Page 99 of The Shattered Rite
I know,Vaeronth murmured, voice like heat banked low.Rest now, little flame. Your heart still smolders. Let the room hold you a while. When the next trial comes, I will call you.
When she finally rose, the room had already laid out a robe in place of her worn leathers; soft, lined with deep crimson threading, the color of volcanic rock at twilight. Loose trousers. A thick tunic. Clothes for comfort, not ceremony.
As she dressed, she noticed something else had changed: the walls bore new markings. Motifs of wings and firelight etched above the hearth, growing more vivid when she looked at them directly.
She sat by the fire after, curled in one of the wide, deep chairs that hadn’t been there before. A mug of something hot and herbal steamed beside her hand. It tasted like pine and honey. She couldn't decide if she felt more like a dragonrider or a wayward stray someone had dragged in from the cold. Maybe she was both.
She drank in slow sips, the warmth of the pine and honey seeping into her bones. The room was still, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint pulse of light in the carved wings above it.
Eliryn let her gaze drift over the shifting glow on the walls. She didn’t think of what lay ahead. Not yet. Not of magic, or monsters, or men who wore too many faces.
For now, there was only this breath. This fire. And the quiet promise that when the next trial came, she would rise to meet it.
Chapter 16: Ash and Hunger
“Some hungers are born in the body. Others in the silence that follows survival.”—Aremond Thorne, former captain of the Crown Guard, executed for sedition
Eliryn woke to the firelight and the low murmur of her own breath.
The warmth had sunk deep into her bones, softening the tension in her back, the quiet ache still lingering behind her ribs. Her tunic, thick, brushed cotton with sleeves that fell past her knuckles, smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. The loose trousers she wore matched it, drawn tight at her hips with a simple ribbon cord. It wasn’t only finery, but comfort, and tonight, comfort meant more than rest.
The room, sensing her motion, stirred slightly, coals blooming deeper in the hearth, a pillow adjusting itself behind her in the chair.
Her stomach groaned loudly with a long, hollow longing.
The kind that had nothing to do with magic or power or proving she still belonged in the world of the living. This hunger was simple.
She wanted bread. Stew. Something she could bite into, hold between her hands.
She glanced toward the center of the room, expecting a tray to appear, as it often did when the room sensed her needs. But this time, nothing appeared.
Eliryn tilted her head slightly, amused.
“Decided not to mother me tonight?” she murmured to the stone walls.
They remained silent, warm and golden.
She stood, stretching her arms overhead, joints cracking softly. A long exhale left her lips. Then—
You have time.
Vaeronth’s voice, low and steady, coiled gently into her mind.
“Time for what?”
Time to move as you please. To choose conversation and human company. Go to the kitchens, little flame. Let the hearth feed you, not the stone. You’ve earned that.
She smiled faintly, fingers brushing her pendant.
“Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
You don’t. But I know it pleases you to hear it.
Her smile widened, just a little, as she pulled on the heavier coat hanging near the door—one the room had conjured in anticipation of her departure. It had high shoulders and deep pockets. She liked it instantly as it swallowed her form.
Outside her chamber, the halls were quiet. Low torches lit the way in flickering gold and blue.
And somewhere below, kitchens waited. Bread. Salt. Stew. And, if she was lucky, the quiet warmth of familiar faces.
