Page 16 of The Shattered Rite
Too distant to name. Too close to ignore.
Eliryn veered toward a narrow path where no one else had gone. Her boots made no sound. Her hands traced the damp walls for balance, skimming over runes she couldn’t see well enough to read.
Anxiety clawed at her lungs, each breath shallow and sharp. Beneath the fear, doubt bloomed darker—an aching certainty that she was too small for this fight.
It wasn't just loneliness. It was being measured. And discarded.
Notwiththem.
Not evenagainstthem.
Lesser.
It seemed apparent that they had noticed her eyes and had passed judgement accordingly.
She crouched beneath a crumbled overhang, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her pendant beat steadily beneath her hand. She remembered her mother's voice then. Not words—just the sound of it. Gone now. She curled her grip tighter.
How will I survive the night?
Her throat tightened.
"Ma…" she whispered. Not a call for help. Just… needing to say the word.
Her mother’s stories had never included anything like this. Only dragons. Sorcerers. Chosen champions with sight like starlight and fate like mirrors.
But her mirror had always been cloudy.
Her sight, fading.
She was no champion.
She was a mistake the Flame hadn't noticed yet. And somehow, that hurt worse.
And here she was, alone, given one chance to prove she could outlast whatever the Undermire held.
Eliryn snorted softly, though her throat was too dry to make it sound anything like a laugh.
“Outlast what, exactly?” she whispered. “The crippling anxiety?”
Her voice fell flat. The stone ate the sound.
She was starting to regret skipping breakfast.
Somewhere ahead, water dripped. Slow. Steady. Like the ticking of some cruel clock.
She forced herself forward.
One more step.
Another.
And then—
Her boot caught on something.
She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and hit the ground hard. Her knee slammed into stone. Her palms scraped open. She lay there for a moment, gasping.
Flat on her stomach, bruised and breathless, she stared at the ground in disbelief.
