Page 88 of The Shattered Rite
Vaeronth’s voice curled in her mind, dry.People will fear what they do not understand.
She flicked her eyes toward the steward.He should be terrified then.
“So,” she said softly to the steward, shifting her stance like someone preparing for a punch, “you’re afraid of dragonblood.”
“I am not afraid,” he replied too quickly.
“Right. That’s why you’re holding that bell like it’s going to save your life.”
The steward’s knuckles whitened subtly on the bell handle.
“If you’re going to call for backup,” she added, “you should do it now. Before my cursed blood decides to do something unexpected.”
Vaeronth rumbled.You are enjoying this far too much.
“I have to get my entertainment somewhere,” she muttered.
The steward didn’t answer. Not at first.
“I’ve read every account of the dragonriders that exists,” he said finally. “And every account agrees on one thing: the deeper the bond, the more... inhuman the rider becomes.”
“Inhuman,” she echoed, rolling the word on her tongue like something unfamiliar. “Huh.”
She flexed her fingers once on the sword's hilt, then consciously forced them to relax. “Is that what you see when you look at me? Something inhuman?”
“I see someone without full sight who has survived the second trial,” he said tightly. “And I wonder how.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”
A beat of silence. Then she smiled, small and sharp.
“Maybe it’s all the running. I'm getting stronger.”
Vaeronth huffed in her mind, half exasperation, half fondness.Or perhaps you simply refuse to die.
“I prefer my version.”
The steward’s lips thinned further, understanding that she was probably speaking with her dragon.
“Time will decide,” he said coldly.
She wondered if he realized how pitiful he looked wearing his fear so obviously.
Before she could press further, the gate behind her groaned. Footsteps echoed—heavy, grounded, purposeful.
She turned.
And though her muscles tightened automatically, she said, mostly to herself—
“If it’s another trial, I swear I’m sitting this one out.”
You won’t,Vaeronth said, far too knowingly.
She sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”
But her fingers stayed tight on her sword anyway.
A man emerged from mist: tall, thick-shouldered, with scars like old maps across his arms. His face was lined with sun and blood and time. He carried no weapon now, but Eliryn didn’t doubt he could make one from anything at hand. He moved like someone who had learned to survive by force, not finesse.
