Page 31 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Some hungers are born in the body. Others in the silence that follows survival.” —Aremond Thorne, former captain of the Crown Guard, executed for sedition

Eliryn woke to the firelight and the low murmur of her own breath.

The warmth had sunk deep into her bones, softening the tension in her back, the quiet ache still lingering behind her ribs.

Her tunic, thick, brushed cotton with sleeves that fell past her knuckles, smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke.

The loose trousers she wore matched it, drawn tight at her hips with a simple ribbon cord.

It wasn’t only finery, but comfort, and tonight, comfort meant more than rest.

The room, sensing her motion, stirred slightly, coals blooming deeper in the hearth, a pillow adjusting itself behind her in the chair.

Her stomach groaned loudly with a long, hollow longing.

The kind that had nothing to do with magic or power or proving she still belonged in the world of the living. This hunger was simple.

She wanted bread. Stew. Something she could bite into, hold between her hands.

She glanced toward the center of the room, expecting a tray to appear, as it often did when the room sensed her needs. But this time, nothing appeared.

Eliryn tilted her head slightly, amused.

“Decided not to mother me tonight?” she murmured to the stone walls.

They remained silent, warm and golden.

She stood, stretching her arms overhead, joints cracking softly. A long exhale left her lips. Then—

You have time.

Vaeronth’s voice, low and steady, coiled gently into her mind.

“Time for what?”

Time to move as you please. To choose conversation and human company. Go to the kitchens, little flame. Let the hearth feed you, not the stone. You’ve earned that.

She smiled faintly, fingers brushing her pendant.

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

You don’t. But I know it pleases you to hear it.

Her smile widened, just a little, as she pulled on the heavier coat hanging near the door—one the room had conjured in anticipation of her departure. It had high shoulders and deep pockets. She liked it instantly as it swallowed her form.

Outside her chamber, the halls were quiet. Low torches lit the way in flickering gold and blue.

And somewhere below, kitchens waited. Bread. Salt. Stew. And, if she was lucky, the quiet warmth of familiar faces.

She took her first step, boots silent against ancient stone.

The halls of the Castle Othren were quiet this late, lit by torches that burned low with enchanted blue and gold flame. No footsteps echoed. No guards on patrol. The quiet after the second trial had settled thickly across the stone like mist.

She blinked slowly as she walked, rubbing at her temple.

Her eyes were worse tonight, only blurred shapes and shifting warmths of color.

Pale stone, gold flame, the deep navy smear of night through the distant windows.

Her vision wavered with every turn, but she didn’t need it.

She counted steps. Remembered patterns in the wall.

Trusted the scent of yeast and spice to pull her forward.

She reached the stairwell by memory, one hand on the carved banister, and descended toward the kitchens.

Warmth met her halfway down. Real warmth from oven heat and rising dough and the sharp tang of herbs cut fresh from someone’s garden.

The kitchen doors were already open in welcome.

She stepped through the threshold and paused, blinking into the firelight.

There he was.

Silas.

He stood near the great hearth, one sleeve pushed back, a mug in his hand. Steam curled from the cup like mist from mountain stone. His armor was gone, in its place just a simple tunic and worn trousers now, his dark hair mussed like he’d run one hand through it too many times.

Eliryn’s breath caught for a moment she didn’t care to name. He looked… ordinary. And in this castle, that was something rare enough to feel like safety.

“Didn’t realize this place took dinner reservations,” she said lightly, stepping further inside.

Silas glanced up, and the weariness in his face broke like morning sun. “Didn’t realize dragonriders hunted kitchens after midnight.”

She folded her arms, feeling almost out of place in the doorway. “When you said you would be stationed near the kitchens I didn’t realize that meant you’d be here hanging out.”

“Kitchen duty,” he said with a crooked little smile. “Better than standing around waiting for the next bell to ring. And…sometimes easier to pretend things are normal.”

She let out a soft breath, tension unspooling from her shoulders. “Does this count as normal for you?”

He glanced around at the flour-dusted counters and bubbling pots. “Close enough.” His eyes returned to her. “You look… better. Not that you looked—” He caught himself, a faint flush rising to his cheek. “Just… more at ease.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “I’m not sure anyone’s at ease in this place. But I’ll take the compliment.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. “I wasn’t sure if you’d… well. I’m glad you’re here.”

Something quiet passed between them, like recognition of how little either of them knew about the other, and how now was the opportunity for that to change.

She nodded toward the simmering pot. “My stomach made sounds more frightening than the Undermire. Figured I should probably feed the monster some stew.”

He let out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s probably the best reason to be out of bed.”

“Mhmm. That’s me. Practical.”

She hadn’t meant to stare, but out of uniform he was suddenly human —just a linen shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled to scarred forearms. The rest of the room softened at the edges—not her failing sight, but the unwisely pleasant shock of him like this.

“And practical is good,” he said with an easy smile. “Especially if it means you’ll sit for a while. Let someone else worry about what comes next.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “For tonight.”

He tipped his chin toward the hearth. “Starting with Marta.”

Only then did Eliryn register the silver-haired cook by the kettle, flour dust bright on her hands.

Marta grinned and gestured to the pot near the back hearth. “Bowls are on the shelf, love.

Eliryn stepped past him, the warm smells wrapping around her like a cloak. She felt the hush of the room settle over her, simple and nonthreatening, a softness she hadn’t known she missed.

And when she glanced back, he was still watching her with that same open, wondering expression, as if he wasn’t quite sure how someone like her had ended up here, but he was glad she had.

Tonight, she thought, she would let herself have that. Just for a little while.

She found a bowl, slightly chipped along one rim, and ladled the thick stew from the pot. It was rich with lentils and wild game, fragrant with thyme, onions, and something roasted low and slow. Her stomach clenched in answer.

Silas joined her with his own bowl, nodding toward the hearth in the corner. “Sit with me?”

She followed him over to the small table tucked beside the fire. Two old stools, legs uneven, but they didn’t wobble when she settled into one. A faded cloth lay across the table, clean but stained with old wine and memories.

For a moment, they ate in silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the hearth and the soft scrape of spoon against bowl.

It was Silas who spoke first.

“I hoped you would survive the Bloodfall.” He met her eyes, blurry to her, but his voice gave shape to the look. “But I’ve heard that the second trial would break men stronger than steel. And you… You looked like nothing had phased you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said quietly. “I bled like anyone else. I just… kept going.”

“That’s better than.”

She let the warmth of the stew settle in her chest before answering. “Four more didn’t make it.”

“I heard.” His expression sobered. “They say that even that number is higher than past trials.”

Eliryn made a noncommittal sound in return.

Silas cast a glance toward the doorway, as if to be sure no one lingered in earshot. When he looked back, his voice had dropped to a hush.

“There are rumors in the barracks. Some of the royal guard have stopped following orders altogether. Refusing to prepare for the next trial. They’re meeting in private, speaking up.”

Eliryn lifted her gaze to his. “Speaking against the trials?”

He nodded, once, deliberate. “And against the crown itself. People are tired of pretending this is about honor or tradition. Tired of letting magic die slowly while the crown prospers from it.”

She considered that, her breath moving slow and careful. “Do you think there’s truth to it?”

“I think,” he said quietly, “there’s truth in people reaching their breaking point. And that truth doesn’t need permission to exist.”

Silence settled between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“And if it turns into an uprising?” she asked.

He stirred his stew as though it might reveal an answer. “Then maybe Vireth will have to stop pretending that cruelty is just the way of things. And the rest of us will have to choose where we stand.”

“I didn’t ask to be chosen,” she murmured. “But maybe that doesn’t matter anymore.”

He met her eyes, something solemn and kind behind his expression. “It doesn’t.”

She looked down at her bowl, the stew blurring slightly in her weakened vision. “It’s strange.”

“What is?”

“This,” she said softly. “Sitting here. Talking like there’s still a world beyond these stone walls worth making better.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe there is. We’ve just forgotten how to find it.”

That made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She focused on the weight of the spoon in her hand. The warmth of the fire at her back. Real things.

“You sound like someone who’s already lost too much,” she said softly.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “Five years I’ve worn this crest. Watched the crown cull friends. Watched frost and war take family. This place doesn’t care who you were before. Only what’s left of you when it’s finished.”

That silence stretched again—this time heavier, but not cold.

“I don’t know what’ll be left of me after all of this,” Eliryn said softly. “But I’m starting to realize that my destiny is much bigger than I thought.”

Silas looked at her a long moment. Then, a little awkward, a little too earnest: “You seem… stronger than when I first saw you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Stronger?”

He nodded. "You seem… more yourself.”

She tilted her head, a slow smile creeping in. “Careful. You keep talking like that, people might think you admire me.”

Silas hesitated just long enough for it to be obvious.

“I… do.”

Eliryn stilled.

Silas’s gaze flicked to the table, sheepish but honest. “I mean, who wouldn’t? You're the Last Dragonrider. It’s not something you expect to see, let alone talk to.”

She swallowed her surprise, her grin turning sly. “So you’ve been admiring me since day one. Good to know.”

His head snapped up, horrified. “That’s not—I mean—not like that—”

She laughed, full and warm. “Silas.”

He flushed deep red, mouth opening but producing no sound at all.

“Relax.” She nudged his elbow gently. “I’ll take the compliment.”

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he mumbled.

“I’m the one teasing you. You’re fine.”

Silas let out a breath, but the smile he gave her then was unguarded. Quiet. Real. “You’re different than I expected.”

“Thought you said you never expected a dragonrider.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know,” she said softly.

Another quiet moment passed between them, steady as the hum of the hearth.

His knuckles brushed hers as he reached for a wedge of bread. She didn't flinch, but she felt the contact like a spark.

When was the last time someone touched her without expectation? Without needing something in return?

Then the kitchen door creaked open, and a gust of wind stirred the herbs above the hearth. The spell broke, gently. Silas looked toward the noise, then back to her.

“You want more stew?”

She stood. “No. That was perfect.”

They carried their bowls to the basin, rinsed and left them stacked neatly on the side.

As they reached the door, Silas hesitated, his voice quieter now. “If the night drags long… you’re welcome to wander back.”

She paused, glancing up at him. “An open invitation?”

His ears flushed. “I mean… sure. If you want more conversation.”

Her lips twitched. “Conversation.” She repeated.

Silas gave a helpless, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not very good at… whatever that was.”

“You’re genuine. I’ll take that over good.”

That pulled a real smile from him—soft and a little awed.

She let her fingers brush his forearm as she passed, just light enough to make him freeze.

“Goodnight, Silas.”

He straightened reflexively, more soldier than man for half a second. “Goodnight, Eliryn.”

And when she slipped into the shadows, he kept watching long after she’d gone.