaned back, elbows resting on stone. “You move like a fighter, but not one trained by war. More… desperate. Personal.”

Eliryn huffed softly. “That’s one way to say ‘a complete novice.’ But yes, I’m basically winging it.”

At that, Stonefell chuckled once. A real sound. Not forced.

Then, after a pause: “Your eyes. How much can you see?”

“Shapes. Light. Motion. Blades when they’re too close for comfort.” She shrugged. “I can see you clearly if I focus hard enough—like shards of glass. I have to piece everything together. It’s… exhausting.”

“And you still made it through the trials unscathed?”

Eliryn tilted her head. “Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t sight that got me here?”

Stonefell met her gaze evenly. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

Vaeronth stirred, his voice dry in her mind. You did some of the work.

Eliryn snorted softly. “My dragon says it’s because I have amazing instincts.”

That earned her a proper huff of amusement from Stonefell, though he said nothing, and the dragon equivalent of an eye roll. A small smile flickered across her lips for the first time in what felt like hours.

The silence that followed didn’t press. It simply settled—heavy, but not unwelcome. Like the pause between battles when both sides knew neither could strike yet.

Stonefell picked absently at a seam in his bracer, the motion oddly boyish for a man who looked carved from the mountain itself. It felt almost like he wanted to ask her something—but wasn’t ready.

So she did it first.

“Can I ask you something?” Eliryn asked softly, her voice threading into the quiet like she wasn’t sure if it would be allowed.

He glanced up. “You just did.”

She snorted. “Fine. Another thing.”

A flicker of warmth crossed his expression. “Go on.”

“Did you want to be here?” she asked. “Chosen, I mean.”

Stonefell looked out toward the high, barred windows. His jaw shifted. It was a long time before he answered.

“Want’s a strange word for it,” he said at last. “I didn’t grow up dreaming of glory. Never saw myself answering to stewards with bells on their wrists.” A pause. “But it’s a chance.”

“A chance at what?”

His hands curled, then flexed again. “Redemption, maybe. Or at least a reason to keep moving.” He hesitated. “I fought in too many wrong battles. Took orders from the wrong people. When my sons died… I stopped trying to be anything better. And people stopped expecting it from me.”

She felt that like a knife to the ribs.

He wore his losses like armor.

She understood that—she wore hers like flame.

Eliryn studied his face. “And now?”

“Now the Flame called me to be one of the chosen.” He laughed once, dry and low. “Maybe it’s a cruel joke from the gods. Or maybe it’s something else. Either way, I’ve got nothing left behind me worth running back to.”

He looked at her. And this time, she didn’t look away.

“And you?”

She nodded slowly, her throat tight. “Same.”