Page 41 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"A throne of embers burns brightest just before it collapses to ash." —Unknown, scrawled in the margins of a ruined prayer book

Eliryn sipped her tea slowly, both hands curled around the warm clay cup. The morning was pale and cold, the light from the high window stretched thin across the stone floor.

Vaeronth’s presence stirred beside her mind, closer than breath, as always.

Someone comes. Metal-footed. Purposeful... your guard friend.

His voice was low, but alert.

A summons, I think.

She set the cup down on the table beside her and stood, tugging on her overshirt with haste. “Now?”

Soon.

Before she reached the door, the room shifted.

Responding to the new information just like Eliryn was.

Something new waited beside the bench where she’d draped her old clothes.

Boots. Dark leather, reinforced at the heel and toe, laced tightly with silver-threaded cords.

She stepped closer, hesitating. When her fingertips brushed the surface, she felt the difference immediately.

Not ordinary. Supple yet strong. A second skin forged for survival, not just ornament.

She sat quickly and tugged them on, the leather molding to her feet like memory returning to flesh. Protective and grounding.

She flexed her toes. “Well. Guess I’m running out of reasons to fall.”

Don’t test that.

She smiled, and said a silent thanks to the room for it's consideration.

A moment later: three sharp knocks at the door. No words.

Eliryn glanced at the room behind her, looking towards the warm tea and pastries, letting out a sigh. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be eased by sugar.

She hesitated for a breath before opening the door, heart beating steadily but too loud in her ears.

Three left.

That thought wouldn’t leave her. Not through the tea. Not through the quiet.

Not through yesterday’s brief moment of warmth on a sunlit cliff with a man she shouldn’t trust.

Vaeronth stirred again at the edge of her thoughts—steadying, present.

She thought of Silas’s quiet loyalty. Of Malric’s dangerous eyes.

And then she reminded herself: This is not over. You are not safe yet. No matter how soft the morning feels.

Silas stood outside when she opened the door, dressed in his formal guard attire; dark leather, the mark of his station stitched in silver thread over his chest.

He gave her a quiet, respectful nod. “You’re being officially summoned; King Thalen wants to see the chosen. He’ll address you in the Hall of Judgment.”

Eliryn blinked. “Now? You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Eliryn stepped into the hall beside him, her voice dry. “You always bring the best news.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “Would you prefer I lied?”

“Only if you’re good at it.”

“I’m not.”

“Shame.”

As they walked side by side down the narrow stone halls, his shoulder brushed hers, casual, but purposeful. His arm shifted just enough to touch hers again.

She didn’t pull away.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said softly, not looking at her. “You never have been.”

The sincerity in his voice struck something small and trembling inside her. Eliryn inhaled slowly, as if that might steady her hands.

“My sight’s gotten worse,” she admitted under her breath. “Edges blur. Faces smear. I’m still tracking motion, but-”

He slowed his pace half a step, letting her match him more easily. “Lean on me if you need to.”

She did. Just slightly. But enough to know he meant it.

“Why now?” she asked more seriously. “What does the king want?”

Silas’s mouth tightened. “To look at you.”

She arched a brow. “What, checking if I’ve grown wings yet?”

Silas didn’t smile. “Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to see you kneel.”

At that, her stomach twisted.

“Great.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

“Not exactly reassuring, Silas.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

That startled a small, honest laugh out of her. She glanced up at him. “And here I thought you were kind.”

“I am,” he said seriously. “Which is why I’m telling you—be careful.”

A pause stretched. She studied him more closely now, her voice quieter.

“Something else is wrong, isn't it?”

Silas didn’t answer at first. Then: “Two servants were found dead.”

Eliryn’s pulse stumbled.

“They had nothing to do with the trials,” she said softly.

“No.”

“And you think…?”

“I think someone in that throne room doesn’t care who the targets are.”

She didn’t answer. Her thoughts skittered in too many directions. Malric’s voice haunted her more than she wanted to admit.

After a long silence, Silas spoke again, low. “How the king will react to you depends on whether you look like a threat.”

“I’m half-blind and limping.”

“Doesn’t matter with your dragonmarks... There's not a lot you can do to lessen the look of your bond.”

Eliryn sighed, more exhausted than afraid. “I was hoping for something more encouraging.”

“I’m not good at speeches.”

“No,” she said dryly. “But at least you’re honest.”

They neared the doors. Silas slowed. His voice dropped.

“Eliryn.”

She turned to him, sensing the shift.

“Whatever happens in there… don’t let them see you hesitate.”

A beat.

“You’re still standing. That’s more than half of them expected.”

Eliryn’s mouth quirked. “Including you?”

Silas paused, then shook his head once. “No. Not me.”

Her lips twitched. But her heart steadied.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Then the doors creaked open.

And as the light spilled over them, Silas leaned in just slightly, voice low, steady.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Eliryn rolled her eyes—but couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile.

“Try not to look too worried. People will talk.”

Silas’s answering glance was quiet. Steady.

“Let them.”

She knew that if she failed here or in the trials, she didn’t just die. She made it easier for them to erase her kind from history.

As the doors creaked open and the torchlight spilled out over them, Silas let his fingers graze her forearm once more.

A gesture. A tether.

And together, they stepped inside.

It was a vast space, circular and tall as a tower’s spine. Marble columns loomed like sentinels, wrapped in iron banners bearing the sigil of the ruling line: a black flame rising through a broken crown. At the far end stood a low, obsidian dais. Upon it was the king himself.

Eliryn recognized him instantly, though they had never met.

King Thalen. Tall, thin as a reed, but with the stillness of a blade left unsheathed.

His hair was gray at the edges, the crown above his brow more bone than gold, shaped like fire frozen mid-burn.

His eyes were the color of smoke and just as difficult to hold.

She bowed low beside Whitvale and Garic, noticing that their guards hovered a few paces behind them.

The king’s voice rang out, sharp and echoing.

“So. You are what remains.”

He rose, taking a step forward. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow given form. “Three Chosen. Three trials completed. And no clear victor yet. Curious.”

He circled slowly in front of them, his steps measured.

“I admit, I am… surprised. The Flame has not required more than three trials in nearly a century. And yet here you stand.” He paused before Garic. “An old warrior cut from stone. Your village once rebelled against my grandfather, did they not?”

Garic did not answer. The king only smiled and moved on.

Whitvale held himself tall even while kneeling, chin high, barely masking his pride. The king stopped before him. “And you… The blue-marked disciple of the Temple itself. I expect you’ve already prepared your acceptance speech.”

Whitvale smirked. “Only the final lines.”

A low chuckle from the king, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then he came to Eliryn.

She met his gaze without faltering, even as the silence pressed in thick around them.

“And you.” The king’s voice dropped. “The last rider. Dragonblood. How strange that the Flame called for you.”

He studied her the way one might study a storm cloud; curious, but skeptical of its promise.

“Do you know why you were chosen, girl? Why now, after more than a generation of silence from your kind?”

Eliryn remained still. “The Flame doesn’t seem to answer to anyone’s timing, Your Majesty.”

That earned a few sharp inhales from the guards at the edges of the chamber but not from the king. He smiled, slow and unkind.

“No. It doesn’t. But it does respond to desperation. Perhaps that’s what you are- desperation made flesh.” He leaned slightly forward. “Tell me… does your dragon whisper anything useful, or is he just another relic barely clinging to breath?”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “My dragon is more intelligent than most of your court, I’d wager.”

The king’s brow lifted, amused. “Spoken like someone with fire in her spine. A rare thing these days. Rarer still when it's not snuffed out before it can be useful.”

He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Do you have anyone waiting for you, Dragonrider? Anyone to bury you, should this all go wrong?”

The word bury landed like a blade tip pressed to skin. Not celebrate. Not honor.

Bury.

“No,” Eliryn said softly. “There’s no one left.”

The king exhaled. “How tragic. How… tidy.”

He turned, his voice rising once more.

“You are a relic. An echo of a bloodline that should have died out with your kin.”

Eliryn turned her gaze on him. “And yet, here I am.”

Let them fear that, Vaeronth whispered.

Thalen’s lips curled. “What is it the Flame saw in you, girl? Hope? Or hubris?”

“Perhaps both,” Eliryn said calmly.

Thalen studied her longer than the others. His voice was colder when he spoke next. “You are the only female contender in three generations to last this long. I wonder if that should trouble me… or amuse me.”

Vaeronth’s presence flared hot in her skull. It should terrify him.

She could feel Vaeronth's power swell inside of her, feel the heat her eyes glowed with, felt her dragonmarks and runes come to life on her skin in answer to Thalen's musings.

And for a moment, the entire room was silent. The guards. The other chosen. Even the king turned slightly, watching her now not as a curiosity, but as something far rarer than they had realized.

A threat.

At last, the king’s voice rang out once more.

“The fourth trial approaches. Perhaps it will be the last. Perhaps not.” He smiled. "Hope, after all, is the most dangerous thing you can give a dying world."

His voice cooled to iron.

“You are dismissed. Prepare. Rest. If you can.”

He vanished into shadow.

And Eliryn stayed kneeling, breathing slow and tight, her heart a war drum inside her ribs.

She realized it only then, that Thalen wasn't taking an interest in her because she was a female or because she was a dragonrider.

He was focused on her because he knew about the prophecy.