Page 168 of The Shattered Rite
The fire had sunk lower now, the coals little more than faint embers, barely lighting the room. Still, she hadn’t moved from where he’d left her.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the clay cup Garic had brought, now cool to the touch. She hadn’t eaten. She didn’t think she could. But it had mattered that he’d come. That someone had reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in this place built to hollow people out.
The ache inside her hadn’t softened, but it had been given shape. Something she could survive with. Something she could fight through.
Screw the prophecy. I don’t want a throne. I don’t want to reign. I just need to endure.
She would help Garic win, if it came to that. She would stand by him, shield him if she could, and survive in honor of all the pieces of her life that had been taken away. The dragons and the riders. Her mother. Silas.
Whitvale might have played at sticking up for her, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been involved. He was clever. Masked. Shifting in and out of his own skin like a snake through grass. She wanted to believe in his truce, but Garic’s warning that he couldn't be trusted echoed in her mind.
And Malric…
Her chest tightened at the thought of him.
He had been a mystery from the moment they met, sharp edges wrapped in dangerous charm. She remembered the weight in his voice when he told her he’d been made into a weapon. That he had killed before.
But Malric killing Silas?
The king would have needed a reason. Silas had protected her, yes, but what threat could she possibly be to the king of this broken place? And if it was about her, then why was she left untouched? She had been completely vulnerable in that moment, so if it had been about her, that would have been the best moment to strike.
Vaeronth's presence brushed the edges of her mind: heavy, protective, simmering with a restraint that felt like tension moments from explosion.Prepare yourself.
The knock came moments later.
She didn’t move.
“Dragonrider,” called a voice beyond the door. Male. Too polished to be Garic. Too formal to be Malric.
Another knock.
“The fourth trial begins now.”
She forced herself upright, every muscle screaming exhaustion. Her legs barely supported her weight.
And then the room shifted as she borrowed her dragon's sight.
The hearth flared softly. New clothing had been laid at the edge of the bed: black leggings reinforced with fine leather, a dark tunic tailored for movement but edged in delicate silver threading at the cuffs. Beside them—boots. Black as a raven’s wing, smooth as riverstone. When she brushed her fingers along them, the leather flexed like skin, like they’d been made for her bones alone.
Practical. Strong.
Like her.
“I see the room still believes in me,” she murmured aloud, voice rough with disuse.
Vaeronth stirred.I never stopped believing in you.
Her throat tightened. “I know.”
She let the guards wait.
Not out of arrogance, but because she refused to meet a new trial wearing a towel and some furs.
She dressed slowly, methodically. She braided her damp hair back from her face with shaking fingers, wove the tail into a knot low at her nape. Slipped the tunic over her head. Laced the boots up her calves.
Each piece felt like a reclamation.
When she was finished, she stood for a long moment, head bowed, fists clenched at her sides.
