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Malakai. The royal instructor of the Remnikai.

He ignored Caspian completely, his black eyes fixing on my face, taking in the silk dress and the exposed marks on my arms with quiet disdain.

“The Konungr informs me that the half-breed survived the pool,” Malakai said, his voice a flat baritone that held no warmth. “Though looking at this display, the waters failed to teach you basic decorum.”

I stepped out from behind Caspian. “I didn’t realize the royal instructor conducted his evaluations in the fog, Malakai.”

“I don’t evaluate, Princess. I hollow out,” Malakai replied, taking a measured step closer. “Report to the lower obsidian vaults at dawn tomorrow to begin your manifestation training. Do not be late.”

I let out a tired, frustrated breath. “The mages already ran the tests. My core is completely silent. I have no idea what my gift is. There’s nothing to train.”

Malakai stopped. His severe face didn’t shift, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

“The silver waters do not make mistakes, Princess. They only make riddles,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If your core is silent, then I will spend the next two months breaking your bones until it learns how to scream. Be in the vaults at dawn, Tauriel. Or I will have the vanguard drag you there.”

He turned, his dark robes sweeping through the mist as he disappeared into the grey gloom without another word.

The quiet returned, heavy and cold. I stared at the empty archway where he’d stood, a chill settling over my neck. Caspian didn’t turn around right away; his eyes stayed locked on the dark corridor, his hands clenched tight at his sides as the first real sunlight broke through the fog.

The trials were no longer distant threats on a map. They were waiting for me—and dawn was only hours away.

THIRTEEN

The lower obsidian vaults consumed light rather than reflecting it.

The walls were cut from solid volcanic glass, throwing back distorted, purple smears from Malakai’s magic. The air was frigid, freezing the moisture on my lips before I could draw a full breath.

I stood at the center of the ring, stripped to a thin training tank and combat pants. My bare skin was exposed to the biting air, the fresh marks of midnight black and molten gold lacing across my body, throbbing with a dull heat.

Three paces back, near the heavy iron threshold, stood Soren.

His face was a rigid mask of quiet torment. Clad in his dark leathers, his hands were clamped tightly behind his back, the tough material creaking as he clenched his fists. He was legally bound by the King’s decree to stand watch and observe; he couldn’t step in. Every time a gasp tore from my throat, Soren’s jaw tightened, his brown eyes filled with a helpless frustration that hurt worse than the cold floor beneath my feet.

“Again,” Malakai said. His tone was a flat baritone that offered zero room for negotiation.

He didn’t draw a weapon. He relied entirely on his royal magic. With a slight flick of his charcoal-silk sleeves, a sudden surge of crushing pressure slammed into my chest. The force was instantaneous, knocking the air cleanly from my lungs as my knees cracked against the floor.

The pressure released, replaced by a sudden heat targeting the fresh ink on my left arm. It felt like hot needles burrowing beneath my skin, tracing the jagged lines of the midnight swirls with deliberate slowness.

My fingers curled against the stone, my knuckles turning white. A low, fractured sound escaped my lips, echoing off the high arches.

Nothing.

My core remained silent.

Enough. I wanted to scream, but my voice lay trapped. My mind a cage and Malakai held the key.

Malakai stepped closer, his charcoal robes whispering against the glass floor. He stood over me, his flat black eyes assessing me with clinical detachment.

“The mages claim the pool left no elemental print,” Malakai murmured, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves. “They think you are a riddle. I think you are simply empty. A fragile human mistake wrapped in stolen royal skin.”

I forced my head up, my teeth set, my eyes glaring through the dark spots blurring my vision. “I survived the waters, Malakai. I’m not empty.”

“Survival is a remarkably low bar, Princess,” he said softly, his voice dropping into a lower register aimed directly at my nerves. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. “Do you truly believe you belong in this keep? Look at your brother. Aerynn is the true, gilded heir—a pure-blooded Drakhar Prince who commands the very storms. And you? You are a bastard born of a mortal distraction.”

The words landed cleanly between my ribs.

“It cost a staggering amount of coin to buy the unredacted deployment logs from your father’s grand chancellor,” Malakai taunted smoothly, his tone low in the quiet vault. “The King thought he had every record of his time in the mortal realm burned twenty years ago, but scribes are greedy creatures. A rare, classified seasonal rotation to Earth—a brief summer trip where your father amused himself in a mortal woman’s bed. You were conceived in the dirt, Tauriel. You are a secret placeholder kept in reserve, a half-breed whose existence embarrasses the throne. The goddesses didn’t choose you. They branded a stray animal.”