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Beside the throne stood the heir of More Alora, clad in spiked dark armor, holding a dripping blade. And bound in iron chains at the foot of the dais were Caspian, Soren, Aerynn, and Rhea—their bodies bloodied, their faces pale as they looked at me with pure, gut-wrenching horror.

“Look at what you have done, half-breed,” my father’s voice boomed through the chamber, cut from frozen granite. “You brought the shadow to our gates. You brought the Nyxalith to our watchtowers. You are not a daughter. You are not a rider. You are the ruin of Nymeria. You are a monster.”

“Tauriel... why didn’t you save us?” Soren’s voice choked out from the floor, raw with betrayal.

Beside him, Caspian dragged his bloodied frame upward, his royal blue eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow disappointment. “You let the void swallow you, Trouble. You were too weak to hold the steel.”

My chest seized, an agonizing, suffocating panic clawing at my throat. The sight of Caspian bleeding, the sound of Soren’s betrayal, the cold rejection in my father’s eyes; it struck straight into the deepest, most vulnerable scar in my marrow. The desire to be seen, the fear of being disposable, the terrifying weight of carrying two volatile, opposing forces in my blood.

The black ink of my tattoos began to writhe violently across my arms, threatening to explode into a wave of uncontrollable, self-destructive shadow that would consume the entire room.

I clamped my eyes shut, taking a ragged, shuddering breath.

They are not real, I told myself, driving the thought deep into my soul. My father does not define my worth. Caspian does not doubt my strength. I am not a weapon to be used. I am the rider of the sovereign titan.

I opened my eyes. The doubt, the fear, the desperate need for a father’s approval—I burned it all to ash.

I raised my hands, pulling on the volatile core of my power. I didn’t fight the shadow. I didn’t leash the light. I let the solar warmth and the midnight void bleed together in a single, fluid, triumphant surge.

“I am Tauriel Drakhar, Princess of Nymeria, Rider of the Nyxalith!” I roared into the illusion.

A monumental wave of twilight fire—a shimmering tempest of celestial gold and pitch-black void—erupted from my palms. The blast tore through the High Council Chamber, shattering the throne, disintegrating the ghostly corpses, and burning the illusion of King Fjörn and More Alora into floating wisps of grey smoke.

The illusion collapsed, leaving me standing once again on the polished black iron of the Inner Vault.

Standing at the far end of the amphitheater, illuminated by the harsh, pulsing crimson light radiating from its heart, sat the altar.

And resting upon the stone, waiting for its master, was Vaelthrys.

My breath caught in my throat as I took three slow strides toward the altar.

The spear was staggering to behold. A masterpiece of ancient, lethal metallurgy that commanded absolute, terrifying reverence.

It stood nearly seven feet tall, its shaft forged from an impossibly dark celestial metal that didn’t just reflect the light—it actively drank the starlight around it. Running along the length of the shaft were intricate, veining channels of crimson that throbbed beneath the blackened surface like arterial vessels, slowly carrying a pulse of ancient magic toward the weapon’s head.

At the center of the double-edged head rested a blood-red gemstone the size of a clenched fist. It wasn’t polished like a mortal ruby; it looked alive, wisps of scarlet swirling endlessly beneath its crystalline surface like a trapped, tempestuous storm.

Flanking the pulsing gem were twin crescent blades that curved away in perfect symmetry, forming a double-edged head that precisely mirrored the spread wings of a dragon preparing to strike.

It was the ultimate executioner’s weapon; a catalyst designed specifically for the absolute parameters of death.

“There it stands,” the warlock’s voice echoed behind me as he stepped up to the edge of the altar. “The leviathan’s tooth. The light-drinker. To use it, you must forge the blood pact. Once your hand touches the shaft, the spear will seek blood and you must feed it. It will become your tracker, your executioner, and it will not rest until your opponent is turned to dust.”

He locked his luminous silver eyes onto mine.

“Reach out, Tauriel,” the warlock whispered. “Claim your steel, break through the vault of your mind, and when your eyes open in that mortal tavern, Vaelthrys will wake in your hands.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped up to the altar, reached out my right hand, and wrapped my fingers tightly around the light-drinking shaft of the spear.

The moment my palm made contact with the celestial metal, the blood-red gemstone at the center of the blade exploded into a blinding crimson flare.

The veins along the shaft flared to life, pulsing in direct, violent synchronization with the beating of my own heart. The brand on my shoulder burned white-hot, while the dark ink of my tattoos spiraled down my forearms, wrapping around the black shaft like living threads of midnight.

The floor, the dead moons, and the warlock vanished in a blinding flash of crimson and gold light as my consciousness was catapulted back across the ether. I was dragged violently back into the physical shell resting in the red vinyl booth of The Nauti Mermaid.

“TAURIEL!”