Page 44 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“In the quiet after violence, everything speaks the truth.” —Proverb, Stormthresh origin

Eliryn sat in silence beside his body.

She hadn’t moved. Not even to wipe the blood from her hands. It dried sticky against her skin, matted under her fingernails. Her fingers were splayed wide against the stone, as if bracing. As if balance could still be found.

Silas was gone.

She could still feel where his last breath had shuddered out against her knees. Still felt the weight of him, heavy and slumped, like he’d given up mid-breath. She waited for the tears to come again.

They didn’t.

“I should’ve stopped it,” she whispered.

No, Vaeronth’s voice came low, uncertain. Not like this. You couldn’t have.

Her jaw locked. “He died right in front of me.”

I know.

“I didn’t see anything. I didn’t even hear—” Her voice cracked. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Vaeronth hesitated. She felt it. Like stone cracking beneath weight.

I… couldn't.

Eliryn’s throat tightened. “You always know. You’re supposed to know.”

I felt the attack only when it was already in motion. Something dampened me. Blinded me. A magic that shouldn’t exist—not anymore. Something coiled through those halls. Older than even I can name.

She shook her head. “That’s not good enough.”

I know.

His answer was too honest. Too quiet. It didn’t make her feel better. It made her want to scream.

“You should’ve helped.”

I couldn’t. He repeated.

“You’re a dragon!” she snapped. “You could’ve broken through the walls.”

And buried you both, Vaeronth said, his voice rougher now. I tried, Eliryn. I tried until it burned.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Was the blade meant for me?”

I don’t know.

Her breath caught.

I felt the danger too late. You were panicking. He was too close to you. His focus… it was on you. He didn’t sense it either.

She swallowed hard. “So this is my fault.”

No. He was focused on you. He didn’t see the threat behind him. But it is not your fault. You didn't cause this.

Her head dropped. The pressure behind her ribs swelled until it hurt. “Then why do I feel like this is my fault?”

Because you cared .

She hated how simple that answer was. Hated how heavy it felt.

“I don’t even know who it was,” she whispered.

Nor do I. That is what terrifies me.

The silence pressed in.

“So this was another random killing?”

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Vaeronth hesitated. It could have been for you. Or he could’ve simply been… in the way.

The thought hollowed her out.

“He died for nothing.”

Not for nothing.

She didn’t want his comfort. Not now. Not when her stomach felt scraped raw and her skin was still warm with someone else’s blood.

Eliryn.

She ignored him.

Little flame. Listen to me.

“I don’t want to move.”

You must.

“Why?”

Because whoever did this could still be near. And you can’t stop them. Not like this. I can’t protect you in here.

“I thought you were supposed to protect me everdywhere.”

I'm sorry.

That made her flinch harder than any scolding.

At last, she whispered, “Tell me where to go.”

He guided her. Quiet. Focused.

She didn’t say goodbye to Silas.

She just left him there.

And as she stumbled forward through the dark, her heart wasn’t breaking over a life lost defending her.

It was shattering over the terrifying truth:

Blindness made her worse than weak. It made her useless.

And she hated herself for it.

She hadn’t understood—not really—what losing her sight meant. Not until blood had soaked her hands, and Silas’s final breath had rattled against her knee. Not until she'd been helpless to save him. Not until her world narrowed to sound and fear and the sound of her own heart screaming.

She was a liability now.

A danger to herself.

And the next time something came for her—she might die before even realizing a threat was near.

She moved forward, hollow and trembling, hand pressed to the wall. Her dragonblood seemed unimportant now, useless with her as its vessel. Her breaths rasped through her throat, too shallow, too fast.

Vaeronth’s voice pressed steady through the storm inside her skull.

Fifteen paces. Turn left. Archway ahead.

She clung to him. To the words. To anything that wasn’t the silence left behind her.

Then—footsteps.

Light. Deliberate.

She froze.

“Dragonblood?”

Her body jerked.

Whitvale.

She flinched before she even registered him as the owner of the voice.

He stopped short a few paces from her. For once, his voice wasn’t oily with amusement. He sounded... startled. “What in the gods’ name—?”

“I—” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t see him, but she tried to look in the right direction. She tasted blood on the back of her tongue. “I—Silas—someone attacked us.”

She heard him step closer. His voice sharpened. “Your guard? Is he dead?”

She nodded helplessly. “He was attacked. I tried to stop the bleeding, but—I couldn't. He’s gone.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Whitvale didn’t say anything clever.

She felt him circling her, hesitant, assessing.

“You’re blind,” he said softly. Not a question. Not pity, either. Just observation.

She nodded anyways. “I didn’t see who it was. I didn’t—I don’t know who—” Her breath caught, and she took a shaky step back from him. “Why are you even here?”

“I was just walking aimlessly, I wanted time alone to think after our little meeting with King Thalen,” Whitvale said. He sounded winded now, or cautious. “I—I didn’t expect to see you like this.”

Her pulse was a hammer in her throat. She took another step back, nearly slipping in bloody tracks she'd left on the floor.

“Did you know this would happen?” she rasped suddenly.

Whitvale's voice stilled. “What?”

“You're here. So fast. So soon after.” Her voice cracked. “Did you know?”

“Gods, no—Dragonblood, of course not.”

She couldn't tell if his words were lies or truths and didn't have her eyes to help inform her.

“Then why are you here?” Her breathing spiraled. “Right now. In this hall. So soon after he—after Silas—”

“Because I was walking,” Whitvale snapped, his usual polish cracking. “I heard nothing. I have no idea how you could have been attacked that quickly and quietly in the halls so close to the King.”

Something shifted.

Eliryn’s skin prickled, and Vaeronth’s voice surged in her mind—low, grim, certain.

Something is wrong. Be ready.

Then—footsteps. Heavy. Sharp.

Two guards rounded the corner.

Eliryn strained her hearing, helpless. Her hands clenched.

Vaeronth spoke, calm but alert. Two men. Royal sigils. Left guard: taller, squared jaw. Right guard: young. Nervous.

She heard their pause.

“That’s the dragonrider,” the younger guard breathed. He sounded too young for this.

“Gods,” the other muttered. Then, louder, “What’s happened here?”

“She’s injured. Disoriented,” Whitvale said tightly.

“I—someone attacked us,” she rasped.

Pause. Tight silence. Then—

“What happened?” the older guard demanded.

Eliryn fought to form the words. “I didn’t see—I couldn’t see. My sight is gone. And Silas—Silas was with me, but someone… someone killed him. I felt him… I felt him die.”

The name hit like steel.

“Silas?” One of the guards echoed. “Silas Caelen?”

“Yes. I think…” Her voice was a whisper. "I only knew him as Silas; he's been my guard since the beginning of the trials."

Vaeronth murmured as the silence stretched. Left guard stiffened. Right is shocked. Voice caught in his throat. They believe you. And I believe they knew Silas.

“Where?” the older guard snapped.

Eliryn lifted her shaking, blood-caked hand. She tried to point. Failed. Finally, she just gestured helplessly. “Behind me.”

“Gods above.” The older guard’s voice cracked. Then to his partner: “Go. Lock down the North Wing. Alert the Commander. Find who did this.”

His partner bolted.

He’s scared, Vaeronth told her. The guard is pulling a rune-disc from his belt. There's a thick blue light emitting from it.

“Containment protocols activated,” he muttered.

Eliryn flinched. “What are you doing?”

“Protecting you,” the guard barked. “And everyone else.”

Vaeronth snarled in her mind. He thinks you could be the threat.

The guard’s hand clamped down on her arm.

“Don’t—” she gasped.

“I’m not hurting you. We’re moving.”

“You’re dragging me like a prisoner!”

“This is containment. You’re covered in blood. You’re one of the trial chosen. You’re dangerous whether you intend to be or not.”

She recoiled instinctively.

Behind her, Whitvale’s voice turned sharp. “Watch your tone.”

The guard’s grip tightened—but hesitated.

Vaeronth murmured. He’s confused who outranks who.

“I’m blind!” she cried, desperate now. “Where do you think I’ll run to?”

Whitvale again, quieter. “She’s not resisting.”

“She’s covered in blood,” the guard gritted. “We’re securing the scene.”

Her breathing cracked. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a secure room. You and him both.” A pause, then grimly: “Until we know for certain who’s dead. And who did it.”

The magic suppressing me earlier—it’s gone. I see clearly now. Whoever attacked… uses magic that shouldn’t exist. Vaeronth rumbled.

She staggered.

What? she breathed.

Later. Walk. Now.

She let herself be pulled. Her feet dragged over stone, every step unfamiliar. Without Vaeronth’s whispered guidance, she’d have collapsed.

They’re leading you downward, he said quietly. A stairwell. Narrow. Guard tower built into the walls. You’re heading to a holding floor.

She tasted iron and fear on her tongue.

Whitvale follows you. He’s silent. Thinking.

A door opened. Metal hinges. She was ushered roughly inside.

Small stone chamber, Vaeronth confirmed. Bench. One door. Whitvale paces. Fast. Nervous. He glances at you constantly.

Her knees gave out. She found the bench by accident.

“What is this?” Her voice broke. “Why are we here?”

Whitvale stopped pacing. “I don’t know. Something’s happening in the palace. People are tense. And that audience with the king… none of it makes sense.”

Eliryn curled into herself.

“Why did you defend me out there?”

“Because you looked like you were about to collapse.”

“And?”

“And I don’t think you killed your guard.”

“I—Silas…” Her throat closed.

Vaeronth’s voice turned softer. I hear others. Approaching.

The door opened. She stiffened.

“Eliryn?” A new voice. Warm. Familiar.

“Garic.” Her breath cracked, tears she didn’t know she had threatening now. “Thank the gods.”

This wasn’t a time to be concerned with using names amongst mixed company.

She reached blindly, and his hands found hers, steady as stone. She gripped him like the edge of a cliff.

Vaeronth described him instantly. His face is grim. But his eyes—he’s afraid for you.

Garic crouched, gripping her arms gently.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m blind.” She finally broke. “And Silas is dead.”

“What?”

She told him everything—rushed, raw, stumbling through the words. The chill of the stone corridor. The sudden silence. The way his hands were there—and then gone. The blood. The breath. The way she’d held him and begged him not to leave her.

Her voice came in broken shards, scraped from somewhere deep.

Across the room, Whitvale didn’t move. He stood against the far wall like a statue, but Eliryn could feel him watching. Cool. Quiet. Unflinching.

When she finished, the silence held.

Garic’s voice broke it like flint on stone. “And no one saw who did it?”

“No.” Her voice was hoarse.

Garic’s voice was steel now. “Whitvale. You were nearby.”

“I found her minutes after,” Whitvale said, evenly. “She was already soaked in blood.”

“You saw no one?”

“No.” His answer didn’t waver. “Just her.”

Garic stepped closer. Eliryn felt the air shift, his stance widen. “Then someone sent those other guards. Someone trying to sweep this clean.”

Eliryn’s voice was low, but cut through the chamber like glass. “We’d just split from you. From the others. That hall should’ve been safe. Should’ve had eyes.” Her hands shook. “And whoever killed Silas… never even touched me. Never even tried.”

The silence after that was suffocating.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “He wasn’t a threat. He was—he was kind. He was good. Why would someone want him dead?”

A long pause.

Then—Vaeronth, his voice coiling around her thoughts like smoke: Because kindness is dangerous in places built on fear.

Eliryn bowed her head, pressing her blood-stained hands to her eyes—useless now. She could feel the truth of it sinking into her bones like rot.

Kindness wasn’t just weakness here.

It was defiance.

And someone had cut it down.

No one spoke. Not Garic. Not Whitvale. Not the guard stationed outside the door.

But inside her, something shifted.

She’d thought she knew how dangerous this place could be.

She’d been wrong.

Silas hadn’t died for her.

He’d died with her beside him. And the thought hollowed her worse than grief.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap.

Someone had sent that blade.

And she would make sure it found its way back.