Page 7 of The Shattered Rite (The Sightless Prophecy Trilogy #1)

"It is not the beasts that kill you. It is the moment you believe you will die.” —Recorded in the journal of a trial survivor

Eliryn didn’t sleep.

Not truly.

She tried to steady her breathing. Failed. This space was too cold, the silence too taut—thick with the tension of so many held breaths and unseen thoughts. Even without her full sight, she could feel the weight of the others nearby. Shifting. Whispering. Dreaming. Dreading.

She had backed into a corner, spine to the wall, one hand curled around the pendant beneath her armor. Its warmth pulsed faintly, like a buried ember. Steady. Alive.

In the village, her mother had told stories of magic—rare and strange, born of old blood and older promises.

But Eliryn had never touched it. Never seen a spell cast, or a relic glow with purpose.

The cuffs, the way they’d released with a whisper of power, had shaken something in her.

A reminder that she was in a world she’d only heard about in fireside tales—a world she was no longer just observing.

Now she was part of it.

And still… apart from it.

She kept her head down, listening instead of watching. She heard the scrape of boots, the rustle of wool, the clink of someone’s hidden blade. Someone else whispered prayers in a tongue older than the capital’s stones.

Snatches of strategy drifted like smoke—boasts wrapped in nerves, fear lacquered with bravado. It was hard to tell how many chosen were in the hall with her; there were too many overlapping breaths and unsteady heartbeats.

Eliryn listened until voices blurred into shadow. Her mind floated at the edge of sleep but never fell in. Her body was exhausted. Her senses strained. But rest wouldn’t come. Not here. Not now.

When a horn sounded—low and mournful, like the cry of some ancient thing waking—she was already on her feet.

The doors of the hall swung open—one side heralding the return of the steward’s guards, the other revealing… something unknown.

A breath of air met them. Not cold, not warm—but dense with the scent of the earth. Deep earth. Eliryn inhaled deeply without meaning to. The smell was strange and grounding all at once: damp stone, mineral-rich dust, a trace of something old.

Not decay. Not quite. More like the promise of things that lived beneath.

No one spoke.

The guards urged them forward in silence, and one by one, the chosen descended. The stairwell twisted downward, carved directly into the bedrock, its edges worn smooth by time or magic—or both. Eliryn’s fingers brushed the wall as she moved, the stone humming faintly beneath her skin.

She walked carefully, leaning on sound more than sight. Her fading vision flickered like a sputtering lantern. She focused on the rhythm of boots ahead, the pattern of breath around her—some shallow and panicked, others held like practiced weapons.

At the base of the stairs, the passage widened into a stone hall lit by braziers sunk low into the floor. Shadows clung to the walls in long, flickering arcs.

The silence did not last.

The same official who had greeted them previously, The Steward of Trials, now stood before a massive archway, cloaked in rich robes, a scroll unspooling from his gloved hands.

“The First Trial begins now,” the steward intoned, his voice echoing like ritual. “You stand at the threshold of the Undermire, a chamber older than the throne itself. It was carved to test the untested. To separate those who can endure… from those who can not.”

A hush swept the group, brittle as frost.

“You are not meant to face this alone,” the steward continued. “You are meant to bond.”

A ripple of tension stirred the air.

“Form an allegiance. Old practice, nearly forgotten. But necessary. In this place, the creatures cannot be bested by steel or fire alone. You must anchor yourself to another. By choice. By instinct. A bond that can only be broken in death.”

“What sort of bond?” someone demanded—a tall boy with copper-threaded hair.

“It's called the Vow of the Undermire,” the steward answered. “A binding willingly sworn within the Undermire. Once taken, the Vow threads your life to another's—until death or unraveling claims you both."

A moment of stunned silence—then it fractured.

“That’s madness,” someone muttered.

“We were told this was a competition. Not a wedding.”

“What if no one chooses you?”

“So we die… or give away our soul?”

The steward’s expression didn’t flicker as he faced the onslaught of questioning.

“Those who remain unbound,” he said flatly, “rarely see morning. If you survive, the Undermire itself will sever your tether. Fail, and your soul rots beside your counterpart's corpse.”

He stepped aside.

The archway yawned open, revealing nothing but shadow and flickering torchlight.

“You will have one full day. One full night. Survive, or do not. When the bells toll, your time is over.”

The group hesitated.

Then it broke.

Pairs formed with ruthless speed. Whispers flared and vanished like sparks in kindling. By the time Eliryn registered what was happening, most had already vanished into the corridor.

Of course no one picked her. She wouldn't have picked herself, either. That didn't stop the sting of finding herself standing alone.

The weight of the stone ceiling pressed low. The torchlight dimmed. She moved forward anyway, her boots scuffing against the stone as she crossed the threshold.

The Undermire swallowed her whole as the air around her thickened.

The passage opened into a cavernous chamber strung with ruin—pillars eaten by moss, forgotten shrines, broken archways leading into deeper dark. Bioluminescent vines curled along the ceiling in pale green arcs, casting a faint, otherworldly glow.

Far off, something shrieked.

Too distant to name. Too close to ignore.

Eliryn veered toward a narrow path where no one else had gone. Her boots made no sound. Her hands traced the damp walls for balance, skimming over runes she couldn’t see well enough to read.

Anxiety clawed at her lungs, each breath shallow and sharp. Beneath the fear, doubt bloomed darker—an aching certainty that she was too small for this fight.

It wasn't just loneliness. It was being measured. And discarded.

Not with them.

Not even against them.

Lesser.

It seemed apparent that they had noticed her eyes and had passed judgement accordingly.

She crouched beneath a crumbled overhang, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her pendant beat steadily beneath her hand. She remembered her mother's voice then. Not words—just the sound of it. Gone now. She curled her grip tighter.

How will I survive the night?

Her throat tightened.

"Ma…" she whispered. Not a call for help. Just… needing to say the word.

Her mother’s stories had never included anything like this. Only dragons. Sorcerers. Chosen champions with sight like starlight and fate like mirrors.

But her mirror had always been cloudy.

Her sight, fading.

She was no champion.

She was a mistake the Flame hadn't noticed yet. And somehow, that hurt worse.

And here she was, alone, given one chance to prove she could outlast whatever the Undermire held.

Eliryn snorted softly, though her throat was too dry to make it sound anything like a laugh.

“Outlast what, exactly?” she whispered. “The crippling anxiety?”

Her voice fell flat. The stone ate the sound.

She was starting to regret skipping breakfast.

Somewhere ahead, water dripped. Slow. Steady. Like the ticking of some cruel clock.

She forced herself forward.

One more step.

Another.

And then—

Her boot caught on something.

She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and hit the ground hard. Her knee slammed into stone. Her palms scraped open. She lay there for a moment, gasping.

Flat on her stomach, bruised and breathless, she stared at the ground in disbelief.

“Oh, perfect,” she rasped, her voice cracking. “Brilliant work, Eliryn. Stalked by monsters, and you manage to injure yourself before they even show up.”

She turned her face against the cold, wet stone, breathing shallowly.

“This is going so well.”

For just a heartbeat, she considered staying there.

Let whatever hunted her find her like this. Broken. Pathetic. Easy.

But she didn’t.

Because even if she wasn’t brave, she was still too stubborn to die lying down.

She pushed herself up slowly, every scraped muscle protesting. Her knee burned. Her palms bled. She tasted copper.

Her pendant hung heavy against her skin.

Mocking her.

She wiped her bloodied hands down the front of her already-dented armor and staggered forward.

One step.

Then another.

Every movement hurt.

Every shadow felt closer.

Then—something shifted.

Not a sound. Not a breeze.

Just a ripple in the air. Vast. Heavy. Like something breathing in before it hunted.

Eliryn froze.

Her pendant thrummed once beneath her collarbone. Not a warning.

A summons.

She pressed a blood-slick palm against the stone and whispered to herself, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. What part of ‘lost in an underground crypt’ screams go deeper?”

She moved anyway. Because there wasn’t a choice. Not anymore.

Her boots slid on moss-slick stone as she followed the faint sound of water ahead. Not a roar. Not even a stream.

Just a steady trickle.

Because of course death would come in a dramatic fashion.

Her breath grated her throat.

Gods, she was out of shape.

“Mother always said I wasn’t built for running,” she muttered.

The Undermire didn’t care.

Its walls pressed closer as she moved. The faint bioluminescent glow of lichen lit the carvings ahead: stretched figures, their faces bound in stone blindfolds, mouths sewn shut.

Their hands weren’t held in offering.

They were reaching.

Clawing.

She told herself they were just carvings.

Just stone.

But they looked like they’d been waiting.

And Eliryn, panting, bleeding, choking down fear, whispered, “Get in line.”

Then—breathing.

Not hers.

Heavy. Wet. Just behind her.

She spun.

Nothing.

Only the soft, deliberate exhale of something large enough to swallow her whole.

At the next bend, she dropped to one knee, lungs wheezing.

“Gods, I’m dying because I’m winded and scaring myself. That’s ironic.”

Then—a shape unfolded from the dark.

At first, she thought it was broken stone.

Then it moved.

Limbs. Too many. Long and thin like spider legs, but bending wrong, shuddering at every joint.

Skin like wet obsidian stretched thin over something twitching, something too fast.

A face—no. Not a face.

A split where a face should’ve been. Jawless. Rows of teeth spiraling inside the split. No eyes. Just raw, glistening black skin pulling tight as it inhaled.

It tasted the air.

Eliryn’s throat closed.

Behind it, another one unfolded. Taller. Bones piercing through its flesh like spines.

She stepped back.

Her heel caught a stone.

A crack.

So soft.

But they heard.

Heads snapped toward her. If those were heads.

She whispered, “Of course you heard that.”

Then they charged.

She ran.

Fast.

Sloppy.

Not like a hero. Not like a warrior.

Like a girl who wanted to live.

She bolted through an archway, lungs heaving, boots skidding on stone. Her shoulder slammed into a wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

Behind her, claws shrieked against stone.

Not footsteps. Too many limbs. The sound was faster than any running beast.

She dove beneath a collapsed altar, arms scraped raw, ribs grinding, heart battering her ribs.

The hiss followed.

She didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She tasted her own blood in her mouth.

Then—pressure.

Not air.

Not sound.

Just weight. Pressing against her skin like invisible hands.

The creatures froze.

Quivered.

Then—turned.

Dragged their claws back into the dark.

Silent.

Drawn elsewhere.

She stayed frozen long after they vanished.

“I’m going to die down here. And worse, my body might get eaten.”

When she finally crawled out, her legs shook so badly she nearly fell.

Her pendant pulsed again.

Warm. Urgent.

She followed.

Her mind was swimming with all the possibilities of her impending death when the next one found her.

She didn’t hear it.

She felt it.

Claws hooked her shoulder from behind—dug deep, dragged.

She screamed.

Spun. Slashed blindly with a rock.

It wasn’t enough.

Her blood splattered stone.

She ran.

Faster.

Didn’t matter how much it hurt.

Didn’t matter how much her body screamed to stop.

She ran until her vision blurred, until breath was something she didn’t have anymore, until every footstep felt like a countdown.

And the thing followed.

A nightmare given flesh.

Jaws split sideways down its face, spiraling teeth grinding.

Limbs bending over walls, over ceilings. Crawling like something built to move anywhere it wanted.

Claws raked across her ribs.

She screamed again.

“This is it,” she gasped aloud. “Prophecy, destiny, and I’m going to bleed out in a pit because I’m slow.”

Her body didn’t listen.

Her legs kept moving.

Instinct and terror did what pride couldn’t.

Then—light.

She stumbled.

Fell.

Into a cavern.

She hit stone hard enough to lose her breath.

Behind her, the thing shrieked.

But didn’t follow.

She turned.

It crouched in the threshold.

Its spiral jaws quivered.

But it didn’t enter.

It couldn’t.

And then it retreated.

Vanished.

Eliryn’s mind spun. She couldn’t understand.

Couldn’t think.

Until the air shifted behind her.

Warm.

Heavy.

Ancient.

She turned and rose to her feet at once.

And saw him.

Golden eyes cracked open in the dark like molten suns.

The cavern pulsed—not with fire.

With breath.

A shape larger than nightmare stirred. Scales black as midnight glass, veins of molten light coiling beneath like magma.

And when he rose?

Stone shuddered.

The nightmare creatures had fled from him .

Eliryn, bruised and broken, took one step forward.

She didn’t choose to.

Her soul remembered him before her mind could.

A memory burned into her blood.

“Oh,” she whispered, voice raw. “There you are.”

She collapsed to her knees.

The dragon didn’t move.

Didn’t roar. Didn’t reach for her.

Just watched.

Silent. Endless.

Not a savior.

Not a god.

Just a question.

And somehow, impossibly, she was its answer.

She wasn’t chosen.

She’d simply… arrived.

Bruised. Bleeding. Lost.

And the dragon—who had waited lifetimes—was no longer alone.

Not prophecy.

Not destiny.

Just inevitability.

Her breath shuddered once. And in the hush that followed, she whispered, broken but alive:

“…Well. Shit.”

And the dragon finally blinked.