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Caspian’s voice slammed into my ears with the force of a breaking wave.

My eyes flew open.

The colors, sounds, and smells of the mortal tavern rushed back in a disorienting wave. The smell of stale beer, the hum of the jukebox, the buzzing neon sign; it all reasserted itself instantly.

I was back in the red vinyl booth.

Caspian was leaning over me, his face inches from mine, his large, calloused hands frantically holding my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot and frantic with fear. Across the table, Dax had his blade, while Mal and Manem were stepping into the aisle, their weapons raised.

“She’s breathing! She’s back!” Dax shouted.

“Tauriel!” Caspian rasped, his voice raw, his thumb frantically wiping a bead of cold sweat from my forehead. “Look at me, Trouble! Are you alright?! What did he do to you?!”

I didn’t answer with words.

I simply raised my right hand, lifting it from where it had been resting flat against the sticky laminate table. As it rose, the air fractured with a low, chilling hum, and seven feet of light-drinking, dark-forged celestial steel materialized right in my grip.

The tavern fell into a dead, paralyzed, and utterly suffocating silence.

Resting across our table, slicing through the dim light of the mortal bar, was Vaelthrys. Its crimson veins pulsed softly beneath the blackened metal, its twin dragon-wing blades gleaming with a lethal edge, and the flawless, blood-red gemstone at its center swirled with living scarlet smoke.

Dax’s jaw dropped so low it nearly touched his pink daiquiri. Mal froze in his tracks, his hazel eyes wide with profound shock, while Manem stared at the spear as if a god had just stepped into the room.

Caspian looked down at the ancient weapon resting in my grasp, then raised his gaze to meet mine. The unhinged panic in his eyes transformed into an intense and terrifyingly proud reverence.

Directly across the booth, sitting beside Dax, the white-haired warlock offered a single, elegant bow of his head.

“The spear is once again alive,” the warlock whispered, his voice smooth as crystal as he slowly began to fade. “Go forth, daughter of Fjörn. Win your duel.”

Before the warlock’s figure could completely dissolve into the silver mist, Mal made his move.

He didn’t draw steel, nor did he flinch like the rest of the squad. With practiced, effortless grace, Mal stepped out from behind the booth and closed the distance between them. He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around the warlock’s frost-pale palm in a brief, solemn handshake.

My eyes narrowed as I watched them through the dim, amber haze of the tavern.

Mal leaned in slightly, his sharp features dark and unreadable. His lips moved; a silent phrase mouthed so low that not even the ocean wind outside could carry the sound to my ears. The warlock’s glowing silver eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp intelligence. The pale entity tilted his head, his frost-pale lips mouthing a quiet reply back to Mal with a chilling smirk.

I strained to read the movement of their lips, but the lingering shadows warped the sight.

Before I could demand an explanation, the warlock’s hand slipped from Mal’s grip, his entire body dissolving into a wispy cloud of silver fog that vanished into the rafters. Mal stood alone for a long, silent heartbeat, his eyes turning back toward our booth, completely devoid of emotion.

“What was that, Mal?” Caspian growled from beside me, his royal blue eyes flaring with lethal intent as he stepped out of the booth, his broad frame towering over the aisle. “What did you say to him?”

“I merely ensured our exit was undisturbed, Captain,” Mal replied smoothly, his tone cool, polite, and entirely impenetrable as he adjusted the cuffs of his dark sweater. “We have what we came for. We should not linger.”

Caspian’s jaw clenched tight enough to snap iron, but he kept his hand on his hilt, his territorial glare locked on Mal’s back as we turned toward the exit.

I looked down at the seven-foot spear resting against my hip. Vaelthrys was magnificent but walking out into a public parking lot carrying a weapon the size of a sailboat mast was an immediate ticket to a mortal prison.

“Hold on,” I whispered, halting near the front threshold.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, and reached into the volatile core of my power. I didn’t summon the roaring solar heat of the Remnikai, nor did I drag up the midnight void. Instead, I pulled upon a simple, delicate thread of lesser Fae magic; a subtle manipulation of physical space and mass that every high-born child was taught in the early academies.

I focused my intent onto the spear shaft, willing the metal to yield.

The blood-red gemstone at the center of the double-edged head pulsed once, a hum vibrating against my palm.

Slowly, effortlessly, the seven-foot shaft began to condense. The dark metal folded inward like shadow, the twin dragon-wing blades shrinking down until the entire ancient weapon contracted into a sleek, six-inch stylus no larger than an ornate obsidian dagger.