Page 100 of The Shattered Rite
She took her first step, boots silent against ancient stone.
The halls of the Castle Othren were quiet this late, lit by torches that burned low with enchanted blue and gold flame. No footsteps echoed. No guards on patrol. The quiet after the second trial had settled thickly across the stone like mist.
She blinked slowly as she walked, rubbing at her temple. Her eyes were worse tonight, only blurred shapes and shifting warmths of color. Pale stone, gold flame, the deep navy smear of night through the distant windows. Her vision wavered with every turn, but she didn’t need it. She counted steps. Remembered patterns in the wall. Trusted the scent of yeast and spice to pull her forward.
She reached the stairwell by memory, one hand on the carved banister, and descended toward the kitchens.
Warmth met her halfway down. Real warmth from oven heat and rising dough and the sharp tang of herbs cut fresh from someone’s garden.
The kitchen doors were already open in welcome.
She stepped through the threshold and paused, blinking into the firelight.
There he was.
Silas.
He stood near the great hearth, one sleeve pushed back, a mug in his hand. Steam curled from the cup like mist from mountain stone. His armor was gone, in its place just a simple tunic and worn trousers now, his dark hair mussed like he’d run one hand through it too many times.
Eliryn’s breath caught for a moment she didn’t care to name. He looked… ordinary. And in this castle, that was something rare enough to feel like safety.
“Didn’t realize this place took dinner reservations,” she said lightly, stepping further inside.
Silas glanced up, and the weariness in his face broke like morning sun. “Didn’t realize dragonriders hunted kitchens after midnight.”
She folded her arms, feeling almost out of place in the doorway. “When you said you would be stationed near the kitchens I didn’t realize that meant you’d be here hanging out.”
“Kitchen duty,” he said with a crooked little smile. “Better than standing around waiting for the next bell to ring. And…sometimes easier to pretend things are normal.”
She let out a soft breath, tension unspooling from her shoulders. “Does this count as normal for you?”
He glanced around at the flour-dusted counters and bubbling pots. “Close enough.” His eyes returned to her. “You look… better. Not that you looked—” He caught himself, a faint flush rising to his cheek. “Just… more at ease.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “I’m not sure anyone’s at ease in this place. But I’ll take the compliment.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. “I wasn’t sure if you’d… well. I’m glad you’re here.”
Something quiet passed between them, like recognition of how little either of them knew about the other, and how now was the opportunity for that to change.
She nodded toward the simmering pot. “My stomach made sounds more frightening than the Undermire. Figured I should probably feed the monster some stew.”
He let out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s probably the best reason to be out of bed.”
“Mhmm. That’s me. Practical.”
She hadn’t meant to stare, but out of uniform he was suddenlyhuman—just a linen shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled to scarred forearms. The rest of the room softened at the edges—not her failing sight, but the unwisely pleasant shock of him like this.
“And practical is good,” he said with an easy smile. “Especially if it means you’ll sit for a while. Let someone else worry about what comes next.”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “For tonight.”
He tipped his chin toward the hearth. “Starting with Marta.”
Only then did Eliryn register the silver-haired cook by the kettle, flour dust bright on her hands.
Marta grinned and gestured to the pot near the back hearth. “Bowls are on the shelf, love.
Eliryn stepped past him, the warm smells wrapping around her like a cloak. She felt the hush of the room settle over her, simple and nonthreatening, a softness she hadn’t known she missed.
