Page 70 of The Shattered Rite
A whisper brushed her ear, so soft it felt like breath.
She spun—just as something lunged from the wall itself.
Her blade met it mid-strike, the clash ringing in her bones. Whatever it was—a creature of glass, or shadow, or both—it recoiled from the star-etched sword. She saw flashes of a distorted face: eyes too many, mouth torn too wide.
Eliryn.Vaeronth’s voice like steel on silk.Illusion cannot bleed. If it does, it’s real.
“Noted.”
It lunged again.
She dodged, narrow, precise. Not graceful, not flawless—she was no warrior yet. But her reflexes were sharper than they had any right to be. The bond helped her now, adrenaline churning with dragonfire in her veins.
She swept the sword through its middle.
A scream—shattered glass and cracking bone—and the creature evaporated into shards of light.
Silence returned.
Eliryn stood panting, the sword steady in her shaking hand.
“Next,” she whispered, throat raw. “Come on. I’ve got too many nightmares for that to be the only one here.”
The maze answered with silence.
She moved forward again, slower this time, sword angled low, senses burning.
In her mind, Vaeronth’s voice stirred.
You are more than your fear.
She didn’t answer him.
She wasn’t ready to believe it yet.
But she caught sight of a figure ahead.
“Hello?” she called, feeling foolish instantly.
The figure turned. A tall man in a hood. Familiar.
Toofamiliar.
It was Malric.
“Not real,” she muttered.
He smiled. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in Malric’s voice. “You don’t belong here.”
“You’re not him.”
“No,” the illusion replied, stepping closer. “But we both know you want me to be.”
It lunged.
She dodged—barely—just as its face flickered: Malric, her mother, her own.
She struck. The sword moved with her, fluid and alive. The illusion shattered in a burst of ash.
