Page 34 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

Her vision blurred violently; shapes melting, light blooming in unnatural ways. Shadows twitched like living things. Even the color of the stone seemed to bleed.

She nearly stepped off a ledge she couldn’t see.

STOP. Vaeronth’s roar cut through her skull.

She froze—her foot hanging over open air. The wind howled below, teeth bared.

Gasping, she dropped to a crouch. Her heart hammered in her throat.

“Too close,” she muttered.

Trust me. Trust nothing else, not even your own senses.

The next stretch led to a wall of rotating beams, each one slick with something that might’ve been oil… or blood. She grabbed hold, climbing fast, ignoring the scream in her limbs.

Hidden mechanisms snapped to life.

Thunk. Shnk.

Spears shot from alcoves in the stone. One grazed her shoulder; another sliced the edge of her braid.

She swung sideways, feet slipping on the beam. A sharp edge ripped straight through the side of her boot and her skin beneath it.

The pain was immediate, hot, and spreading.

She caught a ledge by her fingertips and dangled, legs kicking. Her feet were slick with blood inside the boots now, glass embedded deep.

With a hissed curse, she found footing and climbed. But the damage was done and each step made the pain worsen.

At the next pause—a narrow ledge, nowhere to fall but down—she reached down with shaking hands.

She yanked the boots free, the sound wet and awful.

"Who needs skin, anyway."

They came off reluctantly, soaked red at the soles. She left them behind without ceremony. Let them become part of the arena, like bones offered to a beast.

Barefoot, she moved on.

Skin to glass, skin to stone. No more protection. No illusions.

She ran.

Retracting bridges. Spinning blades. Crumbling tiles.

You are bleeding badly, Vaeronth said, voice tight in her mind.

"Add it to the list," she rasped aloud.

Her feet stopped feeling like her own after the first dozen steps. Each impact felt distant, like she was watching herself from somewhere far inside her skull.

Every step hurt. But pain was simple. Pain was honest.

Vaeronth said again. I am your sight. You will survive this.

She walked a razor-thin rail over open flame, felt heat rise into her skin. At the next crumbling ledge, Eliryn sagged for half a breath. Just half.

This isn't survival, whispered some frayed part of her mind. This is butchery.

She shoved the thought back down just as quickly as it rose. Survival would be enough. She wobbled, but didn’t fall.

And at last—

A tunnel loomed ahead, narrow and silent, its walls slick with condensation that caught the dim light like veins of old silver. From its mouth, the scent of damp stone and old ash drifted out like breath from a sleeping beast.

Then came the arrows.

They rained from nowhere. Black-fletched. Hissing like snakes. Some sliced past so close she felt the air part at her skin. She ducked low, pivoted hard to the left, and the next volley embedded into the stone beside her with a sound like bone snapping.

Then came the voices.

Not from ahead. Not from behind.

From all around.

She slowed—not in fear, but focus sharpening into something honed.

Shapes flickered at the edges of her vision. Her mother’s gaze, hollow with betrayal. Her grandmother’s hand, bloodstained and reaching. The blackened frame of her childhood home, burning all over again.

Every image whispered as it passed:

You’re still trying?

You should already be dead.

You don’t belong here.

Eliryn’s breath hitched. The illusions clawed deeper, not as fear, but as memory draped in deceit.

She knew this wasn’t real.

But gods, it felt real.

Tears burned at her eyes, blurring her already-failing sight into smeared shadows and trembling light. She hated the tears most of all.

“Not this time,” she whispered, voice raw.

Vaeronth’s voice stirred, low and steady, curling around her mind like a shield. These lies are hollow. Keep moving.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

She ran.

The illusions shrieked after her now, louder than the arrows, louder than her heartbeat. Her mother’s voice broke with fury. Her grandmother’s whispered disappointment. The ghosts of her village hissed like scalding water in her ears.

But her feet didn’t stop.

Arrows whined past. Two glanced her shoulder. Pain sparked bright and brief. She counted it as proof she was still alive.

And then—light.

The tunnel spat her out like a broken bird. She fell to her knees, scraping skin, her body heaving for air as the oppressive sounds cut off behind her like a door slamming shut.

Silence crashed down.

Eliryn stayed there, on her knees, gasping. Trembling. Slightly wounded.

But alive.

Slowly, the floor beneath her rumbled. The platform, hidden in shadow, began to rise. Stone shifted, gears turning somewhere deep beneath her feet.

The platform lifted her higher, until the arena sprawled beneath her—carved stone slick with blood and smoke, where shattered illusions littered the ground like glass.

From up here, she could see the whole battlefield.

And for the first time, it felt like victory.

Even if no one cheered. Even if no one cared.

She did.

“We did it,” she rasped aloud, her voice breaking.

Vaeronth’s reply came like embers stirred to life.

You did it.

Eliryn’s lips twitched faintly. “I mean. You're definitely the reason we're alive but I wouldn’t say no to some applause.”

There was silence.

Then, dryly: Your sense of humor is very curious.

She laughed, cracked and tired.

Below, the arena shifted again, hungry for the next.

She watched the next chosen enter: the woman from Stormthresh.

She moved like someone who’d spent her life slipping between dangers, but this arena was built to swallow even the gifted.

She passed the glass path with only shallow cuts, climbing much faster than Eliryn had managed. She leapt, flipped, dodged spinning saws and retracting steps. She almost made it.

Almost.

One of the bridges shifted just a heartbeat earlier than the woman anticipated. It caught her mid-leap. Her foot missed the landing. She tried to grab the edge, but the entire platform retracted like a closing jaw.

She vanished into the fog with a strangled scream.

The platform reset. Stone scraped. Smoke billowed.

The third chosen stepped through next.

Broad-shouldered. Tarn’s Hill’s warrior, axe in hand. He stared up at the course with cold determination.

He didn’t waste time.

He tore through the lower level, crushing traps underfoot. Brute force served him well at first, he used the axe to jam moving panels, to wedge open passageways that threatened to slam shut. He even knocked a falling spear from the air.

Eliryn took a moment to admire his resourcefulness; she had never once thought to use her own weapon in that way.

But force can’t outlast unpredictability.

In the middle of the fire-rail segment, he paused.

Too long.

Something was triggered beneath him. A hiss of pressure.

A spike rose straight through the floor—through his back, his heart, out his chest.

He didn’t even have the chance to scream.

Eliryn flinched as his body was dragged under the platform, vanishing.

And again the arena shifted to welcome the next.

The fourth to enter was the snake.

Whitvale.

His grin returned the moment he stepped inside. His coat was immaculate, cuffs embroidered, hair slicked back with absurd confidence.

Whitvale didn’t rush.

He walked the first half, taking careful, calculated steps. When a bridge began to retract, he casually leaped across to the next one with graceful ease.

Everything about him was practiced, polished, too smooth.

He didn’t just conquer the obstacles. He’d mastered the arena without breaking a sweat.

At the final stretch, he threw a glance up at Eliryn, winked, and vanished into a blur as the platform raised him upward.

Vaeronth stirred in her mind.

That one is filled to the teeth with venom.

She didn’t need to answer him back; Vaeronth already knew her opinion of Whitvale.

The fifth chosen stepped in next. The gentle-faced boy with copper hair from Westbrae. He gripped a short dagger with white knuckles. He was small. Fast. But afraid.

From above, Eliryn saw Whitvale reappear at the edge of the upper balcony where she waited.

“You’re doing great!” he called to the boy below. “But mind the spinning blades—they switch direction after the third pass!”

Wait… Eliryn thought for a moment. That wasn’t true.

Eliryn had counted and was almost sure they only switched after the fifth.

The boy, trusting, misjudged the pattern based on Whitvale's word. He turned early and a blade caught him square in the gut. He dropped, screaming, trying to crawl while holding his organs inside him, but the floor opened beneath him, swallowing him whole while he was still alive.

Whitvale sighed loudly and said to no one in particular, “He should’ve listened.”

Eliryn’s teeth clenched.

The sixth and final person to enter the arena was Garic.

He stood at the starting line, broad and still, arms flexed in readiness.

He didn’t look up at Eliryn or Whitvale, not knowing they were there. He just stood a moment, taking it all in, and breathed deeply.

Then he ran.

Eliryn noticed immediately when Whitvale leaned over the balcony. “The ledge after the climbing beams is cracked!” he called. “You’ll need to jump right instead of forward!”

Eliryn stepped forward without hesitation this time.

"He's lying," she said, voice flat and deadly calm. "Don't trust the snake."

Garic slowed. Looked up.

“Jump forward,” she called, loud and clear. “Straight forward. The crack only shows if you step to the right.”

Whitvale’s smile curdled.

Garic's head tilted up, eyes finding hers.

He trusted her. No hesitation.

He adjusted course.

He moved with steadiness, not a showman like Whitvale but a man used to enduring. He bled some. He stumbled once, but he never faltered.

When he reached the rotating beams, Eliryn saw him pause for breath before starting the climb.

Spears launched. Traps clicked.

But she called out again: “Left side after the fourth beam!”

She watched Garic leap clear, landing heavy but whole.

She didn't let herself exhale. Not yet.

The trust he'd shown in her hit her harder than the pain pulsing her feet. She didn't let herself question it. Not now.

It was slow. Brutal. But Garic made it to the final tunnel, where the illusions bled through again. She saw him flinch, heard his voice call a name: “Bran.”

One of his sons, no doubt.

The fire in her chest rose.

She shouted again. “Garic! They’re not real. That’s not him. You’re almost through!”

And then—

He ran.

The illusions screamed. Shadows tried to follow.

But Garic emerged, bleeding and scraped, but alive.

He dropped to the floor, hands on his knees, gasping. Then raised his head to her. Although she had trouble getting her eyes to focus, she knew they connected.

And from across the balcony, Whitvale rolled his eyes and clapped sarcastically. "How sweet," he drawled. "Didn't know you two were close."

Eliryn didn’t look at him.

Her eyes were locked on Garic. And her dragon’s voice echoed through her.

The true trial was not just the course itself. It was loyalty. Integrity. You’ve passed both in the eyes of the gods.

She nodded—more to herself than anyone else.

Only three remained now.

The arena doors sealed behind Garic with a low, iron groan, the echoes dying slowly through the stone chamber.

Eliryn exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of watching others fail.

But Garic was alive. And he was walking toward her now, bruised and bloodied.

She met him at the edge of the platform where she’d been watching.Her knees threatened to give as she stepped toward him, but she locked them. Not now. Not in front of Whitvale. She could rest later. Maybe. Hopefully.

“You made it,” she said, voice hoarse.

Garic gave her a tired smirk. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she said. “There were more dangers than just the arena.”

Garic followed her gaze toward the far edge of the room, where Whitvale lingered in the shadows, wiping sweat from his brow and pretending not to listen.

“He lied to one of the others,” Eliryn said, voice low and steady.

“Gave him false directions like it was a game. The young boy with the red hair… he trusted Whitvale. Took him at his word when he called out the timing of the spinning blades, and it led him straight into them. He died trying to hold himself together, and Whitvale just stood there. Smiling. Like it was sport.”

Garic looked at her, something shifting behind his eyes, disbelief yielding to grim clarity. “I knew he was arrogant,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t know he was cruel.”

“He gains less competition,” Eliryn said. “And fear. But more than that…” Her voice cooled. “I think he enjoyed it.”

They were quiet for a beat. Then Garic said, “And you? How did you survive it?”

Eliryn hesitated, then gave a small, worn smile.

Vaeronth stirred, a quiet presence like a hand at her back. Tell him the truth. Let him see the bond.

“Vaeronth,” she said. “My dragon. He saw what I couldn’t. My eyes… they failed me. I was struggling with outlines and light. No shapes. No paths. I would’ve bled out on the glass field if not for him.”

Garic stared at her a moment, taking note of her dragon marks that were glowing stronger as she spoke about her dragon, measuring the truth of it—then nodded slowly.

“So your dragon guided you.”

“He’s the only reason I’m standing here.”

“Well, thank him for me too, then,” Garic said. Then, after a pause: “And I’ll remember what Whitvale did.”

Eliryn touched his arm, needing her only ally to understand the gravity of what had happened. “Be careful around him. He’s the type to strike when your back is turned. He wants to watch us fail.”

Garic followed her gaze to where Whitvale lounged, boots swinging idly over the ledge like death wasn’t a breath away. His expression hardened.

“I’ll stay ready.”

And as the torches dimmed slightly, and footsteps echoed far down the corridor, the last of the chosen stood shoulder to shoulder—warriors, champions and survivors, forged in blood and sharpened by fire.

Vaeronth's voice rumbled in her mind as Garic stood beside her.

Not forged, little flame.

Found.