Page 12 of The Shattered Rite
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 becomefamiliar. The wary watch of the first rider. The venomous barbs from the second. And the third, always present just beyond sight, moving like a thoughthalf-swallowed. She didn’t know them—but she knew their rhythm.
What waited inside wasunknown.
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 lookedtoopleased.
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.
