Page 189 of The Shattered Rite
And every echo of his footsteps behind her whispered the same thing:
Mercy.
Mercy.
Mercy.
Until she realized—he wasn’t chasing to kill her.
Not yet.
He was waiting to catch her when she collapsed.
Because in his mind, she was already dead.
Chapter 30: New Heights
"All crowns are forged in the hour before collapse, when the hand that grasps them trembles most.”—Fragment from the Lost Annals of the Sixth Reign
She was going to die.
Eliryn staggered, one hand clamped against her side where Malric’s blade had opened her like a seam. Blood—warm and slick—soaked down her ribs, her thin dress clinging wet to her skin. Every breath felt serrated, her lungs scraping against the wound as she stumbled forward. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed hard to one knee, gasping.
Malric’s voice echoed, far too calm for what he’d done.
“I didn’t want you to be part of the spectacle.”
Her stomach lurched at the words. The betrayal still hadn’t anchored. She felt like she was hearing it all underwater—hisquiet admiration, the gentle touches, the whispered comfort she’d clung to like sunlight in a locked room. All of it. Lies.
And then—the blade.
A flash of steel. The tearing heat. And now the blood, her blood, hot between her fingers.
Vaeronth’s voice slammed through her skull like a thunderclap.
He moves again. Blade still drawn. Get up, Eliryn. Now.
She tried.
The world tilted.
Bootsteps hammered stone—closer, faster. Then—
“Eliryn!”
Garic’s voice. Shattered. Terrified.
She turned her head, vision swimming, just as his silhouette burst into the corridor. Through Vaeronth’s blurred and flickering sight, she saw his gaze drop to her crumpled form—then snap to Malric stalking toward her. The moment Garic saw the blood on Malric’s blade, everything in him changed.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate.
“Get away from her!”
Steel rasped free. A sword. Gods, where had he gotten it?
Garic placed himself between her and death, his blade flashing up, his body shielding hers without a moment’s thought. His voice cracked—not from fear, but fury.
“You bleed her and expect to walk away?”
