Page 35 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Loyalty is forged not by chains, but by choice. Which is why tyrants fear it most.” —From the private annotations of Councilor Rhalin

Malric watched from the high chamber.

The trial below played out across the mirrored surface of the viewing basin—an ancient, silver-edged pool that reflected cruelty with perfect clarity. Every blood-slick stone. Every shattered cry. Every spear hidden just beneath the surface.

And her.

Eliryn.

He should have turned away. Should have reported back already. But he stood frozen, gaze caught. Not by duty. Not by command.

By her.

She didn’t know he was there.

He’d watched her before, in quieter moments. At the tables with her guard, laughing like she belonged in the kitchens. Her voice too soft, her skin too bare of armor. Vulnerable in ways she couldn’t afford. She hadn't seen him. None of them had. He lingered in the shadows, unseen, as always.

But when that young guard—Silas—had spoken her name, Malric had faltered. The sound of it had dragged him backward in time.

Names were power. Especially here.

And she'd handed hers out like it meant nothing.

Foolish. Reckless.

But now, watching her move through the trial course, bloodied and breathless, he wasn't so sure.

She hesitated before danger. She flinched before illusions. He thought it caution. Discipline. Maybe fear. He hadn’t yet realized she was losing her sight. To him, it simply looked like patience. Calculation.

But whatever it was—she kept moving.

He hated that he admired it.

And hated more that he watched her like he wanted to understand. Like understanding would grant him control.

She was becoming something else. Not just a girl. Not just a competitor. A story already half-formed. A symbol.

And symbols were harder to kill.

He saw the danger now. Saw it as clearly as the blood on her hands. When the arena shifted against her, she didn’t fight harder. She fought smarter.

More than that, standing on the ledge, her breath ragged, her body broken, she'd reached back. Offered her support to the old fighter from Stonefell. Risked herself for someone who didn’t matter.

Why?

Malric’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His ring burned cold against his skin. Heavy. Restless. It always felt wrong when she was near.

And yet when he watched her, part of him wondered what her hand would feel like, if she offered it to him.

He swallowed, hard.

The dragonrider had what people followed. Not orders. Not fear.

Integrity .

He breathed out, slow and sharp, forcing control back into his body.

“She’d be good for us," he whispered. "Too good.”

And he despised himself for meaning it.

Because he already knew what his father would say. What the council would demand.

Eliryn—this fragile, reckless woman who wasn’t yet anything at all—was a threat. Not because of her strength. But because of her restraint. Her mercy.

Because she could be loved.

People would follow her.

That terrified men like his father.

Malric turned from the basin, though her image chased him like hunger. His jaw locked. The scent of smoke and blood clung to him.

She would have to survive far worse than a trial.

And he didn’t yet know whether he’d help her do it—or be the one who stopped her.

The corridor outside was dim. The sconces guttered low, the air thick as velvet. Malric moved like a shadow, silk-smooth and silent, the gold cuffs at his wrists catching faint light.

He didn’t want to go to the upper tower.

Didn’t want to hear the voice waiting there. His father’s voice—precise as a blade, cold as the steel it wielded. Secrets wrapped in barely human skin.

At the stairwell, he paused. His fingers curled around the stone railing, his knuckles bloodless.

He would be expected to report.

They had scrying pools. Eyes sharper than his. But his father wanted to hear the shape of her from Malric’s lips. How she moved. What she inspired.

And what could break her.

Malric’s stomach twisted.

Because he knew the answer now.

Not her weakness. Her strength.

She protected. Even when it cost her. She led without asking. She earned loyalty without demanding it.

That was what terrified them.

Not her dragon.

Her humanity.

A girl with no title. No allegiance but to truth and flame. That kind of power couldn’t be chained. It couldn’t be bought.

And it couldn't be allowed to grow.

He could already hear the verdict waiting for him. His father’s voice, soft as silk, cutting as glass:

We can’t risk her gaining allies. You’ll see that it doesn’t happen.

Malric swallowed hard.

It wasn’t the order that would hollow him.

It was knowing how easily he would obey.

And yet—

He remembered her laughter, flickering like firelight in the kitchen halls. Her hair damp, curling against her cheek. Not a leader. Not a threat.

Just a woman.

In the arena, she hadn’t survived like a warrior would.

She’d endured like someone with something to lose.

And he found himself wanting to know what it was.

He braced a hand against the stone. His pulse felt wrong in his throat.

Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge had survived three trials.

She’d earned her place.

And his father would still order her death.

“Damn you,” Malric whispered. Not to her. Not entirely.

To himself.

To the war inside his own ribs.

He straightened slowly.

If he lied, his father would know.

If he told the truth… she wouldn’t live through the week.

The stairs rose ahead of him like a sentence.

Each step he took was either a promise.

Or a betrayal.

And he didn’t know which one he wanted more.

Not anymore.

The ring pulsed faintly, as if it already knew.

And somewhere beneath the steel of his will, something darker stirred.

Something that whispered:

She’s not yours to save.

But gods, you wish you could.