Page 105 of The Shattered Rite
Silas nodded, thoughtful. “Must be nice. All I get for company is the steward shouting or someone banging pots in the barracks.”
They descended the stairs in easy rhythm. Below them, the low murmur of voices drifted up like mist. The chosen were gathering.
Silas slowed near the final step. When she glanced over, his voice came quieter. Warmer.
“Whatever hell you have to face in there… just come back.”
He hesitated, then added, more softly:
“Keep surviving. I like the company on the walk back.”
Eliryn blinked. She wasn’t sure what she expected—something formal. Less personal.
Her throat tightened before she could stop it. “You’re getting sentimental on me.”
Silas smiled faintly, earnest. “Someone has to.”
She tried to scoff, but her voice betrayed her. “Stars, you're worse than Vaeronth.”
Inside her mind, the dragon stirred, unimpressed:I am merely pragmatic. He has a crush.
Silas tilted his head, confused but still watching her like she was something worth believing in.
Eliryn shook her head, breathing a quiet laugh. “I’ll try to come back. For the conversation.”
“I’d count that as a win.”
Then, nudging his elbow with hers, she let her smirk return. “You’re really not supposed to care this much.”
Silas shrugged once. “Maybe with time you’ll get used to it.”
Before she could think of a reply, they stepped onto the final stair together, and the hall opened before them.
If she felt steadier with him beside her… she didn’t say it out loud.
The hall opened before them into a round chamber, its ceiling carved with ancient runes, banners hanging high above like watchful eyes. Light slanted in through unseen windows, golden and solemn.
One by one, the chosen filtered in.
She spotted them easily: Whitvale, smug and silver-bladed; the Stormthresh woman, all tension and silence; the boy with bright hair and wintry eyes; the Warrior from Tarn’s Hill, wrapped in blue with an axe slung across his back.
And Garic.
He stood alone, broad and still as stone. When his gaze met hers, he gave a single, steady nod.
She returned it. No more. No need.
Her eyes flicked across the others, all armored in some fashion: hardened leather, stitched steel, ceremonial cloth turned practical. Even Whitvale wore daggers strapped down each thigh like he thought himself untouchable.
All of them bore weapons.
Except Garic.
She tilted her head. He carried no sword. No axe. Just the weight of someone who had already faced death and had no need to show it.
She stepped closer to where he stood. Silas gave her a parting nod, stepping back toward the outer wall.
Then the steward appeared.
