Page 2 of The Shattered Rite
The Sovereign leans forward on his throne, bones aching beneath opulent threads.
Below, the assassin kneels in silence—a ghost in the shape of a man.
“You know of the prophecy,” the Sovereign murmurs.
His voice rasps but carries the weight of a tested blade. “The Flame whispers of a Dragonrider. A child of ash. A name without sight. One who will rise not through bloodshed, but through something older. Something forgotten.”
He spits.
“Blindness dressed as vision. Mercy dressed as power. Fool’s fire.”
He stands with effort, towering over the silent killer.
“I want her alive long enough for the world to see her rise.”
He steps down from the dais, takes the assassin’s face in one withered, calloused hand.
“Then I want her broken.”
A smile, cruel and thin.
“Let her fall screaming from the back of the last dragon if she dares to take flight. Let her bones teach the people what comes of hope.”
The assassin gives no reply.
He turns. Disappears into the shadows.
Far from the dying throne, in a vale beaten hollow by unending winds, a girl marked by prophecy dreams of wings to carry her beyond ruin, and of flames that whisper her name as they rise to swallow the sky.
And the ancient gods watch.
Chapter 1: Called by Flame
"The Flame answers not to time, but to thread. What has been woven must one day burn."—Spoken Legend, Dragonrider Chronicles
By the time the wind carried the first whispers of the prophecy, magic was already dying, and Eliryn was already going blind.
The scent of wild herbs and fresh earth filled the cottage, wrapping around Eliryn like a memory she didn’t want to forget. The aroma carried more than comfort—it carried history. These were the same herbs her mother had crushed into poultices when Eliryn scraped her knees as a child, the same bundles that once hung in her cradle to “keep the dark dreams out.” Her mother had said that in the old days, dragonriders carried theseherbs in their saddlebags, a charm against the cold above the clouds.
She sat by the window—though “seeing” was a word she used loosely now. What vision she had left was dimmed, more suggestion than sight. The outlines of the world slipped through her grasp like smoke. She could make out the light shifting against the wall, the shadow of a branch moving in the wind, but never enough to feel certain of anything she saw.
Her fingers traced the smooth curve of a salve jar. The cool clay steadied her, grounding her in the moment, even as the rest of her began to unravel. Her mother had made this jar years ago, clay pulled from the riverbank in a spring flood. “It will last longer than I will,” she had said with a smile at the time. Eliryn hadn’t understood the weight of those words back then.
Outside, the village stirred with tension. Voices rose in anxious clusters, feet shuffled along the packed-dirt paths. The trials were nearly upon them, and the air buzzed with fear thinly disguised as preparation. Somewhere, a cartwheel rattled over cobblestones, and she imagined faces tight with suspicion, eyes quick to slide away from the cottage if they happened to glance this direction.
“Why me?” she whispered, not to be answered. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. It never felt any less hollow.
A wooden board creaked behind her, the familiar weight of her mother’s step. “They believe it’s a death sentence,” her voice cracked gently, “but I see more than they ever could.”
Eliryn didn’t turn, but her shoulders lowered, just slightly. The words were familiar—too familiar. Her mother had been telling her she was “meant for more” since she was old enough to sit at the table and listen to bedtime stories. But they had never felt real enough to hold on to.
“You’ve said that before,” Eliryn murmured. “I used to think it was just… comfort.”
Her mother crossed the room, the scent of lavender and pine drifting with her. She settled beside Eliryn, one hand finding hers. “It’s more than comfort, Eliryn. I’ve seen it. The prophecy has been waiting for its thread to be pulled. I knew before you even drew your first breath.”
Eliryn said nothing. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against the back of her mother’s knuckles.
“Our line carries gifts,” her mother continued softly. “You know that. Dragonrider blood did not vanish just because the dragons did. But sometimes, gifts bloom in strange ways.”
