Page 52 of The Shattered Rite
They were real.
Stone walls. Fires banked low. Flour dusted over every surface. A pot of something thick and spiced simmered over coals.
And every pair of eyes snapped toward her the moment she entered.
Two guards near the back reached for their weapons.
She understood why.
She would’ve done the same.
Her hair hung in damp curls over her shoulders. Her robe shimmered faintly, too fine for anyone from the lower wings. The marks on her skin glowed softly, tracing her throat, her collarbones, her wrists.
And her eyes…
Gods.
Her eyes probably weren’t human anymore.
Palms open, peace offered. “Forgive me. The bread called, and I lack the will to refuse.”
A pause. “I used to be better at not frightening people.”
That earned a beat of stillness.
Then—slowly—an older woman resumed kneading dough.
“You’re one of them,” the woman said. Not a question.
“I am.”
“The Dragonrider?”
“I suppose.”
Another pause.
Eliryn hesitated, then added quietly, “Though right now, I feel more like a starving woman who woke up in enemy territory.”
Silence cracked.
A soft, cautious clearing throat from the corner.
A boy—sixteen, maybe—stared at her with wide, frightened eyes.
“But you’re… polite.”
Eliryn’s lips curved. “Should I not be?”
The boy shrugged helplessly.
Someone whispered, “Her eyes glow.”
“Of course they do,” muttered a cook.
“But it’s not… bad,” the boy said, glancing around as if waiting for someone to argue. “It’s just… bright.”
Another voice: “The tattoos move.”
