Page 80 of The Shattered Rite
But her mother’s hollow eyes said otherwise.
Eliryn’s chest seized as her grandmother stepped forward, circling like a hawk assessing weak prey.
“So this is what the line has become,” the elder woman said, voice not angry but heavy. Measured. “Half-blind. Half-formed. Shaking in the dark.”
Eliryn’s grip faltered. She felt small. So small.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered. “I never asked to be chosen.”
“And yet here you are,” her grandmother replied. “Trying to carry a legacy you barely understand. You disgrace what came before.”
The words hit harder than a blade. Not fury. Not hatred. Just cold assessment.
Eliryn’s strength cracked. Not from anger. From grief.
“I’m trying.”
Her grandmother circled slowly. Closer now. “Trying won’t keep you alive. Trying won’t lead armies. You are not strong enough. Your eyes betray you. Your grip falters. You chase prophecy like a blind moth to flame.”
“I—” Her knees hit the stone. She didn’t remember falling.
Her vision faltered again—then cleared.
And in that moment, she saw both their faces clearly: her mother, broken by sacrifice; her grandmother, a legend turned shadow.
Eliryn bowed her head. The tears came, sharp and hot and unwanted.
“I know I’m not enough,” she said hoarsely. “But I don’t have anything else. There’s no home for me in the village without you. No safety. All I have now is trying to survive these trials.”
She looked up, throat burning, eyes stinging, sword trembling in her grip.
“I didn’t leave because I wanted glory. I never wanted to be chosen. I left our home in flames because I knew I would never be returning.”
Her mother said nothing.
Her grandmother tilted her head, and for the first time, something flickered behind her obsidian eyes. Not approval. Not disdain.
Curiosity.
“I’ll never be what you were,” Eliryn whispered. “But I found my dragon. My soul-bonded. And if the world means to burn me—then let it. I will meet you both in the flames.”
Silence stretched, long and painful.
Her vision blurred again. Mist turned the world to watercolor.
When it returned—the illusions watched her not as accusers.
But as judges.
And then, her mother whispered, soft as snowfall: “Go.”
Eliryn dragged herself upright. Slowly. Painfully. Her legs shook. Her hands shook. But she stood.
“I’ll carry you anyway,” she whispered. “As weight. As warning. Not as chains.”
And she stepped forward.
The air shivered around her. Mist unraveling. Stone warming beneath her boots. Behind her, the figures cracked and faded, leaving only echoes.
