Page 6 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"Trust no throne whose walls were built by silence." —Sayings of the Wandering Flame

The gates of Vireth opened with a sound like a sigh—old wood groaning against iron, heavy with the weight of forgotten oaths. No herald greeted them, no fanfare. Only the measured clatter of hooves on worn stone, and the silent watch of sentries tucked into shadowed battlements above.

Eliryn sat straighter in the saddle as they passed beneath the arch.

The cold hadn’t lessened, though the sun now hung high and weak behind gauzy clouds.

She blinked hard, trying to focus. Light and shadow flickered oddly across her vision—no longer distinct shapes, only drifting impressions.

Smears of color. Echoes of what should be.

The road below pulsed like wet ink; the sky above was a smear of ash-white.

Her knuckles whitened. She tried to loosen her grip. Failed. Her body wasn't listening anymore.

Her body knew how to feel the road’s slope, the shift of terrain, the tremor of danger near. But here, inside the city walls, that knowing faltered. The ground was too even. The air too still. It felt... muted.

The streets were empty. Swept clean as bone. No merchants. No children. No curious eyes peeking from behind curtains. The shutters were nailed shut. Flags hung limp, colorless in the dim air. Even the wind passed carefully here, as though afraid of waking something.

None of the guards spoke. Even the second rider had long since run out of jeers. The city itself seemed to smother speech. Eliryn told herself it was just fear. Old stone didn't smother people. It didn't watch.

Then again, she'd just learned that pretending something wasn't real didn't make it less dangerous.

They passed under archways that grew older and taller with each bend in the path. Statues watched them from above—winged things, faceless kings, cloaked warriors without names. She couldn’t see their expressions. She didn’t need to. The weight of their gaze was enough.

The first rider led them forward with a seasoned calm, drawing them toward the citadel perched at the city’s heart.

Eliryn couldn’t see its full shape—only slanted walls and the glint of spires like spears against the pale sky.

Her mare shifted nervously beneath her, hooves tapping a faster rhythm.

She placed a hand to the horse’s neck, steadying it with a whisper.

Her stomach twisted. The saddle felt safer than standing.

The road behind had become familiar . The wary watch of the first rider. The venomous barbs from the second. And the third, always present just beyond sight, moving like a thought half-swallowed. She didn’t know them—but she knew their rhythm.

What waited inside was unknown .

When her boots finally met stone, she felt it: the break. The shift. The world rethreaded itself the moment her feet touched ground.

The horses were led away without ceremony, the citadel seemingly swallowing them without a sound.

Inside, sconces of cold witchlight lined the walls, casting pale blue fire that made depth vanish. No echoes. No warmth. Even her footsteps felt like an intrusion.

A woman emerged from the shadows—tall, robed, unmoved. Her hair pale, her mouth thinner than judgment. Eliryn couldn’t see her clearly, but the shape of her attention was razor-sharp.

“So,” the woman said, her tone bored, “the final chosen. Late, but not lost.”

A low snort behind her. The second rider, no doubt. The woman silenced it with a flick of her fingers.

“There were no problems,” the first rider said, voice clipped.

The woman gave a single nod and turned her gaze back to Eliryn. “I imagine not.”

“I’m ready,” Eliryn said, trying not to sound too small.

“Not quite yet,” the woman replied, almost gently. “There’s an order to these things; a written way of progression.”

Eliryn frowned. But before she could ask about what the written way was, a guard approached. Silent. With cuffs.

“What are those for?” she asked, voice low.

“Formality,” the woman said. “Even our chosen guests must be... contained .”

The first rider did not speak.

The second looked too pleased.

Her stomach dropped so fast she almost swayed. Then, before she could think too long, she extended her wrists. Slowly. Quietly.

Pretending she had a choice was easier than admitting she didn't.

The cuffs clicked closed. Cold and deceptively light. Not tight, not painful—but the moment the metal kissed her skin, something shifted inside her. A pressure formed behind her eyes.

She gasped—and hated herself for allowing the sound.

The woman’s expression didn’t change. But her eyes lingered on Eliryn’s face just a second too long.

“You’ll be taken to the Hall of Holding. The others have arrived. You’ll meet them soon.”

The others .

The word fell hard.

A new guard took her by the arm. No words.

Just pressure and motion. They moved through quiet corridors where even the glass windows glowed faintly with enchantment—colored panes casting blurred light across the stone.

Beneath her boots, the floor vibrated faintly.

A heartbeat. A pulse . The citadel was alive in ways that had nothing to do with people’s presence.

She didn’t look back until the corridor curved. Then, just once, she turned.

The guards still stood in the archway. Not watching her. Speaking fervently, heads ducked together, they were unconcerned with her departure.

The hallway narrowed. The air cooled further. Her skin itched where the cuffs had been, but the sense of presence lingered—not the guard beside her, and not anyone near. Somewhere else. Above, perhaps. Behind. The crown must have eyes within the stone.

At last, the corridor opened.

The Hall of Holding.

The emptiness felt heavier than walls, like standing inside a throat about to swallow.

The floor was a mirror of black stone. The ceiling stretched up and away into darkness, too high for torches, too tall for echoes.

Moonlight—or its illusion—poured down in ribbons, washing everything in silver and blue.

At its center stood a ring of carved pillars, each one etched with symbols that stirred something in her bones. Things half-remembered. Shapes from firelit stories. Impressions from dreams she couldn’t name.

Figures lingered at the chamber’s edges. Shadowy. Unfamiliar. Some seated, some pacing, some whispering beneath their breath like coiled serpents.

The guard gestured her toward a stone bench. She sat straighter than she felt. If they wanted to watch her, let them. She wouldn't curl in on herself. Not here. She let her wrists rest lightly on her knees, and let her head tilt ever so slightly. Not bowed. Not submissive. Just... listening .

No one came near.

Snatches of conversation drifted through the quiet.

“…from the coast, I think. The Virean lilt.”

“Doesn’t matter. The trials will break her.”

“…one of us is twin-born. If that’s true…”

Names were more than just scarce, no one used them at all. Not even in gossip. That absence unsettled her more than any spell. An old warning from her mother returned: “ Never speak your name into strange air, Eliryn. You don’t know who’s listening—or what.”

She shifted. Tuned her hearing to footfalls. One paced with a limp. Another had the clipped step of someone used to command. One wore silk—rich and whispering. And one— someone —breathed with her. Matched her every move.

Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... aware .

The cuffs had ceased their glow, but their influence remained. Eliryn now knew how false her mother’s description of magic had been—magic didn’t feel like fire or light.

It felt like pressure. Like being held down. And Eliryn hated being held down.

A sound broke the stillness—a deep, resonant boom as a door opened far across the chamber. No one raised their voice. No one moved.

A figure entered.

Robes of silver and dusk, layered like smoke. No crown. No medals. Only a pendant of twisted crystal and rings of bone and obsidian. His eyes were the color of old storms and his presence instantly filled the room.

“The Steward of Trials,” someone whispered.

The steward walked to the center. Turned. Looked at each of them in turn. When his eyes reached Eliryn, they stayed —just long enough to register her, just short of giving her meaning. She couldn't help feeling small under his gaze.

“You stand in the Hall of Holding,” he said. His voice was soft, but it carried. “You were chosen. Not for what you are—but for what you may yet become.”

A pause.

“But do not mistake the trials for a game.”

Another pause. Longer.

“No spellwork. No names. No way out other than death.”

That final word echoed when he spoke it, more so than the others. Death.

“You will remain here until dawn. No food will be given. No comfort offered. Let your hunger teach you discipline. Let your fear sharpen your mind.”

He raised his hand. The cuffs shimmered and then unlatched—one by one. They fell like harsh whispers, clattering in heaps on the hard floor.She should have felt relief. Instead, she felt an even heavier weight.

“You are free... for now.”

He turned, and the chamber grew colder with his departure.

No one spoke.

Eliryn flexed her wrists. The weight of the cuffs had vanished at once, but the magic had lingered, brushing over her skin like it knew her, before fading away.

She was free for the moment.

But not safe.

And tomorrow, the real trial would begin.