Page 43 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Obedience is not the absence of love. Sometimes, it’s the weapon love becomes.” —High Marshal Elyen, Letters from the Border War

Malric stood in the shadows of the colonnade.

She didn’t know he was there.

But that didn’t stop him from watching.

Her shape moved ahead, lean and deliberate, shoulders squared against the weight of the king’s words still echoing in the halls behind them. Her hair caught the flickering torchlight like molten copper, loose strands shifting with every step.

His father’s voice pulsed in his mind: remove her tether.

She leaned toward Silas.

Malric’s fingers flexed.

The command wasn’t what drove him forward. He told himself that. Over and over.

This wasn’t obedience.

It was need.

Silas didn’t deserve to be the one beside her.

He moved with them, unseen. Like a blade waiting for a reason.

Then—

“I can’t… see.”

Her voice cracked.

Malric froze.

He felt it, physically, like a dagger between his ribs. He knew her voice now, could track every fracture in it.

She hadn’t told him her eyes were that bad.

He hadn’t noticed it.

Silas turned to catch her, steadying her by the arms. His touch lingered, too careful. Too familiar.

Something in Malric burned black.

And he moved.

Not for the king.

For himself.

The knife was already in his hand before he realized it.

Silas turned just as Malric struck.

It should have been clean.

It wasn’t.

Silas fought.

Malric didn’t mind.

His heart was too loud. His vision tunneled.

He wanted it to hurt.

The knife bit again. Again. Not precise now. Not clean.

But effective.

Blood soaked Malric’s hand. His blade.

Silas fell.

Finally.

Malric’s breath came harsh, ragged, echoing in the narrow corridor.

He should leave.

He didn’t.

He turned—just as she called Silas’s name again.

Her voice broke.

And she turned directly toward him.

Blind.

But facing him.

He felt it like a curse, that gaze.

Like she knew.

“Silas?! Please—someone, help me! I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening!”

She stumbled forward.

Malric stepped back.

But not fast enough.

Her hands found Silas’s body.

Her scream ripped through him.

He watched her collapse beside the corpse, watched her hands press to wounds that wouldn’t heal, watched her sob, her voice dissolving into broken apologies no one would hear.

He should have left.

He couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t supposed to hurt this much.

It wasn't about killing the guard.

It was seeing her break.

And yet.

It did hurt.

Her grief was supposed to free him.

Instead, it anchored him to the moment.

She sobbed his name like a prayer, again and again.

Not Malric.

Silas.

Malric’s hand shook.

And the worst part was: he didn’t regret killing him.

He regretted that she mourned him.

He took one last look at her.

Blood on her hands. Knees stained red. Her body shaking, her voice broken.

And still—still—she looked stronger than anything he’d ever touched.

He hated that.

He hated her.

He wanted her.

And when she finally learns what I did, he thought, I hope she tries to kill me. Because it’ll be the only honest thing left between us.

He didn’t remember leaving the corridor.

He barely felt the stone under his boots, or the cold air of the upper halls. Only the blood on his hands felt real.

Silas’ blood.

Her grief.

Malric reached his quarters like a man sleepwalking.

He shut the door behind him and stood there, in the silence, in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat hammer against his ribs.

Then, methodically, he stripped off the blood-soaked gloves. Peeled his sleeves back. His arms were streaked in red. His throat felt tight.

At the basin, he washed.

Slow. Careful. Mechanical.

But the blood didn’t want to leave him.

His knuckles scraped against the basin’s edge.

The water swirled pink.

He scrubbed harder.

When he finally looked up, his reflection stared back at him.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. Lips drawn tight.

Not the assassin they’d trained. Not the weapon his father had forged.

Something fractured.

She cried for him.

Not for Malric.

For Silas.

And the worst part was—he understood why.

Silas had touched her gently. Spoken softly. Silas had stood beside her like a shield. Had given her safety.

Malric had only ever given her reasons to fear.

But she wasn’t afraid of him.

That’s what ruined him most.

She should be afraid now.

He pressed his hands flat to the basin’s cold stone, breathing shallow, staring down at the blood-swirled water.

His thoughts kept returning to her.

What she’d looked like on the floor, kneeling in the blood, blind and broken, and still—still—stronger than him.

And all he could think was: I could have been the one to catch her.

He could have knelt beside her. Lied. Said he’d found Silas too late. That he’d tried to save him.

She would’ve believed him.

She’d have leaned on him.

Trusted him.

Needed him.

And the thought of it hollowed him out.

He dragged a hand through his hair, shaking now. His composure cracking like glass.

He should go to her.

Right now.

Find her. Let her fall into him. Be the comfort Silas would never be again.

She wouldn’t even question it.

He was careful. Measured. Trusted.

She’d let him hold her.

His throat closed.

But no.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

His mind spun.

A plan, he needed a plan.

What could he give her?

What could he take away next?

How could he carve away every piece of her safety until he was all that was left?

The worst part wasn’t the thought itself.

It was how good it felt.

Malric sat down heavily on the edge of the low stone bed, elbows on his knees, blood drying at his wrists.

He could hear his father’s voice in his head. Cold. Triumphant.

But the voice that answered was his own.

She’s mine.

She doesn’t know it yet.

But she will.

His gaze flicked to the door.

He wondered if she was still crying.

He wondered if she’d say his name when she did.

And that thought—that dangerous, hollow hunger—was the only thing that let him finally close his eyes.

Because now, she was alone.

And sooner or later, he’d be the one she turned to.

He just had to wait.

And he was very, very good at waiting.

The ring pulsed against his finger. Cold. Heavy.

But when Malric looked down at it, he didn’t feel chained.

He felt owned.

And he didn’t mind. Not anymore.

Because soon, Eliryn would be too.