Page 51 of The Shattered Rite
No light.
No sound.
Only the lingering memory of fire.
Eliryn sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands, heart racing.
“I can’t do this.”
Vaeronth brushed a wing against her mind in comfort.
It is your fate. Your destiny. Your responsibility.
She stood.
She needed… something. Air. Distance. Control.
The room didn’t stop her.
The door unlatched the moment her palm pressed to it. The stone didn’t care whether it was morning or midnight. It only cared about what she needed.
So she walked.
Barefoot.
The sconces burned low. Shadows stretched long and spindly down the corridors, twisting in ways shadows shouldn’t.
She followed them anyway.
Not because she wanted to.
Because it was easier than standing still.
Down she went.
Lower.
Stone underfoot shifted from polished to worn, from curated to forgotten. The air changed too—thicker, carrying the scent of char and salt, of woodsmoke and… bread.
Of course.
Of course she would gravitate towards the smell of bread.
She followed the scent like a thread, rounding corners and slipping past doorways half-closed. Her robe whispered at her ankles. She didn’t know if she looked like a lost noblewoman or a ghost.
Light spilled from a cracked door.
Voices.
Quiet. Careful.
Laughter, too—not the brittle kind.
She stepped inside.
And the world froze.
The kitchens weren’t grand. They weren’t meant to be.
