Page 121

I swallowed the sudden knot in my throat, locked my jaw, and turned to face the black sand.

I stepped onto the Obsidian Sand, my boots sinking slightly into the cold, volcanic grit as I marched to the center of the arena.

Lord Dellyn stepped out from his side, meeting me ten paces away in the middle of the black circle. The lord carried no weapons, his hands folded neatly within the wide, emerald sleeves of his robes, his thin lips curved into a sickening, knowing smirk.

High above us on the royal dais, King Fjörn stood up from his throne. His heavy gold-and-iron crown caught the pale morning sun, his dark eyes looking down at the two of us with terrifying detachment.

“The hour of the Dagda-Fae has arrived!” Fjörn’s deep baritone boomed across the silent amphitheater, amplified by the stone arches so that every lord in the keep heard every syllable. “By the ancient laws of the First Era, this duel shall be fought to the death! No magic shall enter! No intervention shall be granted! Steel and blood alone shall determine the victor!”

Fjörn raised his heavy right hand, pointing down at the center of the ring.

“Have both parties consumed the Crescent Potion?” Fjörn demanded. “Has the magic been stripped from your blood?”

“My heir has taken it, Your Majesty,” Lord Dellyn answered, his voice a sharp, raspy thread that carried across the sand.

“It has,” I rasped, my voice steady, my hand resting near the condensed stylus at my belt.

Fjörn’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. He raised both hands toward the sky, pulling upon the high, ancient blood magic reserved exclusively for the royal throne.

“By the blood offered in the shadow of the moon, I summon the Blood-Tithe!” Fjörn commanded.

A sharp, acoustic hum exploded through the air above the arena.

High in the sky, suspended fifty feet above the center of the sand between the eight towering ward-stones, the air shattered like glass. A brilliant, crimson tear opened in the atmosphere, and from the void, blood began to pour—drawn together by the ancient binding spell.

I stared up in silent horror as the blood began to crystallize, freezing into a massive, jagged executioner’s dagger forged entirely from dark, hardened crimson crystal.

The realization hit me like a violent wave of nausea, the pieces of the puzzle crashing together in my mind with terrifying clarity.

“The pact is sealed!” Fjörn roared. He slammed his fist down onto the armrest of his throne. “RAISE THE WARDS!”

Around the perimeter of the arena, the eight towering stone pillars flared to life with a deafening, acoustic CRACK.

A colossal, blinding dome of golden energy erupted from the ward-stones, shooting forty feet into the air and sealing together at the apex, completely enclosing the sand in an impenetrable anti-magic cage. The air inside the dome turned instantly thick, heavy, and dead—cutting off every last thread of ambient magic from the outside world.

The crowd held its collective breath. The final parameters were set.

King Fjörn leaned over the stone railing of his dais, his gaze locking onto me first.

“Tauriel of the Royal House,” Fjörn announced, his voice cut from stone. “You stand inside the ring of death. Will anyone champion your cause? Or do you stand as your own steel?”

I didn’t look at the King. I didn’t look at my friends standing at the edge of the glass ward.

I reached down to my belt, my fingers wrapping tightly around the six-inch, dark-forged star-iron. I pulled the condensed stylus from its sheath and stepped forward.

“I am my own champion!” I declared, my voice ringing sharp and unforgiving across the arena.

I pulled upon the subtle resonance lingering in the weapon, willing the celestial metal to remember its true shape.

In a single, fluid surge of mechanical perfection, the stylus exploded outward. The dark metal expanded, extending into a towering, seven-foot shaft of blackened star-iron. The twin blades unfolded with a lethal snap, forming the spread wings of a dragon preparing to strike, while the flawless, blood-red gemstone at its center flared with a pulsing crimson light that illuminated the black sand beneath my boots.

Vaelthrys had awakened.

A collective gasp of pure shock echoed through the spectator tiers. High Lords stood up from their benches, pointing at the legendary spear in my hands, while jaws dropped in silent military awe from the royal dais.

I set the butt of the seven-foot spear into the obsidian sand, my hands gripping the metal, my eyes fixed on Lord Dellyn.

King Fjörn stared at the ancient weapon in my hands for a long, heavy second, his analytical mind processing its lethal reality, before turning his gaze to the lord of More Alora.