Page 67 of The Shattered Rite
This room knows your kind,Vaeronth murmured.It remembers every trial-taker who survived. And every one who did not.
At the center stood a pedestal of obsidian, a single scroll resting atop it. No guards. No attendants. Just stone, time, and judgment.
She approached carefully.
The moment her fingers brushed the scroll, it unfurled. A deep voice—not Vaeronth’s—rang through the chamber:
“Trial Two: The Arena of Veils. You shall face illusion and blood. See through the false, strike through the real. There is no mercy within. Only reflection and reckoning.”
The scroll snapped shut.
“Veils,” she murmured, uneasy. “Illusion magic?”
Likely,Vaeronth said. The mind is the cruelest battlefield. If they cannot break your body, they will fracture your will.
A mirror slid into view from the stone wall. Its surface gleamed like water, so flawless it unnerved her. Her reflectionstared back—tall, strong, clothed in black. Harder. Sharper. A stranger who might survive.
She looked away.
But the reflection didn’t turn.
A breath caught in her throat. When she looked back again, it matched her movements once more—too smoothly.
She turned toward the corner, where a stone basin filled silently with glowing water. Without hesitation, she dipped her hands in. Warm. Luminous. It left a shimmer on her skin like moonlight.
A final boon,Vaeronth said.Memory-threaded waters. To help hold onto what is real.
“Will it be enough?” she asked, drying her fingers on her thighs.
Only if you trust yourself more than your fear.
She looked down at her hands—the ones that had once mended broken bones and soothed fevers. She hadn't prepared for her destiny like she should have.
No weapons. No map. Only her, her dragon, and the hollow certainty that the next battle wasn’t just physical—it would be fought inside her mind.
“This is going to suck,” she muttered under her breath.
A quiet rumble stirred in her mind.
That’s the spirit,Vaeronth said dryly.
She almost smiled. Almost.
Fear pressed against her like a second skin. Not just the fear of death, but the deeper fear: of being small again. Of not being enough.
She closed her eyes. Felt the thrum of the bond. Vaeronth’s steady presence, curled around her mind like smoke and steel.
The chime sounded overhead—low and resonant, like a bell tolling for something long dead.
The mirror split.
Light fractured in the doorway beyond. Flickering. Waiting.
Eliryn flexed her hands. The glow of her bondmarks pulsed once, steady and sure.
“They’re going to regret putting me through this,” she said softly.
Make them.Vaeronth answered.
