Page 45 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“When the blade hangs above your head, even your enemies start to look like friends.” —Tales of the Last Trials

The door had been sealed for what felt like hours.

Eliryn sat against the cold stone wall, knees drawn in, hands clasped tight to stop their shaking. She could still feel Silas's blood on her skin. The scent of it had soaked into her sleeves.

Garic sat beside her, a steady presence. He hadn’t tried to speak again—just offered silence and a firm grip when her breath had started to quicken, when the panic clawed up the back of her throat. His hand on hers had been grounding. Not enough. But it helped.

Across the room, Whitvale paced like a caged wolf. His usual easy grace was gone, replaced by short, agitated strides and the occasional curse muttered under his breath. He hadn’t sat once.

You should not sit silent while grief devours you, Vaeronth murmured in her mind. His presence was a low hum now, simmering. Let me burn for you.

“I need you calm,” she whispered inwardly. “I need me calm.”

The only sound in the chamber was the soft tap of Whitvale’s boots on stone and the occasional shift of Garic’s clothing as he adjusted beside her.

Then—new footsteps.

Boots. Crisp. Measured. Multiple pairs.

The lock on the door turned with a heavy click.

Eliryn sat up straighter, forcing stillness into herself. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure they could hear it.

The door swung open, and a figure stepped through; one she recognized by voice alone, long before anyone spoke his name.

“Good afternoon, chosen.” The steward’s voice was smooth as oiled steel. “You’ll forgive the wait.”

Whitvale stopped pacing. “What the hell is going on?”

The steward stepped inside, flanked by two guards. He ignored the question, eyes passing over each of them in turn.

“I bring word from the crown,” he said.

Eliryn stiffened. “About Silas?”

The steward paused, as though weighing how much to give. “King Thalen regrets the incident. The matter is being… reviewed.”

“That’s it?” Garic said, rising now. “He was slaughtered.”

“I did not come to debate,” the Steward said coolly. “I came to inform. There will be no delay in the trials. You will proceed, as intended.”

“You can’t just pretend nothing happened,” Whitvale snapped.

“I assure you,” the steward replied, voice sharp, “nothing is being ignored. But the Flame burns forward, and our sovereign will not have sentiment delay its will.”

Eliryn’s hands curled into fists on her lap. “And what is the next trial?”

The steward smiled, just barely. “It has yet to be revealed. But you’ll be notified soon. Prepare yourselves.”

He turned to go, then paused just at the door, voice softening with theatrical gravity.

“King Thalen offers his condolences… and his gratitude for your compliance. You all serve the realm, whether you understand it yet or not.”

A long silence held them.

Then Whitvale muttered, “He doesn’t even try to sound like a real person anymore.”

Eliryn leaned her head back against the wall, pulse thudding. Her vision was nothing but black and ghosts now. Her voice, when it came, was raw.

“I’m so tired of pretending this is anything other than a death sentence.”

Garic’s voice came beside her. Quiet. Sure.

“We’ll get through this.”

Neither of them moved as the steward’s footsteps faded.

The door had clicked shut, but no key turned. It was not locked.

Still, none of them made an effort to test the handle.

“We should go,” Garic said after a moment, though he made no move toward the exit.

“Should we?” Eliryn asked, her voice low but sharper now.

Garic hesitated. “We were dismissed.”

“And they didn’t say to stay,” Whitvale muttered. “But it feels like a test, doesn’t it?”

Eliryn tilted her head toward the sound of his voice.

“It’s the kind of trick the court plays. Leave the cage door open, see who runs.” He rubbed at his jaw, his usual arrogance dulled. “If we leave without escorts, it could be seen as defiance.”

Garic gave a humorless snort. “And if we stay too long, it’s passivity.”

“Exactly.” Whitvale leaned back against the wall. “That’s the game. And the trials are just one big game.”

He’s not wrong, Vaeronth murmured. But you were never made to play their game. You were made to end it.

“I’d rather wait for guards,” she said aloud. “If someone tries to attack again, I’m not interested in meeting them like this.”

Neither man disagreed with her statement.

And so, they waited.

Three chosen, seated in a room that was no longer a cell but didn’t quite feel like freedom. Time crept forward. The stones beneath them held the kind of silence that knew how to listen.

When someone finally spoke, it wasn’t what she expected.

“I’m not going to sabotage anything this time,” Whitvale said.

Eliryn’s head tilted slightly toward him.

“I know I’ve been…” he paused, searching, “…playing a part. Trying to win the way I thought you had to. By being clever. And ruthless.”

Garic made a low, skeptical sound.

Whitvale ignored it. “But what happened to your guard,” he said softly. “To Silas. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be next.”

He looked between them, lips pressed thin.

“There’s a killer moving through these halls.

An uprising pulsing just beneath the throne.

I’m done with tricks. No more games.” He met her sightless gaze.

“We don’t have to be friends. But we’re all that’s left.

And I don’t want to die alone in a corridor with no one to know it happened. ”

A heavy pause.

Then Whitvale stepped forward. She felt the air shift in front of her as he extended a hand, palm-up.

“A truce,” he said. “For as long as we survive.”

Eliryn hesitated. Her heart pounded. Then she reached forward slowly. Her hand found his, warm and steady.

Garic didn’t move at first. Then, reluctantly, he stepped forward and added his hand to theirs.

“Fine,” he said. “A truce. But no promises I won’t throw you into a pit if you start your old nonsense again.”

Whitvale gave a weak, almost human laugh. “Understood.”

They stood like that, hands linked in a strange triangle. Three strangers bound not by loyalty, but by the same sharp edge of fear.

A few minutes later, a guard returned. “You’re dismissed. Wait in your chambers until further notice.”

Whitvale left without another word.

Garic remained by Eliryn’s side, gently placing a guiding hand on her arm.

As they turned the corner into a quieter hall, he leaned in close.

“Don’t trust him,” he said, voice barely breath. “That kind of personality shift doesn’t happen overnight. He didn’t look shocked enough when I got here. Didn’t ask enough questions.”

Eliryn’s stomach twisted. “You think he had something to do with it?”

“I think he’s smart enough to make someone else do his work for him,” Garic said grimly. “We both know he's capable of sabotage and cruelty. But I can't say for sure."

Eliryn’s voice was a whisper. “Then why shake his hand?”

“Because monsters watch for weakness,” Garic answered. “And it’s easier to kill someone when their back is turned.”

They walked on in silence.

The echo of Whitvale’s offered truce clung to her like cobwebs.

She wanted to believe it.

But the halls of this castle had long since taught her: whatever came into this place whole didn’t leave that way.