Page 4 of The Shattered Rite
That silenced her. Because they did both know.
Her mother had been preparing for this night long before Eliryn realized it. Little things, hidden in plain sight: keeping the black pendant polished, showing Eliryn how to braiddragonrider knots into her hair, and the stories—always the stories. Tales of the Flame’s choosing, of sovereigns forged in trial, of the Sightless Prophecy whispered in ages past.
It happened often—her mother waking in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and shaking, whispering truths she could scarcely bear to speak aloud. Her own death, painted in fractured glimpses: blood, cold iron, and Eliryn’s arms catching her as the world slipped away.
And after the vision of her death came the other vision, the one that tied it all together: the prophecy. Eliryn’s future braided with fire and ash. A rider without sight. A name spoken by the Flame.
Eliryn had tried not to believe. She had told herself that her mother’s visions were only dreams, or else mistakes in the reading. Because if the prophecy was real, then so was the ending.
But the moment her name had burned in light above the square, something in her had settled. A gravity, as if a door she hadn’t realized was closed had swung wide—and locked behind her.
So now here they were. On the edge of that ending.
“You could run,” Eliryn whispered. “We could both run. Take the pendant. Leave the trials behind.”
Her mother smiled, tired and sad and a little proud. “The Flame would find you again. And you’d go anyway. Because it’s in you, Eliryn. The blood. The call. You’ve already started to hear it.”
Eliryn thought of the quiet moments in recent months—how the wind sometimes carried voices she couldn’t quite make out, how the hum in her pendant deepened when she stood near the ridge. She had chalked it up to imagination. But maybe… maybe not.
She sank into the seat beside her mother, pressing her temple to her shoulder.
“Maybe I would have,” she murmured. “But not without you.”
Her mother’s hand came to rest over her own. Thin. Weathered. Steady.
“You won’t be without me,” she said softly. “Not ever. When the dragons flew, riders carried the spirits of those who came before them. You’ll carry me the same way.”
The wind outside moaned against the door like a warning.
Her mother stood slowly, joints stiff, wincing as she pressed her hands to her lower back. “It’s time.”
Eliryn rose too, trembling. “Stay until dawn,” she said. “You don’t have to leave just yet.”
“I wish I could.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then her mother reached out and clasped the pendant around Eliryn’s neck—fingers lingering on the stone.
“This will burn, before the end,” she said. “Don’t be afraid of where it leads you.”
Eliryn huffed—just barely. “That’s not ominous at all, thanks.”
The door creaked open. The wind swept in—biting and wild.
Neither of them said goodbye.
Because they had already mourned what was coming.
The house was too quiet.
The hearth had burned down to coals, their glow a faint, uneven heartbeat in the dark. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and unmoving, as if the air itself had forgotten how to stir. Outside, the wind carried the brittle hush of pre-dawn—a silence not born of peace, but of waiting.
Eliryn sat alone at the wooden table, her legs curled beneath her, spine pressed against the chair back as though holding herself upright took too much effort. Her skin prickled despite the fire’s warmth, like even her body knew her mother wasn’t coming back.
Sleep hadn’t even tried to find her. Each moment felt like a thread pulling taut, drawing tighter and tighter toward a knot she could not untangle.
Her mother had walked out into the dark nearly four hours ago. She should’ve been back by now. But Eliryn knew—they both knew—that she wouldn’t return whole.
