Page 117 of The Shattered Rite
And she'd handed hers out like it meant nothing.
Foolish. Reckless.
But now, watching her move through the trial course, bloodied and breathless, he wasn't so sure.
She hesitated before danger. She flinched before illusions. He thought it caution. Discipline. Maybe fear. He hadn’t yet realized she was losing her sight. To him, it simply looked like patience. Calculation.
But whatever it was—she kept moving.
He hated that he admired it.
And hated more that he watched her like he wanted to understand. Like understanding would grant him control.
She was becoming something else. Not just a girl. Not just a competitor. A story already half-formed. A symbol.
And symbols were harder to kill.
He saw the danger now. Saw it as clearly as the blood on her hands. When the arena shifted against her, she didn’t fight harder. She fought smarter.
More than that, standing on the ledge, her breath ragged, her body broken, she'd reached back. Offered her support to the old fighter from Stonefell. Risked herself for someone who didn’t matter.
Why?
Malric’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His ring burned cold against his skin. Heavy. Restless. It always felt wrong when she was near.
And yet when he watched her, part of him wondered what her hand would feel like, if she offered it to him.
He swallowed, hard.
The dragonrider had what people followed. Not orders. Not fear.
Integrity.
He breathed out, slow and sharp, forcing control back into his body.
“She’d be good for us," he whispered. "Too good.”
And he despised himself for meaning it.
Because he already knew what his father would say. What the council would demand.
Eliryn—this fragile, reckless woman who wasn’t yet anything at all—was a threat. Not because of her strength. But because of her restraint. Her mercy.
Because she could be loved.
People would follow her.
That terrified men like his father.
Malric turned from the basin, though her image chased him like hunger. His jaw locked. The scent of smoke and blood clung to him.
She would have to survive far worse than a trial.
And he didn’t yet know whether he’d help her do it—or be the one who stopped her.
The corridor outside was dim. The sconces guttered low, the air thick as velvet. Malric moved like a shadow, silk-smooth and silent, the gold cuffs at his wrists catching faint light.
He didn’t want to go to the upper tower.
