Page 13 of The Shattered Rite
“You’ll be taken to the Hall of Holding. The others have arrived. You’ll meet them soon.”
Theothers.
The word fell hard.
A new guard took her by the arm. No words. Just pressure and motion. They moved through quiet corridors where even the glass windows glowed faintly with enchantment—colored panes casting blurred light across the stone. Beneath her boots, the floor vibrated faintly. A heartbeat. Apulse. The citadel was alive in ways that had nothing to do with people’s presence.
She didn’t look back until the corridor curved. Then, just once, she turned.
The guards still stood in the archway. Not watching her. Speaking fervently, heads ducked together, they were unconcerned with her departure.
The hallway narrowed. The air cooled further. Her skin itched where the cuffs had been, but the sense of presence lingered—not the guard beside her, and not anyone near. Somewhere else. Above, perhaps. Behind. The crown must have eyes within the stone.
At last, the corridor opened.
The Hall of Holding.
The emptiness felt heavier than walls, like standing inside a throat about to swallow. The floor was a mirror of black stone. The ceiling stretched up and away into darkness, too high for torches, too tall for echoes. Moonlight—or its illusion—poured down in ribbons, washing everything in silver and blue.
At its center stood a ring of carved pillars, each one etched with symbols that stirred something in her bones. Things half-remembered. Shapes from firelit stories. Impressions from dreams she couldn’t name.
Figures lingered at the chamber’s edges. Shadowy. Unfamiliar. Some seated, some pacing, some whispering beneath their breath like coiled serpents.
The guard gestured her toward a stone bench. She sat straighter than she felt. If they wanted to watch her, let them. She wouldn't curl in on herself. Not here. She let her wrists rest lightly on her knees, and let her head tilt ever so slightly. Not bowed. Not submissive. Just...listening.
No one came near.
Snatches of conversation drifted through the quiet.
“…from the coast, I think. The Virean lilt.”
“Doesn’t matter. The trials will break her.”
“…one of us is twin-born. If that’s true…”
Names were more than just scarce, no one used them at all. Not even in gossip. That absence unsettled her more than any spell. An old warning from her mother returned: “Never speak your name into strange air, Eliryn. You don’t know who’s listening—or what.”
She shifted. Tuned her hearing to footfalls. One paced with a limp. Another had the clipped step of someone used to command. One wore silk—rich and whispering. And one—someone—breathed with her. Matched her every move.
Not hostile. Not friendly. Just...aware.
The cuffs had ceased their glow, but their influence remained. Eliryn now knew how false her mother’s description of magic had been—magic didn’t feel like fire or light.
It felt like pressure. Like beingheld down.And Eliryn hated being held down.
A sound broke the stillness—a deep, resonantboomas a door opened far across the chamber. No one raised their voice. No one moved.
A figure entered.
Robes of silver and dusk, layered like smoke. No crown. No medals. Only a pendant of twisted crystal and rings of bone and obsidian. His eyes were the color of old storms and his presence instantly filled the room.
“The Steward of Trials,” someone whispered.
The steward walked to the center. Turned. Looked at each of them in turn. When his eyes reached Eliryn, theystayed—just long enough to register her, just short of giving her meaning. She couldn't help feeling small under his gaze.
“You stand in the Hall of Holding,” he said. His voice was soft, but it carried. “You were chosen. Not for what you are—but for what you may yet become.”
A pause.
