Page 47 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Mercy is the final kindness a killer offers himself.” —Anonymous Executioner's Notes

She had broken more easily than he expected.

Malric stood in the quiet of her bathing chamber, sleeves rolled neatly past his wrists.

Steam coiled around him, lit by the faint glow of the enchanted sconces.

The ring on his finger—his tether, his tool—hummed low with power.

A quiet, steady thrum. It pressed back against Vaeronth’s senses, dulled the beast’s reach.

It had to. Otherwise, Malric wouldn’t be standing here now, watching the girl sway between grief and exhaustion, blind to everything but the lies he wove.

She hadn’t resisted when he guided her from the bed.

She hadn’t questioned when he’d stripped her down to her shift with slow, deliberate motions, murmuring soft apologies that never reached his eyes.

He’d removed her blood-crusted tunic, the trousers stiff with dried sweat, set them aside like ritual offerings.

She stood, pale and pliant, bare feet trembling on the stone.

He told himself this was strategy.

He guided her into the bath. Warm water, laced with herbs she wouldn’t smell past the blood in her nose. Her skin shivered as it touched the water, and still she said nothing. She trusted him. Even now. Especially now.

It thrilled him.

He crouched at the edge of the bath, sleeves damp from easing her down, and watched her body float, slack and exhausted. Her shift clung to her skin. She looked breakable. She looked like she was his.

He reached for a brush the room provided.

Slow, steady strokes. His fingers worked through the knots in her hair, unwinding blood and salt from copper strands. He spoke softly, the way one soothes a fevered animal.

"It’s all right now," he whispered, knowing she’d believe it.

He watched her mouth twitch faintly at his words. He kept brushing.

Each moment here was a borrowed luxury. Her dragon's magic prowled the edges of the ring’s suppression, but Malric trusted its power. His father had made sure it was forged with the most dangerous and powerful element the world didn't know existed.

The ring hid him. Cloaked his scent. Silenced his guilt.

Her dragon felt the wrongness, yes. But he was dulled. Muffled. Like a beast chained just out of reach.

Malric smiled faintly to himself.

Silas had been the only threat. Not because he was strong. But because Eliryn had let him matter. Had let him close. That couldn’t stand. If anyone would break her open, it would be Malric. That right belonged to him now.

He finished brushing her hair.

Her breathing had slowed. He thought she might be drifting near sleep.

Gently, he reached into the water, fingers brushing her wrist, checking the weak pulse. Steady, but slow. Exhausted.

She trusted him to touch her here.

She trusted the voice that killed her guard. The hands that gutted her protector. The lie that wore the shape of comfort.

Malric dipped a cloth into the water and slowly, methodically, began to wash the blood from her skin.

He cleaned her as carefully as he’d stalked her.

When he spoke again, it was soft as silk and colder than steel.

“Sleep, Eliryn.”

She obeyed.

But he wasn’t finished.

Once she drifted, slack in the water, he drew her out with clinical precision. Her skin was warm, soft as wet silk. He wrapped her in the thickest towel he could find, swaddling her like a child, binding her limbs gently but firmly. She stirred only once, but his voice quieted her immediately.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. You’re mine .”

She didn’t hear the last word. Not consciously.

He carried her back to the bed. Slowly. Reverently.

There, he laid her down, keeping her bound in the towel, letting the warmth sink into her skin. He crouched beside her. His breath came slow, measured. He watched the faint tremble of her lashes, the soft parting of her lips as she tried and failed to fight sleep.

She was pliant. Fragile. Perfect.

And as he watched her, Malric realized something new.

When Thalen had first ordered her death, it had felt impossible. Like killing sunlight. Like severing a future not yet written. She’d been too bright. Too vital.

But now?

Now it would be a mercy.

Not out of compassion.

But as a gift.

He could end her softly. Gently. He could make her final moments tender. Private. He could kill her in kindness. A final mercy, wrapped in whispered words, by the hands she’d already let hold her.

The thought curled through his mind like a tendril of smoke.

He could make her death a gift. For her. For himself.

She deserved that much.

Didn’t she?

He brushed her damp hair back from her face, fingers lingering too long against her cheek. Her skin was warm, flushed from the bath. He leaned closer, breathing her in. She smelled like river herbs and grief.

She was intoxicating.

He stroked her jaw, speaking softly.

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” he murmured. “I’ll carry this weight for you.”

Her breathing steadied in sleep.

And he knew: the deeper she trusted him, the sweeter her ending would be.

It wasn’t madness. Not really. He’d hidden that darkness from her. From himself.

But now, seeing her so soft… so willing…

He wanted to destroy her.

Not out of cruelty.

But because it was the only way to keep her for himself.

He sat beside her for a long time, listening to the ring hum against his pulse.

Planning.

Waiting.

And when she woke, she would find him there.

Exactly where she needed him to be.