Page 32 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Not all storms test walls. Some are sent to see if the Flame still burns beneath the stone.” —Inscription carved into the trial chamber’s western arch, origin unknown

Wake, Eliryn.

The voice came like smoke curling around her bones—low, rumbling, unmistakable.

Vaeronth.

Eliryn startled awake, a sharp breath pulled into her lungs. The fire in her hearth had long since dimmed to a bed of glowing embers, and the pale gray light of dawn pooled at the corners of the ceiling, soft as silk.

The third trial begins soon, Vaeronth said. The steward prepares the call.

“Gods,” she muttered, scrubbing her hands over her face. “You make a better alarm than the temple bells.”

I'll take that as a compliment.

She sat up slowly, joints stiff from where she’d curled in the large chair in front of the hearth. She barely registered the ache, warmed from within now, a gift of the bond, perhaps, or a symptom of being less human with each passing day.

She crossed to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. The shock of it cleared the last shadows of sleep. Dabbing her cheeks dry, she turned toward the tall mirror that shimmered faintly when she stepped near.

Her hair had staged a small revolt. She winced, raking her fingers through the snarls until her scalp stung.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, she sectioned it clean and began a tight crown braid—quick, practiced pulls, the rhythm of someone who’d learned to make order before walking into chaos.

The leather tie on the nightstand waited like a coiled promise; it warmed in her palm when she grabbed it as if the room approved.

The marks along her forearms pulsed once, settling. The pendant lay heavy and steady against her sternum.

“I’m not ready for this,” she muttered.

You are.

“I meant emotionally.”

That too.

She snorted. “I liked you better when you were cryptic and brooding.”

His silence was smug.

When the braid was done, she stood and found the day’s clothes already laid out at the foot of her bed. The room had changed again, anticipating her needs.

Today’s garb was darker: ash-gray stitched with threads the color of blood and cinders. A sleeveless tunic belted snug at the waist, reinforced at the seams with loops for steel. Trousers of supple wool, meant for movement. A short cloak clasped at the throat with a bronze flame.

She dressed without hurry, each layer grounding her. The nerves were there, but quiet. Not gone, just banked.

Her sword waited by the door, already polished. She buckled it to her hip, the weight familiar. Right.

“I’m ready,” she said aloud, more for herself than him.

Then go. The others stir. Try not to be the last again.

She rolled her eyes and stepped to the door.

The hall beyond smelled of lavender and lamp oil; soft, sharp, calming. Far off, boots echoed, steady and sure.

A figure turned the corner.

“Silas,” she said, the smile arriving before she could stop it.

He took in the braid, the blade, the steadiness. “Eliryn. You beat me to it.”

“Try to keep up.”

“That’s the assignment.” He nodded at the sword on her hip. “Let me see this.”

She did. He tightened the buckle a notch—quick, efficient, no fuss.

“Part of the escort package?” she asked.

“Part of the staying-alive package.” A brief spark. “Escort is just branding.”

“Mm. And the charm?”

“Limited inventory.” He stepped back to give her the path. “You want it now or after?”

“Surprise me.”

“I’d rather not. Surprises get people killed.” He spoke honestly.

She laughed, soft and quiet. “I think you might be the first person here who’s tried to charm me without a hidden agenda.”

“I’ll try not to ruin the streak,” he said, then gave her a once-over. “You look ready. Though I can’t tell if it’s for battle or for a royal assembly.”

“Why not both?” she said, adjusting the sword at her hip.

He raised a brow, a little admiring. “You look ready to succeed in either setting.”

Eliryn gave him a dry look, but her mouth curved faintly. “Was that another attempt at flattery?”

“Observation,” he replied smoothly. “I thought we covered this.”

They walked together, companionable now, the stairwell just ahead.

After a moment, he asked, more quietly, “Does it help? Having him... the dragon.”

“Vaeronth?” she glanced sideways. “He woke me this morning. Said the trial would begin soon.”

Silas let out a low whistle. “I’d ask what that’s like, but I don’t think I could ever understand.”

“He’s not subtle,” she said with a small smirk. “But he’s steady. And he listens.”

Silas nodded, thoughtful. “Must be nice. All I get for company is the steward shouting or someone banging pots in the barracks.”

They descended the stairs in easy rhythm. Below them, the low murmur of voices drifted up like mist. The chosen were gathering.

Silas slowed near the final step. When she glanced over, his voice came quieter. Warmer.

“Whatever hell you have to face in there… just come back.”

He hesitated, then added, more softly:

“Keep surviving. I like the company on the walk back.”

Eliryn blinked. She wasn’t sure what she expected—something formal. Less personal.

Her throat tightened before she could stop it. “You’re getting sentimental on me.”

Silas smiled faintly, earnest. “Someone has to.”

She tried to scoff, but her voice betrayed her. “Stars, you're worse than Vaeronth.”

Inside her mind, the dragon stirred, unimpressed: I am merely pragmatic. He has a crush.

Silas tilted his head, confused but still watching her like she was something worth believing in.

Eliryn shook her head, breathing a quiet laugh. “I’ll try to come back. For the conversation.”

“I’d count that as a win.”

Then, nudging his elbow with hers, she let her smirk return. “You’re really not supposed to care this much.”

Silas shrugged once. “Maybe with time you’ll get used to it.”

Before she could think of a reply, they stepped onto the final stair together, and the hall opened before them.

If she felt steadier with him beside her… she didn’t say it out loud.

The hall opened before them into a round chamber, its ceiling carved with ancient runes, banners hanging high above like watchful eyes. Light slanted in through unseen windows, golden and solemn.

One by one, the chosen filtered in.

She spotted them easily: Whitvale, smug and silver-bladed; the Stormthresh woman, all tension and silence; the boy with bright hair and wintry eyes; the Warrior from Tarn’s Hill, wrapped in blue with an axe slung across his back.

And Garic.

He stood alone, broad and still as stone. When his gaze met hers, he gave a single, steady nod.

She returned it. No more. No need.

Her eyes flicked across the others, all armored in some fashion: hardened leather, stitched steel, ceremonial cloth turned practical. Even Whitvale wore daggers strapped down each thigh like he thought himself untouchable.

All of them bore weapons.

Except Garic.

She tilted her head. He carried no sword. No axe. Just the weight of someone who had already faced death and had no need to show it.

She stepped closer to where he stood. Silas gave her a parting nod, stepping back toward the outer wall.

Then the steward appeared.

No footsteps. No announcement. Just presence, sudden and cold, as if the room recognized his authority and made space for it.

His silver robes whispered as he stepped forward into the center of the chamber. The brass bell at his wrist did not ring.

“You are six,” he said, voice calm and cold as ever. “Six, where once there were many more. That alone is unprecedented.”

The silence deepened.

“You stand on the threshold of the third trial,” the steward went on. “This one will not test what lies behind you, but what remains within you. It will demand your strength, yes—but more than that, your clarity. Your will.”

A murmur passed between some of the others. Eliryn stayed still.

“This trial is not merely of blade or bone,” the Steward continued. “It is one of endurance. Of balance. A challenge that will break the arrogant and scatter the unfocused. If you are to lead, if you are to rise among the chosen, you must show more than wrath and readiness.”

Eliryn felt Vaeronth stir, a low pulse of heat in her spine.

He speaks truth, the dragon murmured. This is the trial that weighs a soul.

The steward stepped back, eyes scanning the six.

“In one hour, you will be summoned. Steel your bodies. Steel your minds.”

Then he vanished.

Not in a flare of light. Not in smoke.

Just… gone.

Eliryn stood for a moment longer, breathing in the quiet, feeling the hush ripple through the room like distant thunder.

Garic stayed close, his expression steady.

But still, they didn’t speak—not yet. Something told her they’d need all their words soon enough.

The room shifted slowly after the steward's departure, each of the chosen splintering off to their own quiet corners to prepare. Eliryn remained where she was, the hem of her soft tunic brushing the backs of her heels, her hands loose at her sides.

She didn’t move until Garic touched her shoulder in passing—No words. Just an offered tether.

Then he was gone too.

She turned toward the archway that she had come from, looking for her own spot to retreat to.

But the shadows shifted wrong.

She paused.

Blinking once, twice.

The hall beyond looked… wrong.

The torches that normally lined the far wall were dimmer than they had been minutes ago— no, not dimmer. Her eyes simply weren’t catching the full shape of the light. The glow was fractured now, a haze more than flame. The sharp lines that marked the floor’s edge had blurred into fog.

She lifted a hand in front of her face.

She could still see it.

Mostly.

Her fingers were soft outlines, washed in shadow, their edges flickering when she moved too fast. There had always been blurriness in her vision—an imbalance of sensation traded for something deeper—but this…

This was different.

Eliryn reached for the wall, needing to anchor herself.

Her palm hit damp stone. Steady. Real.