Page 117

The weight remained dense and potent, but its form was now completely concealed.

I slid the mini-spear deep into the front pocket of my Levi’s, smoothing my leather jacket over the denim.

“Useful trick,” Dax grinned, tapping his high-tops against the carpet as he pushed the heavy oak front door open into the damp coastal air.

“Let’s go home,” I said, my voice raspy.

We filed out of The Nauti Mermaid, leaving the buzzing neon sign, the smell of stale beer, and the mortal tavern behind us. We loaded back into the Suburban—Dax vaulting into the front passenger seat while Caspian, Mal, and Manem squeezed their massive frames back onto the leather bench in the rear.

The suspension groaned its familiar, agonizing complaint as the three settled in.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, shoved the heavy key into the ignition, and brought the engine roaring back to life. I shifted into drive, spraying gravel across the lot as I swung the heavy black SUV back onto the highway, pointing our headlights south toward Northern California, my mother’s lake house, and the portal.

The long trek back had begun.

With seven feet of light-drinking steel condensed in my pocket, the brand burning on my shoulder, and four deadly warriors riding with me, the countdown to the Dagda-Fae was ticking down—and when we crossed back into Nymeria, the realm would never be the same.

FORTY-NINE

Crossing back through the portal was a seamless, churning wave of silver light that deposited us onto the cold granite floors of the throne room. There were no monsters waiting, no ambush from the shadows—only the oppressive weight of the King’s watchful eyes.

My father offered no welcome. The moment his gaze locked onto the six-inch stylus of star-iron resting in my hand, his stone features tightened into a mask of authority.

“Train,” Fjörn commanded, his voice cutting like a frozen blade through the high chamber. “Master the steel before the snow melts.”

And so, the weeks leading to spring became an agonizing, endless blur of sweat, bruised ribs, and burning muscle.

Every morning began in the high courtyard with Caspian.

The High Captain was merciless. Wrapped in his dark leathers, Caspian drove me to the brink of physical exhaustion day after day. He taught me how to wield the seven feet of star-iron. How to sweep the twin dragon-wing blades to shear through armor, how to channel momentum through the blackened shaft, and how to balance the heavy celestial weight without overextending my guard.

The heat between us during those dawn sessions was violent and agonizingly unresolved. Every time his calloused hands adjusted my grip on the shaft, every time his broad chest brushed my back to correct my posture, the memory of his mouth against my neck flared like a white-hot brand. But there was no time for desire. There was only steel.

Every afternoon was spent in the subterranean sand pit with Malakai.

He pushed my dual magic to its absolute limits. He forced me to draw the blinding solar heat of my core while simultaneously manipulating the writhing midnight void of my ink. The elements collided inside my chest like grinding tectonic plates, leaving me gasping for air, my skin raw, my tattoos throbbing like hot wires beneath my flesh.

And through every single hour of the day, my dragon occupied my mind.

Your footwork is an insult to the sky, little ember, Nyxaroth’s deep, measured voice would rumble directly into the marrow of my sternum, carrying that calm, immortal, and utterly infuriating tone. If you overextend your left hip like that inside the ring of death, the enemy will not even need a blade. They will simply watch you trip over your own vanity.

I am trying not to impale Caspian, Nyx, I would snap back internally.

A minor inconvenience, the Nyxalith purred dryly. The Captain has dense bones. He would survive. Focus your weight.

As the weeks bled away and the snow began to melt from the mountain ridges, the atmosphere inside the citadel turned suffocating. Time was running out.

Kaelor haunted the high balconies like a hungry vulture. Whenever I crossed the courtyards, his pale eyes tracked my every movement, his lips curved into a sickly, lethal smirk that promised silent slaughter.

Even stranger was Mal. The enigmatic male who had smoothly navigated our journey across Earth had practically vanished upon our return. Whenever I entered a corridor, a council hall, or the training grounds, Mal disappeared into the shadows before I could ever get within ten paces of him. He became a phantom, avoiding my gaze, avoiding my presence, leaving a trail of cold suspicion in his wake.

Then, the eve of the Dagda-Fae arrived.

Tomorrow, at the first break of dawn, the heir of More Alora would step into the sacred ring. Per the ancient, brutal laws of the death duel, no magic was permitted inside the perimeter. At dawn, the High Mages would force me to drink the Crescent Potion—a thick, silver liquid that would temporarily strip every thread of magic from my blood, deadening my core and neutralizing my markings, leaving me relying entirely on mortal muscle, bone, and seven feet of star-iron.

The night before the duel, I retreated to the empty, torch-lit armory for a final, quiet rotation with Soren.

The air in the subterranean vault smelled of cold oil, iron shavings, and old leather. Soren stood opposite me, holding a blunt practice staff, his dark eyes filled with a quiet, intense worry that he had fought to hide for weeks.