Page 38 of The Shattered Rite
He followed her every move, storing each detail like a thief cataloging stolen treasure. The faint tilt of her chin. The way the air seemed to thin in her wake. The ghost of heat that brushed his skin though she never came near him.
When she disappeared into the stairwell’s shadow, he stayed crouched among the stone ribs above, unmoving.
It wasn’t until long after her footsteps faded that he realized his hands had curled into fists—tight enough to ache.
This was the woman the prophecy spoke about. The one he had been ordered to break.
To burn.
To leave hollow.
He licked his teeth, the taste of iron sharp in his mouth.
If he was the fire, she was the storm.
And storms… were not so easily tamed.
Chapter 8: The Living and the Leashed
“Sometimes the castle changes its halls to protect what it fears.”—Anonymous guard of the North Wing
The silence in the Hall of Holding was brittle as glass.
Eliryn's ragged clothes clung to her frame—where steel had once protected her, only the script of flame now remained, etched into her skin like holy writ. She willed her eyes to cooperate with her, wanting to see the others who had survived.
She figured she was younger than most here, though she was nearing her twenty-seventh year. There was a boy with copper hair, who seemed impossibly young, far less blemished by what was undoubtedly a lavish life.
Across the room, someone shifted—a grizzled warrior whose frame looked carved from granite. He was perhaps twenty years older than her, with a beard dusted in gray and arms thick withold scars; undoubtedly a veteran of countless battles. His eyes were dark, unreadable, set in a face that had seen siege and slaughter, and likely caused both. He watched her like one might watch a weapon being forged—equal parts interest and caution.
Eliryn started scanning the room now, taking note of the other survivors. There was another woman, tall and wiry, perhaps just past thirty, hunched over someone’s leg, trying to stabilize a broken bone with a length of belt. Nearby, others lay on the ground in a messy heap of bloodied bodies, their asynchronous breaths making it hard to guess exactly how many were left.
She couldfeeltheir pain. The healer in her flinched with every shallow breath, every shudder from broken ribs or unseen wounds. Her fingers twitched. Memories of poultices, of pressure, of whispered words meant to pull the dying back from the brink.
The healer in her still fought for control.
But she did not move. She wasn't allowed to.
Do not reach for them.
The voice of her dragon came from low in her mind, coiled like smoke in her ribs.
They do not see a healer anymore. They see power. Keep it.
She swallowed the instinct. It hurt more than she expected. But he was right. Any show of softness now would only confuse them—or worse, make her seemmortalagain.
Then—footsteps.
The hush of the hall deepened into tension as the door at the far end of the chamber groaned open. The steward entered, flanked by two silent wardens. His robes were pristine, untouched by the night’s horrors, but when his gaze found Eliryn—he faltered.
Just for a moment.
But she noticed it.
His breath caught. His expression cracked, paling like wax under heat. His eyes widened, and in them she saw not curiosity but recognition.Maybe a flash of fear.
And from within his obsidian vessel, Vaeronth purred.
Good. Let them fear.
