Page 52 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)
“Few survive the moment their illusions are burned away." —Anonymous, fragment recovered from the Ashen Library
Vraxxis of Whitvale stood beneath the high spires of the flame-forged dais with his chin lifted, every thread of his robes tailored to catch the wind just so. Still. Poised. Perfect.
He had already won.
Or so he'd been promised.
The Trials had unfolded exactly as King Thalen, his mentor, had said they would. Wilderness, combat, judgment. All designed. The old rules were real, yes, but enforcement was malleable in the right hands.
And Thalen’s hands had never trembled.
“The Flame may choose,” he’d told Vraxxis months ago, voice quiet as coals. “But fire bends when it knows where to burn. You were made for this.”
Vraxxis had believed him. How could he not? Thalen had given him everything —access, names, secrets about the trials no other chosen knew. Even whispers of the growing unrest in the lower guard ranks.
The death of Silas had stirred something. Too loyal, too loved. And then there was the little dragonrider, always at his side.
“There are embers rising,” Thalen had warned. “Some of the Royal Guard believe my time should end when the Flame names its next heir. They mistake ritual for weakness. They see only opportunity.”
Vraxxis had assumed it would amount to nothing. The guard was fractured, but too cautious to move.
The Flamekeeper raised her hands.
Vraxxis inhaled, slow and measured. He closed his eyes, awaiting the touch of the Flame.
The crowd fell still.
And then—
“Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge. The Last Dragonrider. The Flame has spoken. It chooses you.”
The words rang out like a death knell.
Vraxxis blinked, waiting for the correction. For another name. His name.
None came.
The Flame vanished. The Rite was complete. It was over in what felt like mere seconds.
And she stood crowned in fire.
This was not the plan.
Eliryn was meant to fall long before this—quietly, bloody, with her guard at her side. Forgotten by the time the Rite even happened.
A blind girl with no political house, no ambition. A relic.
But now—
The guards surged. Screams sounded and then came the horns.
The court broke open like a wound.
Vraxxis didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Not even as chaos erupted around him.
Because he understood now.
This wasn’t about the Flame’s choice. It was about Thalen.
The faction among the guard—they weren’t rebelling against the trials. They were making their move against the throne.
They believed this was the only moment to strike.
When power transferred.
When the old rule could be ended in ceremony and blood.
And suddenly… Eliryn didn’t seem like such an innocent anymore.
She’d been close with Silas. Too close. Loyal to the end.
Had she known about the unrest? Had she played meek while the knives gathered?
Vraxxis' gaze snapped to her across the chaos, her pathetic form bowed on the ground amongst the throngs of people.
Then a shadow moved. Fast. Clean.
He knew the stride.
Malric.
The king’s dagger. His shadow. His hand in the dark.
Malric reached Eliryn just when it looked like she would be trampled. He caught her in his arms like it had been rehearsed.
For one breath, Vraxxis hesitated.
Had Thalen known? Had this been part of his plan after all?
No…
No. If Eliryn had been truly dangerous, Malric wouldn’t be catching her, he’d be cutting her down.
Vraxxis' jaw slackened. His breath steadied.
Whatever this rebellion was, whatever Eliryn may or may not have known, Thalen was already handling it. Personally. Precisely.
“You are the only one who understands what the realm truly needs,” Thalen had said.
And Vraxxis still believed him.
Let the Flame choose who it liked. Let the guards rage. Let the relic girl play at prophecy.
She had been chosen only seconds ago and already she was walking straight into her demise.
Malric would see it done.
Thalen would see it justified.
Vraxxis turned, his cloak catching the rising smoke, and slipped into the chaos like it had never touched him at all.
A loyal blade.
A future king.
Still very much in control.