Page 60 of The Shattered Rite
She stood alone for a while longer, staring at the place where he’d stood. The shadows swallowed the space easily, leaving nothing behind- no lingering warmth, no presence.
Only the book in her hands, still faintly warm from his touch.
Malric.
She turned the name over like a stone in her mind. It didn’t feel false. But it didn’t feel like the whole of him, either.
Her steps found her chambers, though she wasn’t sure how. Lost in her thoughts, she barely remembered leaving the library, let alone the hallways and turns she took to get back.
The pendant at her neck pulsed softly, as if in reassurance that Vaeronth was there to guide her.
Her quarters welcomed her like she’d been expected—the door giving way without resistance, the fire already lit. She stepped inside and only then let herself take a deep breath when the door clicked shut behind her.
Only then did her hands begin to shake.
Not from fear. Not exactly.
Malric had known her. He'd been watching her. And while his presence should have felt like danger, it hadn’t. Not quite. More like a blade held in expert hands—potentially lethal, yes, but controlled. Intentional.
She settled on the bench beside the fire, set the book before her.
The book was old. Ink faded, brittle pages.
Her heart sank. In the firelight, with her vision, she wouldn't be able to make out the words.
But as her fingers brushed the page, the ink shimmered. Just slightly. A quiet glow rose from the letters—gold and faint blue. They resolved into clarity. Not imagined. Real.
She blinked, startled, and reached for the pendant beneath her robe.
Is this you?she asked Vaeronth.
It is the room,he replied.It has a vast amount of magic and it seems to like you.
Eliryn glanced up at the lanterns, at the tall, listening shelves. “Thank you,” she said softly—to the room, to whatever old will lived in its bones.
The air seemed to smooth around her. She looked back down. Clear, sharp words stared up from the page.
For the first time in years, she read with ease.
Page after page. Names of the chosen. Where they came from. How they ended.
Some had dates. Some were crossed out. Some bore only the wordvanished.
There were sketches. Notes. Symbols she didn’t recognize.
One, in particular—a jagged triangle inked in crimson—had been circled several times. Beneath it, someone had written:
Seen on the bodies of the marked. Unknown origin.
She touched the symbol lightly. Her skin tingled.
Vaeronth?she called again.
But the dragon was silent now. Resting. Or thinking.
She leaned back, eyes fixed on the fire, the book open beside her.
Why give this to her?
