Page 29 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“The sword does not choose the fire, nor the hammer, nor the pain. But if it endures, it becomes something more than steel." —Arden Valemir, Master of Arms, Citadel

The bell rang once.

Low and resonant. Not triumphant. Not mournful. Just final.

The steward stepped forward in the center of the room, a magical wind tugging gently at the edges of his robes. His face held the same careful neutrality as before, but something behind his eyes had shifted and tightened, like a man bracing for a truth he didn’t enjoy speaking aloud.

“You stand now at the end of the second trial,” he said, voice crisp but not loud. “You have endured what others could not.”

He glanced to his left, then right, his gaze drifting over each of the six who remained.

Eliryn.

Garic.

Whitvale.

The other warrior from Tarn’s Hill who still wouldn’t meet her eyes after she infered he was a bug.

The tall, slim woman in her thirties hailing from Stormthresh.

And finally, the boy with the copper hair, from Westbrae perhaps.

Garic had remembered the village names of the chosen, and had whispered them to Eliryn as each emerged alive from the trial.

Six.

And the Steward confirmed it aloud.

“Four did not return,” he said. “One was consumed by a vision he could not escape. One died of wounds earned in a chamber where his own hands turned against him. Two made it through the maze, only to lose themselves to madness upon confronting their true selves.”

He waited, letting the silence take root.

“No bodies will be retrieved. No names will be written in stone. Only those who finish the trials have their names recorded.”

“Six remain,” he reiterated, quieter now. “More than in any cohort for generations. Our caliber as a magical people is improving.”

Garic murmured under his breath, “More like the realm's magic has been dying but we've learned to fight without it.”

Eliryn didn’t comment, but she felt the heat of her dragon stir in quiet agreement.

The steward turned his attention to her then, just for a breath, as though he could sense the magic pulse from inside her.

“The third trial begins at dawn. Until then, you are to rest. No questions. No preparation. Your next task will reveal itself as all others have: without mercy.”

The Steward lifted one long-fingered hand, as if brushing invisible dust from the air.

At the gesture, a door set into the far wall gave a low, resonant click and swung inward on hidden hinges.

A group of guards stepped through, their footfalls measured, their armor catching the light in muted glints.

Eliryn scanned them quickly, catching a quick glimpse of who she thought was Silas.

One by one, the survivors began to drift apart. Not speaking, everyone else seemed to be reeling from the horrors of the trial.

Eliryn stayed still.

Garic lingered beside her, arms crossed loosely, his presence steady as carved stone.

“I remember the way the room looked before the first trial,” he said quietly, voice heavy with something more than fatigue. “How many of us there were.”

She kept her gaze forward, but her voice softened. “You didn’t think we’d lose this many.”

“I didn’t think we’d drop to half before the second trial even finished,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Thought maybe the first would cull the weak. Not everyone.”

A silence stretched. Then, quieter: “Maybe it culled the unlucky instead.”

Eliryn’s throat tightened.

“Did you know the other warrior? The one you said was from Tarn's Hill?” she asked, needing words to keep the weight from crushing her.

Garic frowned, his gaze distant as he followed the shadows of the vanished survivors. “No. But I saw the way he moved. He was probably someone of high rank from within their army.”

She blinked. “They have their own army?”

“Poor bastards raise their young with knives in their teeth just to keep the crabs off the grain stores,” Garic muttered, lips twitching in grim humor.

She huffed, just a breath of laughter. “Sounds charming.”

“They’re tough. Not many survive long enough to serve on the front lines.”

“And you said the woman was from Stormthresh?”

“Yes, another physical threat.” Garic answered after a beat, his voice more thoughtful. “Tide-priests send their young to the blackwaters to train. Militants. Half warriors, half zealots. They don’t fight fair. They fight to win.”

Eliryn nodded faintly as she watched the last of the other figures disappear down their separate hallways. Soon there would be no one left to count, and Eliryn thought it was important that she remember who they were.

“Everyone seems to know what they’re doing,” she said softly.

Garic’s gaze flicked to her.

“Except me,” she admitted.

He didn’t hesitate. “You’re wrong.”

She blinked at that, glancing sideways, surprised.

“You’re walking the same path as the rest of us. Bleeding the same. Standing the same,” Garic said simply. “Doesn’t matter how you started. Only that you’re still here.”

For a moment, Eliryn had no answer. She just let those words settle in her chest, heavy and solid, like the kind of truth no one had ever given her before.

Then Garic turned slightly, eyes searching hers. “You still burning?”

She flexed her fingers slowly, letting the pendant warm against her collarbone, Vaeronth’s steady hum curling around her ribs like quiet armor. “Always.”

They clasped forearms once more, no longer strangers this time.

“You watch your back in the next one,” Garic said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were sharp. “I don’t think this lot will fight fair.”

Eliryn smirked faintly. “Neither do I.” A pause. “But I’ve got a dragon watching my back.”

Garic’s dry chuckle cracked like a stone settling in the hearth. “You make a fine legend come to life, Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge.”

She opened her mouth, searching for something clever, something sarcastic, something that would keep the moment light.

But nothing came.

She just stared at him, thrown off balance. She hadn't expected someone from the trials to show her this… kindness.

In the end, she only nodded, once, careful.

Garic turned away toward his waiting guard, solid and unyielding.

And Eliryn went straight toward the waiting figure at the edge of the hall.

Silas.

His posture straightened instinctively when she approached, his kind energy coiled behind a guard’s discipline.

His armor wasn't polished, it was dull at the edges, as if he’d worn it for years rather than days. But his face, soft-lined and alert, with warm brown eyes, brightened as soon as he saw her.

“Dragonrider,” he said, relief threading his voice. “I hoped you'd find your way.”

She blinked once, surprised. “You sound almost happy to have to be escorting me again.”

Silas gave a small shrug, almost sheepish. “Better than one of the outside posts.”

She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth quirking. “How honest of you, Silas.”

He offered a small smile, seemingly pleased that she remembered his name. A quiet thread of friendship passed between them, warm and unspoken.

As they walked side by side through the corridor leading back to the inner halls, Silas kept a respectful distance, but not a cold one.

“Did you stay with the steward earlier?” she asked.

Silas nodded. “Posted to him for the trial’s end. When he isn’t briefing the chosen, he has to remain guarded… He is one of the few that know details about the trials before they happen.”

“Really? I didn’t realize he was so protected.”

“In previous trials, some individuals have thought it best to circumvent the system a bit, go after the source of information rather than wait.”

She looked at him, curious. “You mean questioning the steward?”

He gave a small huff of humorless laughter. “I mean torturing him.”

They shared a quiet beat, Eliryn thinking about all the other chosen to walk these halls before her. She almost couldn’t blame someone for wanting to seek answers any way they could… and she wasn’t sure if that meant she was already changing in ways she couldn’t see. Then-

“I’m glad you made it out,” Silas said. “Not many do. Not whole.”

Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword as they turned a corner. She wondered if anyone who survived this place left whole. Or if surviving simply meant learning how to carry the cracks without letting them show.

“I’m not sure I am whole,” she murmured.

Silas didn’t ask her to explain. Just walked with her, letting the silence do the work of understanding.

They reached the shadowed curve of the corridor where her chamber door stood, dark wood carved with faint, spiraling runes that caught the torchlight like water. Silas stopped a pace before it, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“I’ll be stationed near the kitchens tonight,” he said, tone easy. “Heard you’ve been down there visiting with us commoners.”

Eliryn raised an eyebrow, half a smile tugging at her mouth. “Word travels fast in this place.”

“Well,” he said, eyes glinting, “when you make a good first impression on the cooks, everyone hears about it.”

“They told you the strange dragonblood interrupted their evening, didn’t they.”

“I never said that.” He paused. “Though I’m not denying it, either.”

She gave a small huff that might’ve been a laugh, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly.

“You’ve been kind,” she said after a moment, her voice softer. “More than most.”

Silas shrugged. “Doesn’t cost me anything. And I figure kindness is in short supply with the lot you’ve had to face.”

There was a moment, just a breath, where neither of them spoke.

The space between them felt thinner than before, the silence charged—not uncomfortable, but expectant.

Eliryn wasn't used to being looked at without judgement.

Silas wasn't looking at her like a trial survivor or a mere acquaintance. Not tonight.

Eliryn looked at him fully, and she could feel her eyes brightening in their new unnatural way. “You called me dragonrider .”

He blinked. “I did. Meant it fondly, I swear.”