Page 53 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

“In times of unrest, a crown is not a symbol of honor but a mark upon the hunted.” —Anonymous, Scribe of the Crown

Eliryn moved through the castle like a phantom in someone else’s dream.

Malric’s hand remained around hers; not tight, not forceful, but impossibly steady. His footsteps were swift but never hurried. As if he knew exactly how much time they had before something worse caught up to them.

She tried to see.

Tried to focus.

Vaeronth’s vision was still with her, tethered like a second heartbeat, but it was hazy, streaked with smoke and slashed with shifting shadows.

Every now and then, an image would sharpen: the glint of blood on polished stone, the flash of movement down the hall as they passed, a banner torn in half and dragged across the floor.

But mostly it was fog. Panic. The dragon’s perception blurred by chaos and magic.

I can’t— she thought. I can’t make sense of it.

Try, Vaeronth whispered, and there was strain in him too. Breathe. Let me in deeper.

She sucked in air. The scent of iron and ash scraped her throat.

“I don’t know where we are,” she murmured aloud. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You don’t need to,” Malric said. His voice was low, almost gentle. “Only that I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

She wanted to argue. To ask who had sent him, who he truly served, if he was a part of the chaos they had just escaped.

But her legs were unsteady, her vision still broken, and every step behind him felt like the only thing keeping her upright.

The echo of the crowd was distant now, replaced by the sound of doors slamming shut, armored boots clanging, the hiss of fire where it shouldn’t be.

This was not just an uprising.

This was a purge .

A memory broke through: the Flame twisting toward her chest, naming her. That impossible heat that hadn’t burned, hadn’t hurt, but still felt like she was being marked somehow.

Why me?

She stumbled. Malric caught her elbow before she could fall.

“Down here,” he said.

She followed him through a narrow servant’s corridor, the walls sweating with old steam. There was no light, only what Vaeronth could see, shapes flickering in and out of clarity like reflections on water. The dragon was struggling. The bond fraying under pressure neither of them understood.

We are not alone, Vaeronth growled suddenly. Behind us.

Eliryn twisted her head. “Someone’s coming.”

“We’re nearly there,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t.

But with every step, the weight of the Flame’s choosing pressed heavier on her chest. Not pride. Not even awe. Just dread.

She definitely didn't want the throne or the responsibility that came with it.

The corridor narrowed.

Their footsteps echoed differently here—duller, swallowed by stone. Eliryn’s fingers skimmed the wall to her right, half for balance, half for orientation. Vaeronth’s vision was like glass covered in dew: fractured, shifting, nothing certain.

“Why now?” she asked, breath hitching. “Why would they attack during the Rite?”

Malric didn’t answer immediately. His grip on her hand stayed firm, guiding her down the sloping corridor, but his pace slowed.

“There were whispers,” he said finally. “Guards moving in ways they shouldn’t. Conversations that cut off too quickly. A few names passed between trusted ears. But nothing concrete.”

“And no one acted?” Her voice edged toward disbelief.

“Rumors alone aren’t enough to accuse the crown’s own,” he said. “Not without proof. And no one thought they would be bold or mad enough to strike during the Rite itself.”

Eliryn swallowed. She could still feel the heat of the sacred Flame against her chest, phantom-like as it lingered. “They timed it to the choosing,” she said. “Didn’t they.”

“Yes,” Malric said quietly. “They knew this would be the moment of greatest focus. The court exposed. The heirs gathered. The people watching.”

“So it’s not just rebellion,” she murmured. “It’s spectacle.”

“They want the realm to see the collapse,” he said. “To believe no power, not even the Flame, can keep them safe.”

Eliryn stopped moving.

Malric turned back, the corridor narrow enough that his shadow brushed against hers. Her breathing was shallow. She still couldn’t see, could barely sense where the ground met her feet. Vaeronth’s vision was scattered, like trying to track stars through a broken mirror.

“So why help me?” she asked. “If the throne is crumbling, if the crown is a target, why not let me fall with it?”

He said, softly, almost as if to himself, “I didn’t want you to be part of the spectacle.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stopped walking. Not abruptly. Just enough to send a ripple of unease through her spine.

“You were always meant to be chosen,” he said. “That much of the prophecy was clear.”

Eliryn’s mouth went dry.

Malric’s tone had changed, still smooth, still calm, but no longer protective. Not quite. There was something behind it now. Something heavier.

“I watched you in the trials,” he continued.

“More than I should have. I admired you. The way you carried yourself even when you were losing your sight. The way you emerged from the first trial, confident in your bond and your dragon… it was like something out of an old song. Then when I saw you out past the orchards, your hair flowing freely… I thought you looked like a myth.”

She shifted a step back.

“Malric,” she said slowly. “Why are you talking like this?”

“I don’t want this to be cruel,” he said, almost tender. “Not like it was ordered to be. A death on the dais? Public? I didn’t want that for you.”

Something cold slid along Eliryn’s spine.

“Eliryn.”

His voice changed. Softer now. Careful.

“I watched you on that dais.”

Her pulse spiked.

“I saw you step forward in that silk—your skin marked like scripture, your dragonmarks glowing and for a moment…”

She dared to whisper: “For a moment?”

“I didn’t want to do it.”

She faltered. “Do what?”

Malric turned, slowly. The corridor was so narrow she could feel his breath now.

“Kill you.”

Her heart cracked in her chest.

“I’ve known for since the beginning,” he said, voice low. Almost tender. “Thalen told me long before the trials began. You’re part of the prophecy. The last dragonrider. The one the Flame marked.”

“You couldn't know,” she rasped.

“I know everything,” Malric said softly. “Thalen showed me. Told me what you’d become. That the sheer weight of your power would eventually break you.”

She shook her head, body trembling. “I’m not—I’m not dangerous.”

“You are,” he said simply. “Not yet. But soon.”

She tried to step back. His hand slid to her wrist. Not brutal. Just… final.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered. “When he gave the order, I tried to resist. But then I watched you. I listened to you.”

“Malric,” she pleaded.

“And I realized: this would be a mercy.”

Tears pricked her eyes.

“I could make it gentle. Not a public execution. Not some stranger’s blade. But me. Someone who…” His voice cracked. “Someone who cared.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“I am,” he insisted, pleading now. “I didn’t fall in love with you, Eliryn. Maybe I could have. But I fell in love with the idea of sparing you.”

She froze.

“I watched you on that stage, and I knew I couldn’t let you live long enough to break.”

His hand cradled her face, thumb stroking her cheek like a lover’s caress.

“I can end it before you suffer. Before the Flame tears your mind apart. Before your power bleeds you dry.”

Her voice cracked like glass: “You’re wrong.”

“I’m merciful.”

She shook her head, but he leaned in close, forehead almost touching hers.

“You should thank me, Eliryn. No one else would’ve cared enough to do this quietly.”

Vaeronth roared in her mind: RUN

But Malric’s voice was the one she heard, steady as a dagger poised at her throat.

“I’ll make it painless.”

And his next words shattered her:

“This is the kindest thing I’ve ever done.”

Because in his mind, he wasn’t betraying her.

He was saving her.

Vaeronth…

His voice cut through like steel: He has a blade. It’s drawn. You need to listen to me. You are not safe.

She heard it now—the sound she’d missed before. Steel sliding against leather. Breath whispering over a blade’s edge.

“I can make it quick,” Malric murmured, and gods, he almost sounded tender. “If you stay still.”

Her breath fractured. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he breathed, “that the Rite was never meant to end with a dragonrider crowned. You were never meant to survive. You’re prophecy made flesh, Eliryn. A prophecy that needs to be corrected.”

A step back. Then two.

Her hand scraped the stone wall.

Vaeronth! she cried. Please—

Focus, he snapped. You are not blind. Not anymore. Trust me. Hold still—let me show you.

Eliryn gasped. And then—clarity. A sudden burst of stolen vision as Vaeronth forced his senses through her failing mind. The world came into burning focus: everything painted in blue flame and edged in terror, but clear.

And there he was.

Malric.

Only a pace away.

Blade drawn. Breath steady.

Face carved in grief that felt practiced.

He moved.

So did she.

Not fast enough.

His knife sliced low instead of high. The blade bit deep—through the silk of her dress, through skin, through muscle.

A brutal, wet sound.

Her body folded.

The pain was instant and total. A sharp, burning line just beneath her ribs. She couldn’t tell if it was shallow or mortal. Couldn’t tell anything past the agony.

Her knees hit the stone. She dropped.

One hand clutched the wound, hot blood spilling between her fingers. Her other hand scrabbled uselessly against the wall behind her.

Her lungs wouldn’t work.

She looked up.

Malric just watched her.

Not panicked.

Not remorseful.

Just… waiting.

Her voice cracked like glass. “Why…?”

And that was what broke her.

Not the blade.

The betrayal.

Malric, who had guarded her. Spoken softly to her. Brushed her hair from her face.

Malric, who she’d thought understood what it meant to experience loss and a destiny not entirely his own.

She had trusted him.

Now he watched her bleed.

“I would’ve made it quick,” he said softly. Like he still meant it. “I didn’t want you to have to feel it.”

Her entire body shuddered.

Her thoughts splintered.

Vaeronth, she begged. I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t fight back.

Do not give up, he growled. I see him. I see everything. You need to be brave.

Eliryn clenched her jaw. Swallowed the scream ripping up her throat. Her body burned. Her vision was nothing but smoke and dragon-sight and pain.

But she stood.

Somehow.

Bit by shaking bit.

She forced her body upright, blood sliding down her thigh.

Malric’s expression didn’t change.

That broke her more.

He stepped forward.

Eliryn ran.

Not with grace.

Not with strategy.

She just ran.

Staggering, pressing her hand tight to her ribs, stumbling into shadows made of blue fire and fear. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

She could hear him following.

And every echo of his footsteps behind her whispered the same thing:

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy.

Until she realized—he wasn’t chasing to kill her.

Not yet.

He was waiting to catch her when she collapsed.

Because in his mind, she was already dead.