Page 103 of The Shattered Rite
She paused, glancing up at him. “An open invitation?”
His ears flushed. “I mean… sure. If you want more conversation.”
Her lips twitched. “Conversation.” She repeated.
Silas gave a helpless, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not very good at… whatever that was.”
“You’re genuine. I’ll take that over good.”
That pulled a real smile from him—soft and a little awed.
She let her fingers brush his forearm as she passed, just light enough to make him freeze.
“Goodnight, Silas.”
He straightened reflexively, more soldier than man for half a second. “Goodnight, Eliryn.”
And when she slipped into the shadows, he kept watching long after she’d gone.
Chapter 17: The Measure of Loyalty
“Not all storms test walls. Some are sent to see if the Flame still burns beneath the stone.”—Inscription carved into the trial chamber’s western arch, origin unknown
Wake, Eliryn.
The voice came like smoke curling around her bones—low, rumbling, unmistakable.
Vaeronth.
Eliryn startled awake, a sharp breath pulled into her lungs. The fire in her hearth had long since dimmed to a bed of glowing embers, and the pale gray light of dawn pooled at the corners of the ceiling, soft as silk.
The third trial begins soon,Vaeronth said.The steward prepares the call.
“Gods,” she muttered, scrubbing her hands over her face. “You make a better alarm than the temple bells.”
I'll take that as a compliment.
She sat up slowly, joints stiff from where she’d curled in the large chair in front of the hearth. She barely registered the ache, warmed from within now, a gift of the bond, perhaps, or a symptom of being less human with each passing day.
She crossed to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. The shock of it cleared the last shadows of sleep. Dabbing her cheeks dry, she turned toward the tall mirror that shimmered faintly when she stepped near.
Her hair had staged a small revolt. She winced, raking her fingers through the snarls until her scalp stung. Sitting at the edge of the bed, she sectioned it clean and began a tight crown braid—quick, practiced pulls, the rhythm of someone who’d learned to make order before walking into chaos. The leather tie on the nightstand waited like a coiled promise; it warmed in her palm when she grabbed it as if the room approved.
The marks along her forearms pulsed once, settling. The pendant lay heavy and steady against her sternum.
“I’m not ready for this,” she muttered.
You are.
“I meant emotionally.”
That too.
She snorted. “I liked you better when you were cryptic and brooding.”
His silence was smug.
When the braid was done, she stood and found the day’s clothes already laid out at the foot of her bed. The room had changed again, anticipating her needs.
