Page 49 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“Memory is a blade no forge can temper; it cuts whether wielded or denied.” —Elder Scribe Althara

T he scrape of a chair. The shift of robes. The faint crackle of parchment.

Then came the voice—measured, deep, a sound used to being obeyed.

“Chosen.”

The word echoed through the Hall of Scribes like a verdict.

Eliryn’s spine straightened instinctively, her hands curling briefly against her knees. Her unblinking gaze saw nothing now but the ghostly world Vaeronth offered her—heat and presence and light like threadbare silk. But her mind was sharp. Her posture, regal.

She heard Garic shift beside her. Calm. Ready.

The panel of judges loomed ahead—three figures, draped in gold-edged robes, unmoved by the weight of history pressing around them.

“You have survived what many do not,” the first judge said—an older man with a voice like riverstone, smooth but heavy. “The physical trials. The mental minefields. Each other.”

Eliryn fought the urge to huff. Barely.

The judge’s voice continued, cold and steady. “But blood and strength are not enough to lead. Not enough to guard the balance of kingdoms. And certainly not enough to understand the burden of power.”

She heard the quiet rustle of the female judge leaning forward.

“This trial will test your judgment. Your reasoning. Your knowledge of war, of law, of the bones that hold this realm upright.”

Eliryn could almost hear the smile that wasn’t on her face.

“You may speak freely when called,” the third judge said, voice clipped behind a golden circlet. “If you lie… the Flame will know.”

Of course it will, she thought, her throat tight. Everyone’s watching. Even the gods.

A pause thickened the air.

“Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge. Garic of Stonefell. Vraxxis of Whitvale.”

She felt Whitvale stiffen slightly at the use of his true name, the edge of pride seeping from him like poison.

“You sit not only before us, but before the will of the realm,” the oldest judge said. “The trial begins now.”

A silence followed—calculated, suffocating.

Then:

“Garic of Stonefell.”

She felt Garic’s quiet intake of breath beside her, steady as clockwork.

“Tell us the tactical flaw in the Battle of Hollowmere, and what you would have done differently.”

Eliryn listened. And quietly, she smiled.

Garic answered clearly with precision and patience. Strategy spun into steady words. She didn’t need Vaeronth’s sight to sense the interest prickling from the panel.

The judges wrote. And moved on.

“Vraxxis of Whitvale,” came next. “Define the Edicts of Succession—Queen Sanna’s reforms and their application following civil upheaval.”

Eliryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Whitvale answered, smooth and swift as oil on glass.

You’re clever, she thought. But you seem too rehearsed.

And then—

The woman judge’s voice rang out.

“Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge.”

Eliryn felt Garic shift beside her—subtle, but steady. A tether. Whitvale stilled completely.

The judge’s tone sharpened.

“List the five governing councils of the early kingdom and explain how they failed the first dragonriders.”

Eliryn tilted her chin slightly. She didn’t rush. She let the silence stretch. And when she finally spoke, her voice was calm—but unmistakably dry.

“Ah. So now you care about the history of the riders.”

The judges shifted, just slightly.

“Because after standing by while the King wiped them out, you’re curious. You want answers. Straight from the last reliable source.”

Across the bench, she felt Garic stifle a breath. Not shock. Amusement.

Eliryn’s mouth curved faintly. “Is that why you’re asking? Do you want to know how my kind came to fall? Because it wasn't the governing council's fault.”

A pause. One of the judges’ robes rustled—unease.

“You are under oath, Eliryn,” the woman said curtly.

“And you said I could speak freely.” Eliryn’s voice dropped, steady as a knife sliding into its sheath. “The Flame’s here to judge me. I’m fairly sure the Flame and I are already on the same page.”

From her peripheral awareness, she felt Whitvale’s disbelief—sharp, brittle. Like he couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or impressed.

The silence hung heavy.

Then she leaned forward slightly, voice cool, conversational:

“Council of War. Council of Flame. Council of Law. Council of Grain. Council of Faith.”

Her tone turned razor-edged.

“They failed because power scares small men. They failed because none of them could agree on whether to worship the dragons, use them, or kill them. And by the time they decided…” She lifted her hands, palms up, her broken gaze fixed squarely ahead.

“…the sovereign had done what he could to turn us all to ash.”

Garic, beside her, said nothing. But she felt him watching her now. Closely.

Eliryn tilted her head. “Would you like me to keep going? I’ve got centuries of mistakes burned into my skin and an ancient dragon as my source.”

A silence, thick as stone.

And then—her skin flashed in answer.

The marks along her arms and throat pulsed once, as if breathing beneath her flesh. Lines of sigils and forgotten runes, the remnants of Vaeronth’s ancient binding, blazed softly into view: not just ink, not mere scars, but something older. Something living.

Black, golden, and faint crimson threads curled up her arms like language remembered. Sharp. Unmistakable.

She heard the sharp inhale from the panel. Felt Garic’s sudden stillness beside her. Even Whitvale, for all his control, shifted, unsettled.

Her power—the last of the riders’ legacy—was on full display where it couldn't be ignored.

Vaeronth stirred in her mind, his voice a low thunder.

They see you now.

Eliryn didn’t flinch.

“Strange,” she said, voice mild, as if nothing had changed. “I would have thought they'd look away from the truth.”

The glow deepened briefly, a heartbeat of molten light, then slowly faded back into her skin like embers banked after a storm.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her useless eyes still unblinking.

The panel said nothing.

Not for a long, heavy breath.

Then, finally, the woman judge’s voice cracked the silence—far less certain now.

“That will suffice.”

Eliryn smiled.

Cold.

Knowing.

In her mind, Vaeronth rumbled softly.

Approval. Not of her defiance. But of her truth.

Well said, he whispered.

I wasn’t trying to be defiant, she thought. I just couldn't be anything other than honest.

That’s why it worked.

The next questions moved forward. Garic answered his flawlessly. Whitvale stumbled once—only slightly, but she heard it. And so did the judges.

When her next turn came, Eliryn didn’t lash out. She didn’t need to. She answered with calm clarity. She could feel the panel recalibrating. She wasn’t just a relic to be examined. She was a threat they’d misjudged.

By the time the trial ended, Garic’s quiet support remained beside her like a constant. And Whitvale, for all his precision, no longer felt as composed.

When the final ink dried, the judges rose.

None of them looked at her.

Eliryn smiled faintly, bitterly.

Cowards.

Vaeronth’s voice was quieter now. Not approval this time. Something more like… pride.

You didn’t lie, he said. Even when they hoped you would.

Then maybe I’ll pass this trial after all.

You already have.

The scrolls were closed.

The trial was over.

None of them had died. Not this time.

But the Flame had seen them.

And it would decide soon enough what was worth keeping.