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“Princess,” Manem muttered, his deep baritone voice muffled by the thick paste in his mouth. “This black brick... this Hershey substance. It is a masterpiece. It is about the only good-tasting food these self-absorbed mortals have manufactured.”

A loud, breathless laugh erupted from my throat. A real, uninhibited laugh that cut straight through the heavy weight of the Dagda-Fae timeline.

“Moons bless you, Manem,” I laughed, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe for support as my stomach pained from smiling. “You’ve consumed enough sugar to fuel a wyld-beast division. I cannot wait to see you hit a sugar crash in three hours. You’re going to be entirely useless.”

“I am vigilant,” Manem insisted forcefully, his jaw moving at double speed as he reached into a cardboard box for a powdered donut, dusting his dark canvas pants with white flour. “My reflexes are heightened.”

Caspian sat on the edge of the adjacent double bed, his heavy boots off, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead as he watched the display with stoic unreadability. The moment my eyes found his, the heat from our encounter in the corridor flared instantly in his gaze, but he didn’t say a single word.

Instead, he simply sat there, throwing proverbial daggers across the room at Mal.

Mal was leaning casually against the laminate dresser, his dark crewneck sweater making his sharp features look entirely too dangerous for a roadside lodge. He tracked my every movement, a knowing smirk playing on his lips that only served to make Caspian’s jaw clench tight enough to snap iron.

The room smelled overwhelmingly of stale grease, processed cocoa, and artificial vanilla, and my stomach turned at the thought of forcing down a powdered donut.

“There are snacks everywhere,” I muttered, shaking my head as I took a step back toward the open doorway. “I think I’m going to pass on the sugar fortress, Manem. I saw a vending machine down by the lobby. I’ll just hit that for a deli sandwich and a soda.”

“I’ll escort you,” Mal said smoothly, before Caspian could even clear his feet from the mattress.

What are you playing at Mal? It has to do with whatever reason my father had to assign him to this detail…

Mal stepped away from the dresser in a single fluid motion, his long strides carrying him to my side at the door before the Captain could intervene.

Caspian’s eyes narrowed into a lethal, volatile glare. His broad shoulders locked into a rigid posture, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides in a display that told me he was one single breath away from drawing steel right there over the processed pastries.

“I don’t need an escort for a vending machine, Mal,” I said quietly as we stepped out into the freezing, mist-shrouded outdoor walkway.

The cold Oregon air hit my face like a slap, damp sea spray clinging to the railings. Mal fell into step beside me, his shoes silent against the concrete as we descended the rusted iron staircase toward the ground-floor alcove near the office.

“The perimeter is unfamiliar, Collateral,” Mal said, his voice a smooth, low baritone carrying over the distant roar of the surf. “And you just stepped out of a sea-nymph’s grip in your undergarments. Forgive me if I don’t let you wander alone.”

I knew what he was doing. Mal was a master of political placement—always positioning himself in the quiet spaces, making himself the accessible option while Caspian burned with territorial rage. He was using Caspian’s possessive nature against him, carving out moments of isolation with me to plant seeds.

We reached the small, yellow-lit alcove beside the lobby. A humming, glass-fronted vending machine sat tucked against the cinderblock wall, casting a harsh, fluorescent glare over the damp concrete floor.

I pulled a crisp five-dollar bill from my sweatpants pocket, smoothing the paper out before feeding it into the bill validator. The machine groaned, the mechanical spiral slowly turning to drop a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich and a cold can of Sprite into the bottom chute.

“You’re quiet,” Mal noted, leaning his broad shoulder against the cinderblock wall beside the machine.

“I’m tired, Mal,” I rasped, bending down to retrieve my sandwich and can. “My ribs hurt, my blood feels like ice, and we have less than four days before the portal closes.”

I popped the tab on the soda can, taking a long, cold sip as the artificial lime burned the lingering salt taste out of my throat.

Mal shifted his weight, his sharp features illuminated by the yellow fluorescent tube above us. The casual charm he usually wore at court faded, replaced by a cold, calculating gravity that made my pulse hitch.

“When we cross back through the Divide,” Mal began softly, his tone dropping to a sharp, private wire, “the game ends, Tauriel. The High Council isn’t going to let you sit quietly on the watchtower with your Nyxalith. The moment you step back into the Great Hall, the heir of More Alora will be ready for the duel.”

I held my soda can tightly, staring out at the thick white fog rolling through the parking lot. “I know.”

“Do you?” Mal pressed, stepping half an inch closer, his presence commanding and intense. “Because I watched you in the training vaults with Malakai. I watched you flinch when your magic flared. You are stronger than anyone in the tiers, Tauriel, but when the moment comes inside the ring of death... do you actually believe you can go through with it? Can you take another champion’s life in cold blood?”

I turned my head, my eyes slicing into his golden gaze with a sharp, defensive fire.

“I don’t have a choice, Mal,” I said, my voice cold and steady despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones. “It is my life or his. If I hesitate inside the duel, he kills me, takes the crown, and burns the keep. I will do whatever is required to survive. I will not let Dellyn win.”

Mal let out a low, humorless breath—a sound that carried no warmth, only a grim, chilling certainty.

He leaned down slightly, his face inches from mine, his dark crewneck sweater casting a shadow over my chest.