Page 48 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"What is written endures; what is hidden destroys." —Scribe Liraeth, Keeper of the Silent Hall

Eliryn woke slowly.

She felt the warmth first—the heavy weight of blankets draped over her body, the residual heat of a bath she didn’t remember entering or leaving. Her hair was dry now, brushed smooth and neat over her shoulders. Her mind was fogged, fragile as spun glass.

Then came the pressure of a hand against her cheek. Gentle. Careful. Reverent.

“Eliryn,” a voice murmured, soft as silk. “You’re safe.”

She turned her face slightly into the warmth, craving the comfort instinctively. And when she opened her eyes—blind, unfocused, lost in the swirling darkness—she knew who it was without needing to see.

Malric.

His fingers trailed from her cheek to her hairline, tucking a strand behind her ear. She felt the brush of his lips press against the center of her palm. Not rushed. Not forced. But slow. Devotional.

“I’ll return soon,” he whispered. “Rest.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat closed around the words. She felt him shift beside her, the faint creak of the mattress as his weight lifted. The air stirred when he stood. And when the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoed like the slamming of a cell.

Then, at last, Vaeronth surged forward.

His presence roared into her mind like fire igniting dry kindling. Not gentle. Not soothing. Furious. Protective. Terrified.

You are wrong to trust him.

Eliryn’s body tensed, but she did not speak.

He silenced me. Bound me. His magic coiled around your mind and mine. He is not what you believe.

Her lips parted, her voice rasping in denial. “No… no. He wouldn’t.”

He did.

“He was trying to help. Maybe his magic… maybe he didn’t know it blocked you out.”

Vaeronth’s fury cracked against the inside of her skull. I sense an old dragon on him, something that should be impossible. And he reeks of death. Something is very wrong with the magic he carries; something is very wrong with him.

“No.” Her breath hitched, tears stinging her useless eyes. “He held me. He—he spoke to me like he understood loss. He cares.”

He watched you shatter and called it comfort.

“I don’t believe you.”

Silence.

Then Vaeronth’s voice came lower. Quieter.

You don’t want to believe me but you should.

Her hands trembled where they lay atop the blankets. She clutched the edges of the fabric, trying to ground herself, but the warmth that had felt like safety now felt like a cage. She remembered the kiss pressed to her palm—the gentle sweep of his thumb across her skin, the brush of his lips.

Malric couldn’t be a monster.

Could he?

Vaeronth lingered in her thoughts like the scent of smoke after a fire.

Open your eyes to him, Eliryn. Before it is too late.

She curled onto her side, pulling the blankets tighter around her body, burying herself in the lie that had felt like safety. Tears burned down her cheeks as heavy emotions claimed her once again.

And outside her door, unseen and waiting, the predator watched.

Eliryn sat in the quiet that followed.

The fire had sunk lower now, the coals little more than faint embers, barely lighting the room. Still, she hadn’t moved from where he’d left her.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the clay cup Garic had brought, now cool to the touch. She hadn’t eaten. She didn’t think she could. But it had mattered that he’d come. That someone had reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in this place built to hollow people out.

The ache inside her hadn’t softened, but it had been given shape. Something she could survive with. Something she could fight through.

Screw the prophecy. I don’t want a throne. I don’t want to reign. I just need to endure.

She would help Garic win, if it came to that. She would stand by him, shield him if she could, and survive in honor of all the pieces of her life that had been taken away. The dragons and the riders. Her mother. Silas.

Whitvale might have played at sticking up for her, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been involved. He was clever. Masked. Shifting in and out of his own skin like a snake through grass. She wanted to believe in his truce, but Garic’s warning that he couldn't be trusted echoed in her mind.

And Malric…

Her chest tightened at the thought of him.

He had been a mystery from the moment they met, sharp edges wrapped in dangerous charm. She remembered the weight in his voice when he told her he’d been made into a weapon. That he had killed before.

But Malric killing Silas?

The king would have needed a reason. Silas had protected her, yes, but what threat could she possibly be to the king of this broken place?

And if it was about her, then why was she left untouched?

She had been completely vulnerable in that moment, so if it had been about her, that would have been the best moment to strike.

Vaeronth's presence brushed the edges of her mind: heavy, protective, simmering with a restraint that felt like tension moments from explosion. Prepare yourself.

The knock came moments later.

She didn’t move.

“Dragonrider,” called a voice beyond the door. Male. Too polished to be Garic. Too formal to be Malric.

Another knock.

“The fourth trial begins now.”

She forced herself upright, every muscle screaming exhaustion. Her legs barely supported her weight.

And then the room shifted as she borrowed her dragon's sight.

The hearth flared softly. New clothing had been laid at the edge of the bed: black leggings reinforced with fine leather, a dark tunic tailored for movement but edged in delicate silver threading at the cuffs.

Beside them—boots. Black as a raven’s wing, smooth as riverstone.

When she brushed her fingers along them, the leather flexed like skin, like they’d been made for her bones alone.

Practical. Strong.

Like her.

“I see the room still believes in me,” she murmured aloud, voice rough with disuse.

Vaeronth stirred. I never stopped believing in you.

Her throat tightened. “I know.”

She let the guards wait.

Not out of arrogance, but because she refused to meet a new trial wearing a towel and some furs.

She dressed slowly, methodically. She braided her damp hair back from her face with shaking fingers, wove the tail into a knot low at her nape. Slipped the tunic over her head. Laced the boots up her calves.

Each piece felt like a reclamation.

When she was finished, she stood for a long moment, head bowed, fists clenched at her sides.

“I am not broken,” she whispered.

Not yet. Her mind answered back.

Finally, she crossed to the door.

The hallway outside her door was already filled with footsteps, soft-soled, clipped with purpose.

Two guards stood at attention, flanking a young page with a scroll clutched tight in his pale hands.

He bowed when she appeared, though his eyes widened slightly when they settled on her face.

On the faint, unfocused way her gaze drifted past him.

“Dragonrider,” he announced formally. “You are summoned to the Hall of Scribes for the fourth trial.”

She nodded once, then paused. The words scraped at her throat, but she forced them out anyway.

“You’ll need to guide me,” she said evenly. “I’ve… lost my sight.”

The page blinked, clearly startled. One of the guards shifted behind him, uneasy in the silence.

Eliryn tilted her chin. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize for the inconvenience, you’ll be standing here a while.”

The boy flushed and scrambled to offer his arm. “Of course. I’ll… see you there safely.”

She accepted his arm like a queen accepting tribute, though her fingers trembled as they curled around the crook of his elbow.

“I don’t need pity,” she added, voice quieter now. “Just decent directions.”

Behind her, Vaeronth stirred in her mind—steady, certain.

You are not diminished. Your eyes are not the only way to see.

She almost believed him.

Her other hand brushed the stone wall lightly as they walked, her touch ghosting along the worn grooves, counting the corridor’s pulse through texture and air. One guard led, one followed. Their steps echoed like war drums.

Silence wrapped around them, but she could feel everything. The temperature shift before each doorway. The soft press of torchlight against her skin. The pulse of people they passed—warm bodies, cold intentions.

She wasn’t afraid.

She’d lost too much to waste herself on fear at this point.

When the page finally slowed, his voice lost its formal edge.

“We’ve arrived. The Hall of Scribes. It’s large… vaulted. There are columns along both sides. Stone benches in three rows. The panel is seated at the far end. Hearth’s unlit.”

Eliryn nodded, lips thin.

This was where truths lived. And where lives ended.

“I’ll guide you to your seat,” the page added, hesitant.

She let him.

When her fingers brushed the bench, she felt the presence beside her before anything else: Garic. His soul hummed steady through Vaeronth’s awareness, a low and grounded rhythm. Whitvale’s presence prickled sharper, restless as a drawn knife. But Garic… Garic was calm. Ready.

Her throat tightened. She sat, spine straight.

The page lingered, then retreated.

She could feel the weight of eyes on her. Judges. Guards. Spectators. She could feel her dragonmarks glowing softly, like they were waiting, and she could feel eyes on her watching the runes come to life.

Her hands flexed in her lap.

Vaeronth… She called out in her mind.

I am here.

Her voice cracked in their bond.

I need you. I… I’m not enough anymore.

There was a pause, heavy as stone. Then his voice came—slow and molten as a hearth long gone cold.

You will always be enough. But I can help show you.

Her eyes stung. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to believe him.

Clear your mind, he whispered.

She obeyed.

And the world shifted.

It wasn’t as sharp as her own vision. Not truly. But she saw.

Breath and heat and motion. Threads of presence. Glimmers of pulse and thought. Like watching a tapestry woven from living light.

Three judges sat before her, draped in gold. Tables scattered with scrolls and knives. Hidden watchers behind lattice screens. She felt their attention like static.

To her left: Garic. Solid. Steady.

To her right: Whitvale. Tense. Coiled.

And above them all, pulsing and vast—the silent, oppressive weight of the Flame.

Watching.

Waiting.

For judgment.

Her pulse hammered, but she sat taller.

She remembered Malric’s voice. His hands. His tenderness.

She remembered Silas’s blood on her skin.

Let them test her. Let them try.

She was Eliryn, the Last Dragonrider.

And she had already survived more than they would ever understand.