Page 172 of The Shattered Rite
Eliryn felt Garic shift beside her—subtle, but steady. A tether. Whitvale stilled completely.
The judge’s tone sharpened.
“List the five governing councils of the early kingdom and explain how they failed the first dragonriders.”
Eliryn tilted her chin slightly. She didn’t rush. She let the silence stretch. And when she finally spoke, her voice was calm—but unmistakably dry.
“Ah. So now you care about the history of the riders.”
The judges shifted, just slightly.
“Because after standing by while the King wiped them out, you’re curious. You want answers. Straight from the last reliable source.”
Across the bench, she felt Garic stifle a breath. Not shock. Amusement.
Eliryn’s mouth curved faintly. “Is that why you’re asking? Do you want to know how my kind came to fall? Because it wasn't the governing council's fault.”
A pause. One of the judges’ robes rustled—unease.
“You are under oath, Eliryn,” the woman said curtly.
“And you said I could speak freely.” Eliryn’s voice dropped, steady as a knife sliding into its sheath. “The Flame’s here to judge me. I’m fairly sure the Flame and I are already on the same page.”
From her peripheral awareness, she felt Whitvale’s disbelief—sharp, brittle. Like he couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or impressed.
The silence hung heavy.
Then she leaned forward slightly, voice cool, conversational:
“Council of War. Council of Flame. Council of Law. Council of Grain. Council of Faith.”
Her tone turned razor-edged.
“They failed because power scares small men. They failed because none of them could agree on whether to worship the dragons, use them, or kill them. And by the time they decided…” She lifted her hands, palms up, her broken gaze fixed squarely ahead.
“…the sovereign had done what he could to turn us all to ash.”
Garic, beside her, said nothing. But she felt him watching her now. Closely.
Eliryn tilted her head. “Would you like me to keep going? I’ve got centuries of mistakes burned into my skin and an ancient dragon as my source.”
A silence, thick as stone.
And then—her skin flashed in answer.
The marks along her arms and throat pulsed once, as if breathing beneath her flesh. Lines of sigils and forgottenrunes, the remnants of Vaeronth’s ancient binding, blazed softly into view: not just ink, not mere scars, but something older. Something living.
Black, golden, and faint crimson threads curled up her arms like language remembered. Sharp. Unmistakable.
She heard the sharp inhale from the panel. Felt Garic’s sudden stillness beside her. Even Whitvale, for all his control, shifted, unsettled.
Her power—the last of the riders’ legacy—was on full display where it couldn't be ignored.
Vaeronth stirred in her mind, his voice a low thunder.
They see you now.
Eliryn didn’t flinch.
