Page 95 of The Shattered Rite
Garic had remembered the village names of the chosen, and had whispered them to Eliryn as each emerged alive from the trial.
Six.
And the Steward confirmed it aloud.
“Four did not return,” he said. “One was consumed by a vision he could not escape. One died of wounds earned in a chamber where his own hands turned against him. Two made it through the maze, only to lose themselves to madness upon confronting their true selves.”
He waited, letting the silence take root.
“No bodies will be retrieved. No names will be written in stone. Only those who finish the trials have their names recorded.”
“Six remain,” he reiterated, quieter now. “More than in any cohort for generations. Our caliber as a magical people is improving.”
Garic murmured under his breath, “More like the realm's magic has been dying but we've learned to fight without it.”
Eliryn didn’t comment, but she felt the heat of her dragon stir in quiet agreement.
The steward turned his attention to her then, just for a breath, as though he could sense the magic pulse from inside her.
“The third trial begins at dawn. Until then, you are to rest. No questions. No preparation. Your next task will reveal itself as all others have: without mercy.”
The Steward lifted one long-fingered hand, as if brushing invisible dust from the air. At the gesture, a door set into the far wall gave a low, resonant click and swung inward on hidden hinges. A group of guards stepped through, their footfalls measured, their armor catching the light in muted glints.
Eliryn scanned them quickly, catching a quick glimpse of who she thought was Silas.
One by one, the survivors began to drift apart. Not speaking, everyone else seemed to be reeling from the horrors of the trial.
Eliryn stayed still.
Garic lingered beside her, arms crossed loosely, his presence steady as carved stone.
“I remember the way the room looked before the first trial,” he said quietly, voice heavy with something more than fatigue. “How many of us there were.”
She kept her gaze forward, but her voice softened. “You didn’t think we’d lose this many.”
“I didn’t think we’d drop to half before the second trial even finished,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Thought maybe the first would cull the weak. Not everyone.”
A silence stretched. Then, quieter: “Maybe it culled the unlucky instead.”
Eliryn’s throat tightened.
“Did you know the other warrior? The one you said was from Tarn's Hill?” she asked, needing words to keep the weight from crushing her.
Garic frowned, his gaze distant as he followed the shadows of the vanished survivors. “No. But I saw the way he moved. He was probably someone of high rank from within their army.”
She blinked. “They have their own army?”
“Poor bastards raise their young with knives in their teeth just to keep the crabs off the grain stores,” Garic muttered, lips twitching in grim humor.
She huffed, just a breath of laughter. “Sounds charming.”
“They’re tough. Not many survive long enough to serve on the front lines.”
“And you said the woman was from Stormthresh?”
“Yes, another physical threat.” Garic answered after a beat, his voice more thoughtful. “Tide-priests send their young to the blackwaters to train. Militants. Half warriors, half zealots. They don’t fight fair. They fight to win.”
Eliryn nodded faintly as she watched the last of the other figures disappear down their separate hallways. Soon there would be no one left to count, and Eliryn thought it was important that she remember who they were.
