Page 46 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“They say the throne grants power. But I say: it only reveals who has already paid the cost of bearing it.” —Queen Alindra the Unburned

Eliryn sat on the edge of her bed, unmoving.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to its coals, a soft orange glow throwing long shadows across the stone walls. The castle gave her everything she might physically need—warmth, food, quiet—but none of it touched the raw, hollow ache in her chest.

She hadn’t slept.

She couldn’t.

Every breath felt heavy, her stomach tight and sour. Though a pitcher of water and a fresh loaf of bread had appeared hours ago, she hadn’t touched them. The blood under her fingernails still felt tacky. The smell of it clung to her skin, to her memory.

Vaeronth remained silent. Not absent—never absent—but quiet, like a thunderstorm forced into stillness.

I am here, he whispered once, earlier.

But tonight, even that felt far away.

A knock came at the door. Light. Measured.

Eliryn’s shoulders tensed. Her voice cracked raw: “Who is it?”

“It’s Garic.”

She hesitated. Then, softer, “Come in.”

The door opened carefully. Garic stepped inside, holding a wrapped bundle in his hands. She could smell the warmth of it before he even crossed the room.

“I know the rooms provide what we need,” he said, voice hesitant. “But I thought maybe… it’d feel different, coming from a friend.”

He placed the bundle gently on the table. Fresh bread. Stewed fruit. A clay cup of broth. Steam curled into the cold air.

She didn’t bother with the food.

She looked toward him instead.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That’s… unbelievably kind.”

Garic pulled the chair near her bed without asking. His presence was careful, not intrusive. Like he knew she might break if pressed too hard.

“You didn’t deserve what happened,” he said softly, voice thicker than usual. “And Silas… he deserved better too.”

“I don’t think ‘deserving’ means anything in this place anymore,” Eliryn whispered. “Maybe it never did.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

Then she spoke again, her voice scraped raw but steady.

“I trust you.”

Garic blinked, caught off guard by the weight of those words.

“I trust you,” she said again, voice hoarse. “And I need you to know… I don’t want the crown. I don’t want a throne. I don’t want power over anyone. I just… I just want to survive. For my mother. For everyone who didn’t.”

Her throat clenched. Her hands trembled, though she kept them clasped tight.

“I’ll help you win,” she said finally, voice low. “If it comes to it. I’ll make sure it’s you.”

Garic said nothing at first. He didn’t argue. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, he reached for her hand.

When his fingers wrapped around hers, it wasn’t a gesture of strategy or comfort.

It was a promise.

“Then we survive,” he said quietly. “Together.”

The words settled into her like an ember, small but solid.

She nodded once, and the knot in her chest loosened.

Garic held her hand for another quiet moment. Then he rose, steady as stone.

“I’ll check on Whitvale,” he said, voice gentle now. “Make sure the truce hasn’t evaporated.”

Eliryn almost smiled. “Good luck.”

At the door, he paused.

“You’re stronger than you think, Eliryn.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving her alone again.

But this time, not quite hollow.

She exhaled slowly and leaned back, letting the tension bleed out of her shoulders.

A single breath passed.

Then—another knock.

She didn’t move. She assumed Garic had returned. “Come in.”

She didn’t see the door open of course. But she felt the faint shift of air, the soft creak of the door hinges. The whisper of boots on stone.

Her breath hitched, remembering how vulnerable she was without her sight.

Vaeronth? Her voice in the bond was frayed, thin as cracked glass.

Someone’s here. I think it’s Garic. Can you help—

Focus. His voice came like steady hands on her shoulders. Breathe. Ground yourself. Let me in fully.

I’m trying—

Let go of the fear. Feel only me. I need clarity to give you my eyes.

She forced air through her lungs, fingers twisting in the blanket. The darkness pressed close but she reached for him, for the pulse of ancient flame curled tight behind her ribs.

She let herself fall.

And then—

Light.

Not hers.

Vaeronth’s.

The world slid back into focus, strange and refracted, every edge gleaming faintly like wet steel. Shadows heavy, colors too sharp. But she saw.

And she saw him.

Not Garic.

Malric.

Her breath caught.

Her whole body tensed.

“Eliryn,” he said softly, voice like silk stitched over something sharp. “I heard what happened. I’m… sorry.”

She said nothing.

Watched him approach. Watched the too-smooth grief in the angle of his mouth, the practiced way sorrow darkened his eyes.

Vaeronth held her steady.

Watch. Do not trust his words. Trust me.

She watched.

Malric stepped inside. The door sighed shut behind him.

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling,” he continued, voice wrapped in mourning like a performance. “Silas, wasn’t it? He was loyal. I know that much.”

She narrowed her gaze, forcing calm.

“You knew he was mine?”

Malric didn’t flinch outright. But the breath before his answer dragged too long, giving away his agitation.

“Word spreads. The guards talk. Halls have ears.”

“And you knew where my room was?”

Another pause.

Then a loose shrug, deliberate. “You know I've been watching.”

She said nothing.

Only tracked him. Every step. Every tilt of his head. His hands, carefully visible. His body, never quite at ease.

Malric sat lightly on the edge of her table. Not too close. Not yet.

“There’s talk,” he murmured, voice soft as silk unraveling. “Among the guards. Some want out of the crown's shadow. Sabotage. Resistance. Whatever it takes.”

A glance toward her, compassion tilting his tone.

“Maybe Silas stood in their way. Maybe that made him a target.”

She lowered her gaze, her hands pale against the blanket. Blood still stained her nails. She heard herself whisper:

“I keep seeing him in my mind. Reaching for me. Like he still wanted to protect me, even after…”

Her throat closed.

“And the blood…” Her voice cracked. “It was everywhere. It was like when my mother passed. One moment they’re alive. The next… gone. And all that’s left is the blood.”

Malric moved.

Slow. Careful. A shadow in silk.

He knelt before her.

Too close.

Be still, Vaeronth breathed.

And she was.

Through the shimmer of dragon sight, she saw the shift. The crack beneath the mask. A twitch at the corner of Malric’s mouth. The faint glimmer behind his lashes.

Calculation.

“I know loss,” he said softly. “I know what it hollows out of you. What it makes.”

Her throat burned, her vision swimming even through Vaeronth’s sight.

It can’t be him, she told herself.

He wouldn’t come now. Not after Silas. Not like this.

No killer would sit beside her while she broke. No assassin would kneel, touch her, speak softly, unless—

Unless he cared.

Unless all those small glances, those stolen moments she pretended not to notice… were real.

She wanted to believe it.

Needed to believe it.

It was the only reason he could be here now.

And so, Eliryn let herself break.

Her grief wasn’t just for Silas. Not anymore.

It cracked open inside her, uncoiling in violent waves.

She broke for her mother, left broken in a burning cottage.

For herself.

For the girl who used to believe the world could be kind.

Her body folded forward, shaking. The sob that ripped from her chest wasn’t delicate—it was raw, ugly, the sound of something unraveling.

Malric caught her easily.

Arms around her.

Hands gentle.

Soothing her with the careful touch of someone who knew precisely when to apply pressure, and when to withdraw.

“I know,” he whispered against her hair. “Let it out. It’s all right.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing harder.

Because surely, surely , he meant it.

Surely, no one pretending could speak so softly. Hold so steadily.

But Vaeronth saw.

And Vaeronth knew.

He watched, unblinking.

Tracking Malric’s heartbeat.

Felt the faint magic threaded through his skin—the wrongness pressing against his senses like smoke slipping through cracks in stone.

Magic designed to silence, to mask.

There’s power around him, Vaeronth rumbled, his voice like stone grinding in her mind. He is not what he seems.

Eliryn couldn’t answer.

She couldn’t hear him clearly anymore.

Not through the storm inside her.

Not through the arms that held her.

Vaeronth curled tighter, helpless in his vigil, forced to watch the predator hold what little remained of his rider’s heart.

And Malric, poised in the perfect quiet of her grief, let his hand drift—once, gently—along her spine.

The way someone would soothe a creature they had already caged.