Page 17 of The Shattered Rite
“Oh, perfect,” she rasped, her voice cracking. “Brilliant work, Eliryn. Stalked by monsters, and you manage to injure yourself before they even show up.”
She turned her face against the cold, wet stone, breathing shallowly.
“This is going so well.”
For just a heartbeat, she considered staying there.
Let whatever hunted her find her like this. Broken. Pathetic. Easy.
But she didn’t.
Because even if she wasn’t brave, she was still too stubborn to die lying down.
She pushed herself up slowly, every scraped muscle protesting. Her knee burned. Her palms bled. She tasted copper.
Her pendant hung heavy against her skin.
Mocking her.
She wiped her bloodied hands down the front of her already-dented armor and staggered forward.
One step.
Then another.
Every movement hurt.
Every shadow felt closer.
Then—something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a breeze.
Just a ripple in the air. Vast. Heavy. Like something breathing in before it hunted.
Eliryn froze.
Her pendant thrummed once beneath her collarbone. Not a warning.
A summons.
She pressed a blood-slick palm against the stone and whispered to herself, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. What part of ‘lost in an underground crypt’ screams go deeper?”
She moved anyway. Because there wasn’t a choice. Not anymore.
Her boots slid on moss-slick stone as she followed the faint sound of water ahead. Not a roar. Not even a stream.
Just a steady trickle.
Because of course death would come in a dramatic fashion.
Her breath grated her throat.
Gods, she was out of shape.
“Mother always said I wasn’t built for running,” she muttered.
The Undermire didn’t care.
