Page 55 of The Shattered Rite
Reven cut her off with a sharp hiss. His eyes darted to the archway that led back into the main hall, as if expecting shadows to peel free and listen.
“Rumors can get you hanged,” he muttered.
Eliryn studied his face. “If I’m going to survive this place, I need to know what I'm up against.”
Marta shifted her weight, rubbing her palms against her apron. “Some say the trials are not meant to test you. Not truly. They’re meant to break you down until you’re easy to shape.”
Nim’s voice was barely a whisper. “Or until there’s nothing left.”
Silence settled over the kitchen. A pot bubbled behind them, the only sound.
Eliryn felt the press of unseen eyes again, that prickling awareness crawling up her spine.
“What happens to the ones who survive?” she asked.
No one answered her right away.
Finally, Reven looked up. His expression was something between pity and resignation.
“They don’t come back the same,” he said. “If they come back at all.”
Eliryn nodded solemnly, sensing that her time here in the kitchens tonight was coming to an end. “Thank you. For your honesty. And your company.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” said Reven.
As she turned to go, Nim called out, “Eliryn?”
She turned.
“You’ll come back and tell us more about your dragon?”
She smiled. “I would like that very much.”
She walked back toward her chambers, the pendant at her chest humming with warmth, and Vaeronth’s voice in her mind was soft with approval.
Well done, Dragonrider. Connection is a quieter power—but no less fierce.
Interlude 3: Malric
“The castle keeps the shapes of those it favors. So do men.”—Mason’s Notes from the Spine of Vireth
Something vast shifted in the castle’s spine, and he knew she’d left the safety of her room.
Not sound. Not sight. A pressure change—the way air thins before a storm. The wards that had been curled tight around her eased; the weight he’d come to recognize—dragon, bond, inevitability—moved.
He went after it.
Height by habit: lintel, beam, the narrow seam where chimney met wall. Invisibility slid over him like a second posture. The world forgot to notice he existed.
The kitchens were warm and ordinary. Banked fires. Stone damp with steam. Knives asleep in their racks. He’d slit throatsin rooms with better stories. Bread, and the quiet barter of people counting coins one by one—none of it mattered.
He almost left.
Then she spoke her name.
“I’m Eliryn of Lirin’s Edge. My dragon is Vaeronth, the Endbringer.”
The rafter under his hand stopped being wood. It became a grip.
