Page 46 of The Shattered Rite
The dragon.
Malric drew deeper into the stone. Something older than the castle was taking his measure and filing him under watch.
He thought about the dragonrider, and about the unrest that bubbled up from the deep wells of the citadel. The two things happening at once were not coincidence.
Her survival wasn’t just dangerous. It was instructive.
The sovereign’s voice slid back into his ear, silk over a blade:
“Let her be the last. Let her watch the others fall. Let her heart burn before her body does. That is how you end rebellion.”
Malric filed the words and refocused.
The rider moved. Each step was chosen, as if she expected the floor to argue and intended to win.
He slipped from his niche. Invisibility slid over him like a habit. Even without it, he knew how not to be seen. The charm only taught the world to forget where to look.
He followed closer than most would dare.
Torchlight wrote broken lines along rune-cut pillars. The enchantments below the flagstones hummed like old blood. Some halls smelled of oil and iron; this one breathed lichen and stone after rain. He kept to the seam between light and dark. Boots quiet. Breath quieter.
Ahead, he watched as his fixation cradled the pendant at her throat. Her touch was answered with a small pulse. She tilted her head a fraction, not enough for anyone else to notice.
She must feel me.
Not with her eyes. With whatever listens when the eyes begin to fail.
They reached a door heavy with wards. Glyphs cut deep, inlaid with metal that refused to shine. Privacy. Protection. Sovereign claim. And something threaded throughout that felt like comfort.
The trial guard stood aside and tried not to ponder. The rider paused—a heartbeat too long—reading the cuts and seams of her surroundings with her face turned just enough to make Malric’s pulse change. Then she stepped forward and the door took her in without a sound.
The air tightened. Light sharpened to a thinner edge. His invisibility wrinkled along its margin as the room's ward tasted him and decided he was not to its liking.
Living chambers set into the castle’s spine. No key. No window. No posted guard. The room learned its occupant and gave back what it decided they needed. Warmth, light, food, safety.
She had one now.
He hovered a hand near the door's seam. The air there had a clean bite, the sort of heat that doesn’t make smoke. A ward for melting. Quiet. Efficient. He approved of the craftsmanship. He did not approve of what it did to his hand when he imagined pushing through.
He pictured what the room might give her. Not sentiment. Utility. Heat that didn’t scorch. Water that ran clear. A bed that let the body unclench without turning soft. The fantasy offended him. It also did something else he didn’t want to name.
He’d killed kings on their thrones. Priests at their altars. Heirs before their voices changed. He knew how to end a problem before it learned to breathe properly. He had no room in him for wanting.
And yet.
He wanted to see her again.
Not the spectacle—the title, the flinch of guards, the way the air thinned around her. He wanted the unguarded. How she slept. Whether the marks dulled in rest or burned brighter when she laughed.
The dragon brushed him again. A low note. A weight shifting somewhere inside the walls and inside his skull at the same time. Not quite warning. Maybe amusement. Predators recognize each other.
You don’t own her,he thought toward the weight. He didn’t decide whether he was speaking to beast or king.
He let his hand fall. His palm tingled as if he’d offered it to a forge and changed his mind at the last sane moment.
He moved back into the corridor. The castle adjusted around him, the way old buildings do when they decide you’re a piece of furniture that won’t leave. He passed two guards who pretended they weren’t afraid and a steward with a new scar that hadn’t been there yesterday. Three banners had been replaced since last night; the stitching showed temper. The kingdom was rearranging itself without the courtesy of a warning.
He liked patterns when they held. He liked them better when they broke in ways he could use.
