Page 139 of The Shattered Rite
"A throne of embers burns brightest just before it collapses to ash."—Unknown, scrawled in the margins of a ruined prayer book
Eliryn sipped her tea slowly, both hands curled around the warm clay cup. The morning was pale and cold, the light from the high window stretched thin across the stone floor.
Vaeronth’s presence stirred beside her mind, closer than breath, as always.
Someone comes. Metal-footed. Purposeful... your guard friend.
His voice was low, but alert.
A summons, I think.
She set the cup down on the table beside her and stood, tugging on her overshirt with haste. “Now?”
Soon.
Before she reached the door, the room shifted. Responding to the new information just like Eliryn was. Something new waited beside the bench where she’d draped her old clothes. Boots. Dark leather, reinforced at the heel and toe, laced tightly with silver-threaded cords. She stepped closer, hesitating. When her fingertips brushed the surface, she felt the difference immediately. Not ordinary. Supple yet strong. A second skin forged for survival, not just ornament. She sat quickly and tugged them on, the leather molding to her feet like memory returning to flesh. Protective and grounding.
She flexed her toes. “Well. Guess I’m running out of reasons to fall.”
Don’t test that.
She smiled, and said a silent thanks to the room for it's consideration.
A moment later: three sharp knocks at the door. No words.
Eliryn glanced at the room behind her, looking towards the warm tea and pastries, letting out a sigh. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be eased by sugar.
She hesitated for a breath before opening the door, heart beating steadily but too loud in her ears.
Three left.
That thought wouldn’t leave her. Not through the tea. Not through the quiet.
Not through yesterday’s brief moment of warmth on a sunlit cliff with a man she shouldn’t trust.
Vaeronth stirred again at the edge of her thoughts—steadying, present.
She thought of Silas’s quiet loyalty. Of Malric’s dangerous eyes.
And then she reminded herself:This is not over. You are not safe yet. No matter how soft the morning feels.
Silas stood outside when she opened the door, dressed in his formal guard attire; dark leather, the mark of his station stitched in silver thread over his chest.
He gave her a quiet, respectful nod. “You’re being officially summoned; King Thalen wants to see the chosen. He’ll address you in the Hall of Judgment.”
Eliryn blinked. “Now? You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Eliryn stepped into the hall beside him, her voice dry. “You always bring the best news.”
He glanced at her sidelong. “Would you prefer I lied?”
“Only if you’re good at it.”
“I’m not.”
“Shame.”
