Page 187 of The Shattered Rite
He was saving her.
Vaeronth…
His voice cut through like steel:He has a blade. It’s drawn. You need to listen to me. You are not safe.
She heard it now—the sound she’d missed before. Steel sliding against leather. Breath whispering over a blade’s edge.
“I can make it quick,” Malric murmured, and gods, he almost sounded tender. “If you stay still.”
Her breath fractured. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he breathed, “that the Rite was never meant to end with a dragonrider crowned. You were never meant to survive. You’re prophecy made flesh, Eliryn. A prophecy that needs to be corrected.”
A step back. Then two.
Her hand scraped the stone wall.
Vaeronth!she cried.Please—
Focus,he snapped.You are not blind. Not anymore. Trust me. Hold still—let me show you.
Eliryn gasped. And then—clarity. A sudden burst of stolen vision as Vaeronth forced his senses through her failing mind. The world came into burning focus: everything painted in blue flame and edged in terror, but clear.
And there he was.
Malric.
Only a pace away.
Blade drawn. Breath steady.
Face carved in grief that felt practiced.
He moved.
So did she.
Not fast enough.
His knife sliced low instead of high. The blade bit deep—through the silk of her dress, through skin, through muscle.
A brutal, wet sound.
Her body folded.
The pain was instant and total. A sharp, burning line just beneath her ribs. She couldn’t tell if it was shallow or mortal. Couldn’t tell anything past the agony.
Her knees hit the stone. She dropped.
One hand clutched the wound, hot blood spilling between her fingers. Her other hand scrabbled uselessly against the wall behind her.
Her lungs wouldn’t work.
She looked up.
Malric just watched her.
Not panicked.
