Page 54 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"All crowns are forged in the hour before collapse, when the hand that grasps them trembles most.” —Fragment from the Lost Annals of the Sixth Reign

She was going to die.

Eliryn staggered, one hand clamped against her side where Malric’s blade had opened her like a seam.

Blood—warm and slick—soaked down her ribs, her thin dress clinging wet to her skin.

Every breath felt serrated, her lungs scraping against the wound as she stumbled forward.

Her legs buckled, and she collapsed hard to one knee, gasping.

Malric’s voice echoed, far too calm for what he’d done.

“I didn’t want you to be part of the spectacle.”

Her stomach lurched at the words. The betrayal still hadn’t anchored. She felt like she was hearing it all underwater—his quiet admiration, the gentle touches, the whispered comfort she’d clung to like sunlight in a locked room. All of it. Lies.

And then—the blade.

A flash of steel. The tearing heat. And now the blood, her blood, hot between her fingers.

Vaeronth’s voice slammed through her skull like a thunderclap.

He moves again. Blade still drawn. Get up, Eliryn. Now.

She tried.

The world tilted.

Bootsteps hammered stone—closer, faster. Then—

“Eliryn!”

Garic’s voice. Shattered. Terrified.

She turned her head, vision swimming, just as his silhouette burst into the corridor. Through Vaeronth’s blurred and flickering sight, she saw his gaze drop to her crumpled form—then snap to Malric stalking toward her. The moment Garic saw the blood on Malric’s blade, everything in him changed.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate.

“Get away from her!”

Steel rasped free. A sword. Gods, where had he gotten it?

Garic placed himself between her and death, his blade flashing up, his body shielding hers without a moment’s thought. His voice cracked—not from fear, but fury.

“You bleed her and expect to walk away?”

Eliryn’s throat caught. He was facing down Malric with no armor, no advantage, just raw loyalty and rage.

“Eliryn,” Garic snapped, never taking his eyes off Malric. “Go. Now.”

Malric shifted, his blade glinting. Calm. Calculated.

And Garic’s voice—steady now, resolute—cut through the air like an oath forged in iron.

“Run, Dragonrider.”

Her pulse fractured. The words hit her harder than the wound.

Vaeronth surged inside her mind. Go. He’s buying your life with his own.

“I can’t just—”

You can. You must.

The weight of it broke her.

She staggered upright. Her blood smeared the stone as she stumbled forward. She heard metal clash behind her—Malric lunging, Garic’s blade parrying. A grunt. A curse. Someone’s breath hitched in pain.

She didn’t look back.

She ran.

Every step shredded her. The pain in her side roared, hot and jagged, but she ran. Up stairs, around corners, through halls splintered by flame. Smoke burned her lungs. The world reeled and narrowed and blurred.

But she ran.

Then—wind.

She burst through an archway into open air. Smoke curled into the sky, streaked with ash. She swayed, her vision failing. The whole castle sprawled beneath her, writhing in chaos.

Vaeronth’s voice tore through her mind like a battle cry.

I’m coming.

Her pendant seared against her skin as his presence surged outward. A shadow passed overhead—a shadow with wings.

And then—

Vaeronth landed.

He crashed down with the fury of a storm, wings slamming against the air, scales blazing black and gold. He was rage made flesh, fire given breath. His claws cracked the stone as he crouched low, his great eyes locking on hers.

Climb.

She didn’t think.

She stumbled forward, collapsed against his foreleg, dragging herself upward by instinct more than strength. His scaled shoulder rose beneath her, warm and solid.

Hold on.

She wrapped her arms around the nearest ridge of his spine as he launched into the sky.

The ground fell away.

The castle—the screams, the blood, the betrayal—all dropped from her as Vaeronth’s wings devoured the wind. The air howled past. Her fingers trembled. Blood smeared his scales. Her blood.

She was slipping.

Her strength—the fire inside her—ebbing with every heartbeat.

“Garic…” she rasped. “Why… Malric… why…”

Vaeronth’s voice answered, steady as stone.

You will not die here. Not like this.

Tears burned her eyes.

“Vaeronth…”

You are Flame-chosen. Dragonbonded. MINE. I will not let you fall.

She pressed her face to his scales, her skin feverish, her breath thin. The clouds spun around her. The cold seeped in.

“Not yet…” she pleaded with herself.

Below them, the kingdom fractured into chaos. Smoke spiraled from the castle towers. Shadows moved like ants. She felt the weight of the Flame’s choosing heavy in her chest—a burden she didn’t ask for. A crown she’d never wanted. A prophecy fulfilled in the most horrific way.

And all she could think was: I don’t know how to survive this.

She didn’t know how far they had flown. Minutes. Miles. A lifetime. Behind them, the castle was a blot of stone and shadow. She could still see the flames rising from one tower. She could still feel Garic's command ringing in her chest.

Run, Dragonrider.

Was he still fighting? Was he alive? She didn’t know. And the not-knowing crushed something deep inside her.

“He’ll live,” she murmured, like a spell cast into the sky. “He has to.”

Vaeronth said nothing. He flew steady, wings slicing through cloud and silence.

Below them, the realm spread out; fractured, beautiful, unknown.

The Flame had chosen her.

But what if the crown fell?

What if her blood marked not the beginning of her reign, but the end of an era?

Eliryn closed her eyes. Her fingers curled weakly against Vaeronth’s side.

I will not let you fall, the dragon said. This isn’t the end.

And in that moment, with the sky around her and the world unraveling beneath, Eliryn did not feel victorious.

She felt like a question the gods hadn’t finished answering.