Page 169 of The Shattered Rite
“I am not broken,” she whispered.
Not yet.Her mind answered back.
Finally, she crossed to the door.
The hallway outside her door was already filled with footsteps, soft-soled, clipped with purpose. Two guards stood at attention, flanking a young page with a scroll clutched tight inhis pale hands. He bowed when she appeared, though his eyes widened slightly when they settled on her face. On the faint, unfocused way her gaze drifted past him.
“Dragonrider,” he announced formally. “You are summoned to the Hall of Scribes for the fourth trial.”
She nodded once, then paused. The words scraped at her throat, but she forced them out anyway.
“You’ll need to guide me,” she said evenly. “I’ve… lost my sight.”
The page blinked, clearly startled. One of the guards shifted behind him, uneasy in the silence.
Eliryn tilted her chin. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize for the inconvenience, you’ll be standing here a while.”
The boy flushed and scrambled to offer his arm. “Of course. I’ll… see you there safely.”
She accepted his arm like a queen accepting tribute, though her fingers trembled as they curled around the crook of his elbow.
“I don’t need pity,” she added, voice quieter now. “Just decent directions.”
Behind her, Vaeronth stirred in her mind—steady, certain.
You are not diminished. Your eyes are not the only way to see.
She almost believed him.
Her other hand brushed the stone wall lightly as they walked, her touch ghosting along the worn grooves, counting the corridor’s pulse through texture and air. One guard led, one followed. Their steps echoed like war drums.
Silence wrapped around them, but she could feel everything. The temperature shift before each doorway. The soft press of torchlight against her skin. The pulse of people they passed—warm bodies, cold intentions.
She wasn’t afraid.
She’d lost too much to waste herself on fear at this point.
When the page finally slowed, his voice lost its formal edge.
“We’ve arrived. The Hall of Scribes. It’s large… vaulted. There are columns along both sides. Stone benches in three rows. The panel is seated at the far end. Hearth’s unlit.”
Eliryn nodded, lips thin.
This was where truths lived. And where lives ended.
“I’ll guide you to your seat,” the page added, hesitant.
She let him.
When her fingers brushed the bench, she felt the presence beside her before anything else: Garic. His soul hummed steady through Vaeronth’s awareness, a low and grounded rhythm. Whitvale’s presence prickled sharper, restless as a drawn knife. But Garic… Garic was calm. Ready.
Her throat tightened. She sat, spine straight.
The page lingered, then retreated.
She could feel the weight of eyes on her. Judges. Guards. Spectators. She could feel her dragonmarks glowing softly, like they were waiting, and she could feel eyes on her watching the runes come to life.
Her hands flexed in her lap.
