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Before Caspian could swing his blade, before Dax could strike, the red smoke coalesced instantly.

Maloce materialized directly behind me.

His movement was so impossibly fast, so devoid of sound, that not even Caspian’s new darkness-bound instincts could check the strike in time.

Maloce’s long, cold fingers reached out, his hand wrapping around my throat from behind, pinning my back against his iron-plated chest. His other hand rose, his fingernail lightly grazing the sensitive, bare column of my neck, right over my thrumming pulse point.

“TAURIEL!” Caspian screamed, turning his blade, his royal blue eyes flared with absolute, unhinged terror.

Maloce didn’t draw steel. He didn’t thrust a dagger into my ribs.

He leaned his head down, his cold lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his crimson breath hot against my skin.

He whispered a few final words—a chilling, secret prophecy that shattered the last remaining fragment of my sanity:

“You still think this story belongs to you. It never did...”

Before I could think, before I could channel the gold fire in my veins, a sudden, blinding shockwave of dark blood magic detonated from his fingertips directly into my brain.

A sharp, violent crack echoed inside my head.

The cavern, the red smoke, Caspian’s roaring voice, and the glowing silver waters of the Mani Vatn vanished instantly.

The world went pitch black.