Page 57 of The Shattered Rite
I know,came the calm voice of the dragon.Eyes follow you. But no blades are drawn—yet.
“Comforting,” she muttered.
At last, she came upon a high archway, its iron-banded doors half open. Lanterns glowed within—and beyond them… books. Hundreds, maybe thousands, lining dark oak shelves that rose endlessly toward the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, old leather, and candle wax.
Eliryn stepped inside, tension sliding off her shoulders like a poorly-fitted cloak. “Thank the gods,” she whispered. “A room that keeps its violence pressed between pages.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
She spun, pulse lurching.
A man waited at the end of the aisle, shadow holding to him the way cloth holds a crease. He didn’t lean so much asoccupythe space—still in the way weapons are still.
Lantern light found him reluctantly. Dark hair, cut close but unruly at the collar. A clean jaw with the faintest pale linealong it—almost a scar, if you knew how to read one. His build read like a blade: lean, balanced, made to move only when it mattered. The coat was matte charcoal, tailored to disappear; the fall of it hinted at weight near the hip that wasn’t fabric. Hands bare. Knuckles disciplined, palms callused. Boots that made no sound on stone. He carried the faint scent of leather and cold air—the smell of rooftops.
His eyes—gray-green—had the flat patience of something that hunts at dusk.
Eliryn stopped just inside the threshold. She hadn’t reached for a book; she had counted exits. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know you counted the doors before you counted the shelves,” he said, stepping just far enough into the light to be a choice.
“You don’t sound like a librarian.”
“I’m not.”
“Scholar?”
“No.”
“Hunter, then.” Her tone didn’t rise at the end. Statement, not guess.
“Some nights.”
“Is this one of them?”
“If it were,” he said mildly, “we wouldn’t be speaking.”
“Hmm...”
Silence opened between them. Not empty—measured. She watched for tells and found none. Even his half-smile looked stored rather than spontaneous, a thing he could sheathe.
Her skin prickled. “You’ve been following me.”
“Observing,” he corrected again. “There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
He smiled at that. “Well. You’re standing rather defensively.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice with that lately.”
“I noticed.”
The easy way he said it unnerved her more than any threat could have.
“You were with the guards,” she said suddenly, realization sparking. “The one at the back. You didn’t speak much.”
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something darker.
