Page 36 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"After the scream, the silence. After the fall, the breath. Survival is not always loud." —Unknown soldier, Requiems of the First Trial

Eliryn didn’t feel the pain until the silence settled in.

ntil the heat of adrenaline bled off her skin and her steps slowed. The ache seeped in—first dull, then sharp—crawling from heels to knees. The blood had stopped, but not before leaving a trail: faint red prints on pale stone.

She couldn’t even place the moment Silas appeared. One heartbeat there was only the echoing hall; the next his arm was under hers. Pain had sanded the edges off time and taken the minutes with it.

Silas said nothing at first. He let her lean, one arm strong and steady beneath hers, guiding with the kind of gentleness men usually forgot how to wield. Warmth threaded through his sleeve to hers, as steady as his breath. He was careful.

At the final turn toward her door, he eased his hold without letting go, matching her pace like it was a language he’d learned on purpose.

He glanced at her sideways. "You’re limping harder."

"I’m fine," she lied, though her voice cracked.

Silas didn’t argue. But when they reached her door and she sagged against it, breath shaking, he stepped closer. Close enough she caught the faint scent of leather and cedar clinging to him, warm and familiar in a way that caught her off guard.

"Let me help you inside," he said softly. "If that’s all right."

She hesitated. She should’ve said no. Should’ve told him she didn’t need help. But her legs trembled, her vision blurred, and for once, pride lost the fight.

She nodded.

The door shifted open like it recognized her will, and Silas guided her through gently.

Inside, the room responded instantly: the hearth leapt to life, casting a golden glow across the stone.

A warm basin of water sat at the base of her padded bench, beside a folded set of thick, comfortable clothes and a bowl of darkberries and honeyed root.

The door closed behind them with a whisper.

She tried to step forward on her own. Failed. The pain roared back, sharp and unforgiving.

Silas caught her before she hit the floor, arms steady beneath hers. "Gods," he muttered, easing her to the bench. His voice sounded strained. "Eliryn… you should’ve said something sooner."

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He knelt, dipping the cloth in warm water. His hands, usually so steady, hesitated just for a moment before touching her skin.

"I thought you might not come back," he said finally. His voice was quieter than before. "Guards can’t see anything when you’re inside the trial. We just wait. Wondering."

She watched the way the firelight caught his profile, how carefully he wrung out the cloth, how his hands shook slightly.

She didn’t speak until the cloth touched her feet. The burn of it pulled the words from her like a confession.

"I barely made it." Her voice cracked. "Vaeronth… he helped me through. I can barely see anything clearly anymore. I would’ve died without him."

His hands stilled.

"You’re… blind?"

"Almost." She let out a breath. "I’m losing what little clarity I have left. I can feel the dark closing in."

Silas said nothing at first. The silence wasn’t empty. It felt like him holding something carefully between his teeth.

Then, finally: "You didn’t falter."

She blinked. Looked down at him, not understanding.

"When you walked in just now," he continued. "Even in pain. Even like this. You still reacted like a warrior. Like you could do it on your own."

Her throat tightened. She didn’t feel like a warrior. Not with blood drying on her heels. Not with exhaustion pressing into her bones.

Then softer, almost too soft to catch: "I’m glad you made it back."

Her heart faltered. Something shifted inside her.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers found his. Rested there. Just for a moment. The warmth of him seeped into her skin like something she hadn’t realized she was cold enough to crave.

"So am I," she whispered.

They stayed like that. In the hush of firelight. In the silence between orders and battles and trials. Just two people, scraped raw by a cruel world, holding something fragile between them without naming it.

When she finally pulled her hand back, she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Silas helped her into the thick sleepshirt the room provided. His hands moved carefully, respectfully, but she caught the hesitation in his breath when his fingers brushed her skin. Felt the quiet awareness settle between them like fog.

He eased her down onto the low bed, where furs waited to swallow her whole. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but she didn’t know if it was exhaustion or the unfamiliar ache of safety.

Silas crouched beside her, his voice barely audible now. "You should sleep."

Her voice came without her permission, low and uncertain. “Will you stay?”

Silas didn’t answer right away.

In the quiet, Eliryn forced a dry, self-deprecating smile. “I’m not ready to be alone with my thoughts just yet.”

That made him pause. His gaze flicked to her—not pitying, not startled. Just soft. Honest.

Then, quietly: “I’ll stay.”

She didn’t know how to answer that. So she didn’t.

Silas shifted, settling beside her on the stone floor, not touching, but near enough that the warmth of him filled the air. A quiet kind of steadiness. Not only a guard but a man choosing to be there.

And this time, she let herself drift. Not into battle-readiness. Not into fear.

Into sleep.

Real sleep.

The dream came fast—and cruel.

She wasn’t alone on the course.

All of them were there—the chosen. Running the trial together. Shoving past one another, bleeding, screaming, breathless. Their faces blurred and streaked with blood, but she recognized them. Every last one. The boy with copper hair. Garic. Stormthresh.

And Whitvale.

He was laughing.

Ahead of her.

And when the boy stumbled, too young, too unsure to stand against him, Whitvale shoved him.

Hard.

Into the blades.

The sound was the worst of it.

Steel cleaving through flesh, bone snapping wetly.

Eliryn’s voice tore itself free in a broken scream—but no one heard. The boy's body twitched against the spinning blade, still trying to hold his insides from spilling through his shaking fingers. His eyes met hers, wide and confused, as if begging her to explain why this was happening.

She staggered forward. She tried to move. To help. To reach him.

Her feet slipped.

On blood.

Her own.

Her heels slid uselessly across slick stone, and she looked down to see her own insides unraveling—no, no, not yet, she wasn’t ready, she wasn’t—

She cried out for Vaeronth.

Nothing answered.

The bond was severed. Silent.

Not even the echo of him remained.

She spun, desperate, choking, gasping, but the walls were too high. Her voice bounced back at her—thin, useless, not hers.

She was nothing here.

Just meat.

The others ran past her. Stormthresh didn’t even look back. Garic—his face, shadowed, unreadable—disappeared into the smoke.

They left her.

Whitvale watched.

And smiled.

When she slipped, it was almost a relief.

The ledge broke beneath her, blood-slick stone giving way.

She fell, and kept falling.

Not even her scream followed her down.

No flame. No dragon.

No one.

Just cold.

And the dark.

Forever.

Eliryn jolted upright, breath ragged, a low cry caught in her throat.

The fire still burned.

Her walls still held.

And Silas was still there.

He sat beside her bed, awake now—leaning forward the moment she stirred. His voice came soft, steady, like he’d been rehearsing it in her absence.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

His hand hovered, unsure, until she reached for him first.

She grabbed it like a lifeline, her fingers tight around his. His skin was warm. Steady. Real. An anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped.

Silas frowned softly. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Then don’t.”

His thumb brushed against her hand, careful as always. She held tighter. She wasn’t sure he minded.

“I thought I was alone.”

“You’re not,” Silas said simply.

The answer lodged somewhere deep. She breathed carefully, forcing the tremor from her chest.

They sat like that for a while. Silent but not uncomfortable. His presence filling the space where her fear used to live.

Eventually, she shifted, glancing at him through her lashes.

“Is this… something you do often?” Her voice was dry, threaded with something lighter now. “Waiting in the wings of weak and vulnerable girls?”

Silas blinked, noticed her teasing smile, then huffed a soft laugh. “Only the dragonriders.”

“Ah.” She smirked faintly. “Exclusive clientele.”

“Very.”

He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. His tone lost the humor, though his gaze didn’t waver.

“No one would accuse you of being weak, Eliryn.”

Her breath caught—not because she didn’t believe him, but because maybe, for the first time, she did.

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” she said softly, though her fingers didn’t loosen.

“I know enough.”

Silas said it without hesitation. Without question. And that terrified her far more than the dream had.

Before she could answer, his free hand lifted, hesitating near her cheek.

She surprised them both by leaning into it.

“Just so we’re clear,” she murmured, her voice soft but carrying, “if you’re going to keep saying things like that, you’re going to have to get used to me being confused about how I’m supposed to feel.”

Silas smiled at that, and it was quiet, but honest. “I’ll risk it.”

“Dangerous move, soldier.”

“I’ve faced worse.”

Her lips curved. But her heart was trembling again, and this time, not from fear.

They stayed like that longer than either of them would want to admit.When sleep finally pulled at her again, she didn’t fight it.

Silas brushed her hair from her face once more, gentle as a prayer. He didn’t leave. Didn’t say he would.

She drifted down into sleep knowing that when she woke—he’d still be there.

And this time, she didn’t feel alone.

Only when her eyes closed and opened again without the storm behind them did he rise.

"I’ll come check on you in the morning," he said, voice still soft, still steady.

She nodded, too hollow to speak.

At the door, he paused. Like there was something else he wanted to say. But in the end, he only offered her a small, quiet smile.

Then he was gone.

Only when the fire had burned down to coals did she finally reach inward.

"Vaeronth?"

His presence stirred, low and warm in her mind. Tired. Protective.

I’m here.

She exhaled shakily.

"Do you think there’s another trial soon? Did you… sense anything? Hear anything from the steward?"

A pause.

No. Nothing clear. Nothing that will happen right away.

Her breath trembled out. "So we don’t know what tomorrow brings."

We never do, Vaeronth said gently.

Eliryn closed her eyes again. Letting the quiet hold her the way Silas’ hand had.

And this time, when sleep found her, it was kinder.