Page 40 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"To ask what lies beneath the surface is to risk what holds you afloat." —Sayren of the Shattered Isle, philosopher-exile

The walk back through the orchards felt longer than before.

Each step pulled at the ache in her heels, the raw skin stinging, but she kept going. She told herself it was the wind slowing her, or the weight of Vaeronth’s presence circling lazily overhead. But deep down, she knew better.

Her mind was too full.

She kept seeing Malric’s face. The way he stood so still, too careful, like something dangerous loosely caged. His words echoed: It consumes me.

It wasn’t fear that left her unsettled.

It was the idea that he meant it.

She glanced skyward as Vaeronth’s shadow crossed the sun. His quiet hum in her mind steadied her, distant but present, content—for now.

When she reached the kitchen door, she hesitated for a breath. Then stepped through.

The warmth hit her first. The familiar weight of it: woodsmoke, roasting roots, the unmistakable scent of butter hitting hot stone. She breathed it in like a balm. Normalcy. Safety. Something human.

“Eliryn!” chirped Nim, flour on his nose, arms elbow-deep in dough. “Come to steal more pies?”

“I came for the company,” she said softly. “The food’s just a bonus.”

“Well,” Marta called, “you’re in luck. Pies are fresh, and company’s half-trained.”

The humor tugged a reluctant smile from her. She drifted toward the prep table, accepting the slice Marta handed her without question.

Marta smirked. “Your favorite guard’s not working today, by the way.”

Eliryn froze halfway through her first bite. “What?”

“Silas,” Marta said innocently, barely glancing up as she chopped a bundle of greens. “The one with the long lashes and the gentle smiles. Thought you might ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Eliryn said a little too quickly, cheeks warming.

Marta grinned like a fox. “It’s fine. We all see it.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Uh-huh. And dragons don’t fly.”

Eliryn rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite suppress the smile curling at the edges of her mouth.

Marta slid a bowl of chopped herbs to the side. “Honestly, if any of them deserves a soft place to land, it’s Silas. Boy’s got the loyalty of a mastiff and the eyes of someone who’s never seen spring. Let him have a real reason to smile.”

“I’m not…” Eliryn hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything worth it usually is,” Marta said.

But Eliryn wasn’t listening anymore.

Because Silas had soft eyes. And steady hands. And when he had held her hand, she felt like a person, not a prophecy.

And then there was Malric.

She remembered the cold precision in his voice. The hunger buried deep. The way he looked at her like she was something inevitable. Something he’d already decided he couldn’t stop wanting.

Silas felt like the edge of a hearthfire.

Malric felt like the blade that cast the shadow.

She wasn’t sure which terrified her more.

They lapsed into a companionable silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by the scrape of knives and the low hiss of boiling pots. The warmth of the hearth soaked into her bones. But beneath it, something tugged at the edges of her mind—a quiet wrongness she couldn’t name.

“There are only three of us left,” she said quietly.

Marta’s busy hands stilled.

“Eliryn…” She began.

“Only three,” she continued. “And the chosen from Whitvale—he’s not just ambitious. He’s cruel. There’s something in him that wants this too much, and not for the right reasons.”

Nim nodded slowly. “He’s the wiry one, isn’t he?”

“If he reminds you of a snake, that's him.”

Nim chewed his lip. “He gives me bad gooseflesh. Walked through the kitchens once and looked at us like we were meat. Like he’d already counted the cuts and wanted to watch us bleed.”

A sharp clang rang out as Marta dropped a ladle into the sink with more force than necessary.

“Eliryn,” Marta’s voice dropped as she glanced once toward the open door. “You be careful. The castle’s not just dangerous for those in the trials. There’ve been… deaths.”

Eliryn looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Marta wiped her hands on her apron. “Word is, a minor official in the northern court wing was found dead two nights ago. And not from natural causes. Poison or blade- depends on who’s whispering. Just someone who’d… seen too much.”

Nim leaned in, his voice barely audible. “That’s not the only one. A scribe went missing last week. And a stablehand turned up drowned in the irrigation trench, but she couldn’t swim and would never willingly go near the channel.”

Eliryn’s stomach twisted. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Marta admitted. “But it’s a pattern. And the castle hums differently when something’s rotting inside it. I’ve been here long enough to know.”

Eliryn sat back, pie forgotten on her plate.

Her mind twisted. She saw Malric’s face. Heard his quiet, even voice when he told her he didn’t know what she was yet.

He was an assassin.

Could it be him?

She wanted to say no.

But she wasn’t sure what scared her more: the idea that he was the killer… or that he wasn’t.

“I need to get back to Vaeronth.”

She stood too fast, nearly knocking over the bench. Marta let her go, but Nim’s quiet “Be safe” followed her out.

She didn’t slow until the warmth of the kitchens gave way to cool stone.

Then, at last, she exhaled.

Malric haunted the shadows.

Silas lit the doorways.

She didn’t know which one she’d find herself walking toward.

Not yet.

But she suspected it would hurt either way.

The sun hung low when Eliryn stepped out past the last row of gnarled apple trees, their branches bending with the season’s weight. A soft wind stirred the leaves and carried with it the faint tang of river air, cool and tinged with memory.

Vaeronth lay on the wide outcrop just beyond, his great body sprawled like a monument left by time itself.

His wings were half-unfurled, catching the last of the sun in glimmering sheets; black turned to gold at the edges, every scale a sharp, glistening shard.

His head was low, eyes half-lidded, but she knew he was never truly sleeping.

You are quiet, came his voice, brushing gently across her mind like fingers smoothing a page.

Eliryn didn’t answer at first. She stepped down from the slope and crossed the grass to him. Her hand found the warm edge of his foreleg—heat like sun-baked stone, alive beneath her palm. Living armor. Solid. Unyielding.

“I can't stop thinking about Malric,” she said.

I know.

She didn’t ask how. Of course he knew. She was quickly learning that dragons heard things not said, felt things not yet formed.

“He told me what he is.”

A killer, Vaeronth said, without hesitation.

She nodded. “Yes. And something else.”

Silence stretched between them. Not empty. Waiting.

Then: You are drawn to him.

Eliryn didn’t answer.

You must not forget why you’re here, he continued. This place is not your home. These people are not your allies.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I can’t seem to stop being human just because I'm supposed to fulfill some ancient prophecy.”

Vaeronth shifted, slow and deliberate, lifting his head until his gaze settled fully upon her. His eyes were deep, endless pools of hammered bronze—ancient and steady, forged to outlast doubt.

You do not have to stop being human. But don't believe that everyone here can be trusted… not all monsters wear their true faces.

She sank down beside him, her back resting against the curve of his massive shoulder. His warmth enveloped her, steady as his breath—a low, constant thunder behind her ribs.

“I went to the kitchens,” she said after a moment. “Talked with Marta and Nim again.”

The young one who gives you the sweet bread?

She huffed a small laugh. “That’s the one.”

And what did they say?

“That someone under the king was killed recently. Someone important, maybe. It had nothing to do with the trials.”

Vaeronth didn’t speak at once. The silence felt heavier now.

It wasn’t an accident, he said finally.

“You think it was a warning?”

Or a test. Of loyalty. Of silence. Of obedience. This place pretends at order, but it is rotting underneath. You are wading through it all.

Eliryn’s throat tightened. She tipped her head back, staring up at the last light bleeding through the trees.

“I’m trying, Vaeronth. I just… don’t know what direction to go in.”

A pause.

You don’t need direction, he said, voice soft as the settling of ash. You have me.

She closed her eyes, the truth of it sinking into her skin like his warmth.