Page 122 of The Shattered Rite
They left her.
Whitvale watched.
And smiled.
When she slipped, it was almost a relief.
The ledge broke beneath her, blood-slick stone giving way.
She fell, and kept falling.
Not even her scream followed her down.
No flame. No dragon.
No one.
Just cold.
And the dark.
Forever.
Eliryn jolted upright, breath ragged, a low cry caught in her throat.
The fire still burned.
Her walls still held.
And Silas was still there.
He sat beside her bed, awake now—leaning forward the moment she stirred. His voice came soft, steady, like he’d been rehearsing it in her absence.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. You’re here.”
His hand hovered, unsure, until she reached for him first.
She grabbed it like a lifeline, her fingers tight around his. His skin was warm. Steady. Real. An anchor.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped.
Silas frowned softly. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Then don’t.”
His thumb brushed against her hand, careful as always. She held tighter. She wasn’t sure he minded.
“I thought I was alone.”
“You’re not,” Silas said simply.
The answer lodged somewhere deep. She breathed carefully, forcing the tremor from her chest.
They sat like that for a while. Silent but not uncomfortable. His presence filling the space where her fear used to live.
Eventually, she shifted, glancing at him through her lashes.
