Page 184 of The Shattered Rite
Chapter 29: The Weight of Flame
“In times of unrest, a crown is not a symbol of honor but a mark upon the hunted.”—Anonymous, Scribe of the Crown
Eliryn moved through the castle like a phantom in someone else’s dream.
Malric’s hand remained around hers; not tight, not forceful, but impossibly steady. His footsteps were swift but never hurried. As if he knew exactly how much time they had before something worse caught up to them.
She tried to see.
Tried to focus.
Vaeronth’s vision was still with her, tethered like a second heartbeat, but it was hazy, streaked with smoke and slashed with shifting shadows. Every now and then, an image would sharpen: the glint of blood on polished stone, the flash of movement downthe hall as they passed, a banner torn in half and dragged across the floor.
But mostly it was fog. Panic. The dragon’s perception blurred by chaos and magic.
I can’t—she thought.I can’t make sense of it.
Try,Vaeronth whispered, and there was strain in him too.Breathe. Let me in deeper.
She sucked in air. The scent of iron and ash scraped her throat.
“I don’t know where we are,” she murmured aloud. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“You don’t need to,” Malric said. His voice was low, almost gentle. “Only that I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
She wanted to argue. To ask who had sent him, who he truly served, if he was a part of the chaos they had just escaped. But her legs were unsteady, her vision still broken, and every step behind him felt like the only thing keeping her upright. The echo of the crowd was distant now, replaced by the sound of doors slamming shut, armored boots clanging, the hiss of fire where it shouldn’t be.
This was not just an uprising.
This was apurge.
A memory broke through: the Flame twisting toward her chest, naming her. That impossible heat that hadn’t burned, hadn’t hurt, but still felt like she was being marked somehow.
Why me?
She stumbled. Malric caught her elbow before she could fall.
“Down here,” he said.
She followed him through a narrow servant’s corridor, the walls sweating with old steam. There was no light, only what Vaeronth could see, shapes flickering in and out of clarity like reflections on water. The dragon was struggling. The bond fraying under pressure neither of them understood.
We are not alone,Vaeronth growled suddenly.Behind us.
Eliryn twisted her head. “Someone’s coming.”
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “Don’t stop.”
She didn’t.
But with every step, the weight of the Flame’s choosing pressed heavier on her chest. Not pride. Not even awe. Justdread.
She definitely didn't want the throne or the responsibility that came with it.
The corridor narrowed.
Their footsteps echoed differently here—duller, swallowed by stone. Eliryn’s fingers skimmed the wall to her right, half for balance, half for orientation. Vaeronth’s vision was like glass covered in dew: fractured, shifting, nothing certain.
“Why now?” she asked, breath hitching. “Why would they attack during the Rite?”
