Page 51 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

Garic moved first, his boots quiet on the marble. Eliryn followed, guided by Vaeronth’s vision; still only a pale, colorless echo of true sight, but enough to not make a fool out of herself. Vraxxis joined them, the three of them now standing evenly spaced in a line before the Flame.

“We invoke now the sacred rite of descent,” the Flamekeeper continued. “Through battle, through mind, through loss, and through the fire itself, the chosen shall be marked. Let there be no further introduction; let us move into the ceremony.”

A long pause followed.

Then the Flame moved.

Not a flare. Not an inferno.

A coiled arch of precision.

A single tendril of fire, too precise to be wild, too alive to be called mere magic. It rose from the dais like a summoned thing, twisting higher, shimmering gold edged in deep crimson.

It drifted toward Garic first.

Eliryn felt him tense beside her as the Flame circled him once, close enough to sear—but not enough to choose.

It moved on.

To Vraxxis.

The Flame lingered there longer, orbiting him slowly, considering him as an option. His spine straightened. His jaw clenched.

But it left him, too.

And then—

She felt it.

Before she saw it.

Heat brushed her collarbones, her bare throat, her chest.

Her whole body tightened in instinctive fear—but it wasn’t burning.

The Flame stopped before her, hovering.

Waiting.

Eliryn trembled.

And then it struck.

Not an attack.

An anointing.

The tendril of flame touched her breastbone, directly above her heart.

And her body bowed.

Not from pain.

From power .

The force of it rippled through her bones like a low bell tolling inside her.

Heat surged down her arms, her spine, her legs—suffusing her blood, saturating her skin.

She felt her dragonbond snap taut—like a chain pulled tight across distance—and Vaeronth roared in her mind, not in fear, but in triumph.

Your soul is known.

Her runes burned to life across her skin, glowing along her throat, her shoulders, down her spine. Every mark the gods had left upon her since the day she’d first touched Vaeronth’s scales now shimmered with molten gold, as if lit from within.

And her eyes—

Her useless, sightless eyes flared open.

Not seeing as humans did.

But burning.

Pupils eclipsed. Irises filled with pure, opalescent light, bright as the core of the sun.

The crowd gasped, some falling to their knees.

Her hair whipped around her as the air itself shifted, pulled toward her like gravity.

Her marks pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

Vaeronth’s voice rang steady through her:

You are the Flame's true chosen.

The Flame didn’t retreat immediately. It lingered, coiled around her like a lover’s hand upon the throat, as though reluctant to let her go.

When it pulled back, it did not choose another.

The Flamekeeper’s voice, when it came, sounded subdued. Reverent.

“Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge. The Last Dragonrider. The Flame has spoken.”

The tendril vanished.

And silence crushed the square.

Eliryn collapsed to her knees, gasping.

Not in weakness.

In awe.

Her skin still shimmered faintly, her runes etched brighter than they’d ever been. Her eyes, now dimming, still held that inner light—like the embers of something divine.

Garic turned toward her, stunned into speechlessness.

Vraxxis whispered, “No.”

The Flamekeeper spoke once more, softer now:

“The Flame has named its sovereign.”

Eliryn bowed her head.

Not in surrender.

But in the terrible, unspoken understanding:

She was no longer her own.

Eliryn rose and took a step back, unsteady. Her hands trembled.

Vaeronth whispered in her mind.

Be still. Something is coming.

Then—

A horn. Sharp.

Another. Closer now. Urgent.

Shouting broke across the upper balconies. Movement surged at the gates. Somewhere below, a scream cut through the silence like a knife.

“Eliryn!”

Garic’s voice. Sharp. Desperate.

“Stay with me!”

She turned, blindly, reaching. Her fingers grazed his for a heartbeat—a single heartbeat—

Then the world shattered.

The crowd broke.

A scream splintered the air.

She spun, too late, reaching for what was already gone. Garic’s voice vanished into chaos. Bodies surged past her, slamming into her shoulders, her ribs, her hips.

Then someone struck her from behind.

Hard.

She fell off the platform.

The stone hit her knees first, then her ribs, then her head. Her breath fled her body. The weight of people storming past knocked into her, boots scraping her back, a heel clipping her cheek, another body crashing over her shoulder.

She curled in on herself, arms covering her head.

She forgot she had just been named sovereign.

She forgot she was a dragonrider.

She forgot she had ever been strong.

There was only instinct now—the instinct of survival, the desperate urge to make herself smaller than the chaos battering her.

She felt… helpless.

Vaeronth! Her mind screamed for him, panic clawing. Vaeronth, I can’t—I can’t see—I can’t think—I need you!

I am here.

But his voice was thin, strained.

Her terror sharpened.

Why can’t I feel you? Why do you feel so far away?

A pause. Weighted.

Something cloaks you.

She shook her head frantically. “No! Not now—”

You must anchor. Eliryn—listen to me—something is clouding our bond. I—cannot see you.

She couldn’t breathe.

She pressed her forehead to the cold stone. All her fear from the trials, from the attack, from the endless dark—none of it compared to this. This hollowing emptiness clouding her mind.

A body collided with her, driving her sideways. She choked on a cry as another boot kicked her ribs, whether by accident or design she didn’t know.

Then another scream. Closer. The Flame still burned at the dais and she could feel a spark of it inside her—but she could not see.

She couldn’t move.

I can’t do this, Vaeronth. I can’t do this blind.

You are not blind. His voice frayed. You are a Dragonrider and you will use my eyes.

But she couldn’t remember how to clear her mind and focus enough to do that.

“Eliryn!”

Garic?

She forced her battered body up, scrambling to her knees—reaching, searching for the voice.

Hands closed on her.

Rough. Familiar.

“I’ve got you.”

She gasped. “Garic?”

But the grip was wrong.

Her breath faltered.

“Come on.” The voice, controlled. Too controlled.

She froze.

“Move!” the voice barked, dragging her upright. Her ribs flared in pain, her shoulder burned where she’d been kicked. She didn’t resist. Couldn’t.

“Where are you taking me?” She stumbled, dragged forward.

“To safety.”

“Who—?”

A heartbeat.

Then, it clicked.

“Malric.”

She sagged.

He was here. Somehow, impossibly, he was here.

The fear loosened in her throat like a knot undone. Malric had found her. Malric was guiding her.

Vaeronth’s voice strained like a cracking rope.

No—!

But she didn’t hear it.

She let Malric pull her through the corridor, deeper into the castle’s belly, steps staggering, mind clouded.

She didn’t question that his grip was too tight.

She didn’t question why Vaeronth felt so far.

Because in this moment, surrounded by terror, bruised and blind and forgotten even by her own strength—

Malric felt like a lifeline.

And she would gladly follow him into the dark.

His grip faltered, fingers loosening on her wrist but not releasing.

“Malric,” her voice sounded heavy even to her own ears. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“No,” he said, quietly. “This is unprecedented.”

A heartbeat passed. She should’ve asked more. Should’ve demanded answers. But her limbs were shaking and Vaeronth still couldn’t see clearly, his vision fogged like a window after a storm. Magic pressed on them both, a heavy pull that seemed to drain her energy.

And in this moment, alone, hunted, and blind, she didn’t have the strength to doubt Malric.

She nodded once, slow. “Then lead me.”

Malric didn’t speak again.

He just took her hand, gently now, and led her deeper into the belly of the castle.