Page 116 of The Shattered Rite
“He lied to one of the others,” Eliryn said, voice low and steady. “Gave him false directions like it was a game. The young boy with the red hair… he trusted Whitvale. Took him at his word when he called out the timing of the spinning blades, and it led him straight into them. He died trying to hold himself together, and Whitvale just stood there. Smiling. Like it was sport.”
Garic looked at her, something shifting behind his eyes, disbelief yielding to grim clarity. “I knew he was arrogant,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t know he was cruel.”
“He gains less competition,” Eliryn said. “And fear. But more than that…” Her voice cooled. “I think he enjoyed it.”
They were quiet for a beat. Then Garic said, “And you? How did you survive it?”
Eliryn hesitated, then gave a small, worn smile.
Vaeronth stirred, a quiet presence like a hand at her back.Tell him the truth. Let him see the bond.
“Vaeronth,” she said. “My dragon. He saw what I couldn’t. My eyes… they failed me. I was struggling with outlines and light. No shapes. No paths. I would’ve bled out on the glass field if not for him.”
Garic stared at her a moment, taking note of her dragon marks that were glowing stronger as she spoke about her dragon, measuring the truth of it—then nodded slowly.
“So your dragon guided you.”
“He’s the only reason I’m standing here.”
“Well, thank him for me too, then,” Garic said. Then, after a pause: “And I’ll remember what Whitvale did.”
Eliryn touched his arm, needing her only ally to understand the gravity of what had happened. “Be careful around him. He’s the type to strike when your back is turned. He wants to watch us fail.”
Garic followed her gaze to where Whitvale lounged, boots swinging idly over the ledge like death wasn’t a breath away. His expression hardened.
“I’ll stay ready.”
And as the torches dimmed slightly, and footsteps echoed far down the corridor, the last of the chosen stood shoulder to shoulder—warriors, champions and survivors, forged in blood and sharpened by fire.
Vaeronth's voice rumbled in her mind as Garic stood beside her.
Not forged, little flame.
Found.
Interlude 7: Malric
“Loyalty is forged not by chains, but by choice. Which is why tyrants fear it most.”—From the private annotations of Councilor Rhalin
Malric watched from the high chamber.
The trial below played out across the mirrored surface of the viewing basin—an ancient, silver-edged pool that reflected cruelty with perfect clarity. Every blood-slick stone. Every shattered cry. Every spear hidden just beneath the surface.
And her.
Eliryn.
He should have turned away. Should have reported back already. But he stood frozen, gaze caught. Not by duty. Not by command.
By her.
She didn’t know he was there.
He’d watched her before, in quieter moments. At the tables with her guard, laughing like she belonged in the kitchens. Her voice too soft, her skin too bare of armor. Vulnerable in ways she couldn’t afford. She hadn't seen him. None of them had. He lingered in the shadows, unseen, as always.
But when that young guard—Silas—had spoken her name, Malric had faltered. The sound of it had dragged him backward in time.
Names were power. Especially here.
