Page 27 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

A pause. Then quieter: “My mother died the night before the trial guards came for me.

The villagers saw to it that she suffered.

Everyone believes me to be a sacrifice, and I—" She hesitated, her fingers curling tight against her thigh. "I burned my home down myself. I didn’t want to leave anything behind for them to scavenge.”

Her voice cracked. But she forced herself to keep speaking.

“There’s no place left for me that isn’t forward.”

Stonefell didn’t flinch.

He just nodded. Small. Solid.

“Then maybe this path was made for people like us.”

Eliryn blinked. She looked at him. Really looked this time.

“Maybe forward’s the only direction people like us get.”

He nodded again. Not as a warrior.

But as an equal.

She exhaled. Slowly. Feeling something behind her ribs shift. Loosen.

There is integrity in this one, Vaeronth murmured, approving. He walks in ruin without letting it claim him.

I like him too, she thought quietly.

Then, she stood, tilting her chin toward him.

“I’m Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge.” Her voice didn’t shake. Her pendant warmed against her chest as her eyes shimmered faintly—opalescent silver with a flicker of gold deep within, like flame banked but never extinguished. “My dragon is Vaeronth, the Endbringer.”

For the first time, speaking her name felt less like bleeding.

And more like becoming what was already foretold.

Stonefell turned fully toward her and rose. Something shifted behind his eyes—recognition. Not of who she had been.

But of who she was now.

He stepped forward, deliberate.

“Garic,” he said, voice quiet, steady. “Of Stonefell.”

They didn’t bow. They didn’t nod.

Instead, they clasped forearms.

Her wrist to his.

His scarred hand closing around her bond-marked skin.

A wordless pact. A comrades acknowledgement.

And for the first time, Eliryn felt like maybe she had an ally in this fight.

Vaeronth hummed his approval, deep as thunder.

And in that moment, something real settled between them.

Not quite trust.

But the seed of it.

The gate behind them groaned again, slow and reluctant, like it hated whatever came next.

“Here we go again,” Eliryn muttered.

“Time to see who remains,” Garic replied.

Eliryn and Garic rose as one, instinct pulling them upright. Another figure stumbled through the mist.

Tall. Wiry. Wrapped in dark leather with gold-threaded cuffs that now hung loose and stained. Sweat slicked his hair to his brow, and a tear along the hem of his coat exposed a flash of bruised skin. His eyes snapped up.

And locked on Eliryn.

Her stomach clenched. She didn’t draw her blade, but her fingers brushed the hilt, muscle memory sharp as ever.

Garic noticed. His voice was low. “You know him?”

“I remember him,” she murmured. “From the start of this trial. The dais.”

Garic narrowed his eyes. “That one’s from Whitvale, isn’t he?”

The man saw her proximity to Garic, likely recognizing the warrior standing beside her, and froze for half a second, just long enough for the mask to crack. Then his lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer.

She could have answered his sneer. Mocked him. Cut him down with words sharper than her blade.

She didn't bother.

Let him waste energy pretending; she'd save hers for the next battle.

Beside her, Garic grunted. “I remember him. All mouth. Walked like he owned the stone. Talked like he thought he’d already won.”

Eliryn gave the faintest nod. “Slimy bravado.”

Garic chuckled dryly. “More snake than man.”

Eliryn’s gaze held steady. “He wasn’t alone when I encountered him.

There were five of them back then. For a moment, I thought they’d attack me together—but something in the maze started hunting them first. I defended myself as best I could against the one who charged me.

I left him alive. But this snake looked like he’d have been happy to try his luck at ending me too. ”

Garic’s expression darkened. “And yet here you are.”

The man from Whitvale strode forward now, chest puffed, trying too hard to look casual. But his boots dragged slightly. His left sleeve was darkened with blood.

“You’re still breathing,” Whitvale muttered, not trying to hide his disdain.

Eliryn tilted her head, unimpressed. “You look even worse than you did running away.”

He dusted off his coat half-heartedly, as if posturing could erase the maze’s damage. “Don’t get smug, dragonblood. I got here on my own. Pretty sure you can’t say the same.”

Garic stepped forward just slightly, enough so that his shadow crossed the path between them. “Don’t mistake your survival as something that's permanent,” he said.

Whitvale’s bravado cracked, just slightly. His gaze flicked between them, recalculating. And for the first time, Eliryn realized Garic wasn’t just standing beside her.

He was standing with her.

Whitvale's gaze flicked between the two of them. His bravado thinned as he turned away, dismissing them. He threw himself down onto the farthest bench, lounging like it hadn’t taken everything he had to pretend he wasn't affected.

Eliryn exhaled.

“I hadn’t realized the chosen would turn on one another,” she said softly, only for Garic’s ears.

Garic didn’t look at the man again. “The stakes are too high for most to not try and cheat one way or another.”

Silence lapped between them like low tide. Then, after a breath, they sat down side by side without speaking—her sword angled across her knees, his hands loose but ready.

Her shoulder brushed his once as they settled. Neither of them shifted.

She glanced toward the far door, where the air shivered.

Another soul, dragging itself toward survival.

She let her eyes half-close, letting Vaeronth’s quiet hum echo in her chest.

The air steadied. Somewhere in the stone, something took note. She let it.

Maybe not the castle at all. Maybe him .

Malric's eyes felt like an oath.