Page 15 of The Shattered Rite
The guards urged them forward in silence, and one by one, the chosen descended. The stairwell twisted downward, carveddirectly into the bedrock, its edges worn smooth by time or magic—or both. Eliryn’s fingers brushed the wall as she moved, the stone humming faintly beneath her skin.
She walked carefully, leaning on sound more than sight. Her fading vision flickered like a sputtering lantern. She focused on the rhythm of boots ahead, the pattern of breath around her—some shallow and panicked, others held like practiced weapons.
At the base of the stairs, the passage widened into a stone hall lit by braziers sunk low into the floor. Shadows clung to the walls in long, flickering arcs.
The silence did not last.
The same official who had greeted them previously, The Steward of Trials, now stood before a massive archway, cloaked in rich robes, a scroll unspooling from his gloved hands.
“The First Trial begins now,” the steward intoned, his voice echoing like ritual. “You stand at the threshold of the Undermire, a chamber older than the throne itself. It was carved to test the untested. To separate those who can endure… from those who can not.”
A hush swept the group, brittle as frost.
“You are not meant to face this alone,” the steward continued. “You are meant to bond.”
A ripple of tension stirred the air.
“Form an allegiance. Old practice, nearly forgotten. But necessary. In this place, the creatures cannot be bested by steel or fire alone. You must anchor yourself to another. By choice. By instinct. A bond that can only be broken in death.”
“What sort of bond?” someone demanded—a tall boy with copper-threaded hair.
“It's called the Vow of the Undermire,” the steward answered. “A binding willingly sworn within the Undermire. Once taken, the Vow threads your life to another's—until death or unraveling claims you both."
A moment of stunned silence—then it fractured.
“That’s madness,” someone muttered.
“We were told this was a competition. Not a wedding.”
“What if no one chooses you?”
“So we die… or give away our soul?”
The steward’s expression didn’t flicker as he faced the onslaught of questioning.
“Those who remain unbound,” he said flatly, “rarely see morning. If you survive, the Undermire itself will sever your tether. Fail, and your soul rots beside your counterpart's corpse.”
He stepped aside.
The archway yawned open, revealing nothing but shadow and flickering torchlight.
“You will have one full day. One full night. Survive, or do not. When the bells toll, your time is over.”
The group hesitated.
Then it broke.
Pairs formed with ruthless speed. Whispers flared and vanished like sparks in kindling. By the time Eliryn registered what was happening, most had already vanished into the corridor.
Of course no one picked her. She wouldn't have picked herself, either. That didn't stop the sting of finding herself standing alone.
The weight of the stone ceiling pressed low. The torchlight dimmed. She moved forward anyway, her boots scuffing against the stone as she crossed the threshold.
The Undermire swallowed her whole as the air around her thickened.
The passage opened into a cavernous chamber strung with ruin—pillars eaten by moss, forgotten shrines, broken archwaysleading into deeper dark. Bioluminescent vines curled along the ceiling in pale green arcs, casting a faint, otherworldly glow.
Far off, something shrieked.
