Page 68 of The Shattered Rite
She squared her shoulders and stepped forward, unflinching.
Let the mind be the battleground.
Let the fear come.
She’d burn through it.
Chapter 12: The Arena of Veils
“Illusion wears your face best when you no longer recognize yourself.”—Kalevin Marr
The light swallowed her whole.
For a moment, she floated in silence.
Then the brilliance contracted, drawing inward like a breath held too long. She landed in a circular antechamber of black stone, the air thick with old magic that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
At the chamber’s center stood a low iron pedestal, embedded in the floor. Upon it: five weapons.
Each rested on its own carved sigil. Each radiated a different kind of promise.
A curved dagger—quick and cruel.
A twin-headed spear—balanced and long.
A longbow of glasswood—its string humming softly.
A spiked mace—blunt and wet with warding runes.
And a sword—slender, dark, and silent, with no ornament save a single etched star near the hilt.
Eliryn stepped closer.
A feeling washed over her, a sense of knowing that she was supposed to choose one of the weapons as her own.
She hovered a hand over the spear, then the dagger, but her fingers paused above the sword. Taking it in her hand, it felt nearly weightless. The etched star pulsed faintly, as if it had magic that recognized her.
“This one,” she murmured.
As her fingers closed around the hilt, the pedestal vanished. The floor trembled. The far wall slid open—stone folding in on itself, revealing mirrored corridors beyond.
Do not trust your eyes,Vaeronth whispered in her mind.The illusions here are old. Hungrier than most.
Eliryn scoffed softly, tightening her grip on the hilt.
“Well, that gives me a bit of an advantage, doesn’t it?” she said dryly. “I can’t trust my eyes on a regular day.”
The pendant at her throat pulsed with warmth—not quite laughter, but close.
She stepped forward.
The trial had begun.
For a moment, there was nothing. No floor beneath her, no ceiling above. Just weightless white in all directions—soundless and still.
Then the world snapped into place.
Stone slammed beneath her feet. Walls rose around her like jagged curtains—mirror-black obsidian, towering and curved. The air thickened with heat and the iron tang of blood. Flickering shapes skittered across the mirrored surfaces, shadows caught between flame and glass.
