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“Sole Survivor,” my father stated, his words landing heavy in the quiet room. “The duel is not concluded until only one challenger remains alive. There are no reprieves, no surrenders, and no mercies. The rite ends only when one lies dead upon the sand.”

My lungs locked. No surrender. I couldn’t yield if he overpowered me, and no guard could step into the ring to pull a blade from my heart. Dellyn wouldn’t just be trying to win; the law legally required him to end my life.

“No Magic,” the King continued, sweeping his gaze across the silent hall. “Gifts are strictly prohibited. The fight relies entirely on physical skill.”

Everything that made a Fae dangerous—the unpredictable surge of bloodline power, the elemental edges—was stripped away. I was being thrown into a ring with nothing but my daggers and every brutal drill Manem had forced into my muscle memory.

“Relinquishing Blessings,” my father commanded. “Because you have been marked by the goddesses, you must relinquish any gift that may come from your Remnikai for the duration of the fight. You will enter the ring as nothing more than flesh and bone.”

Beneath my skin, the darkness didn’t just stir—it revolted. It thrashed violently along my veins, a living thing screaming against the mandate, desperately clawing to hold onto the bond before the royal decree could sever it.

A cold ache bloomed in the pit of my stomach. Stripped from the mark. I wouldn’t just be fighting a seasoned executioner; I would be doing it with mortal limits while fighting a grueling internal war just to keep the monster inside from tearing me apart from the inside out.

“Crescent Consumption,” my father added, his voice tight. “Before your boots touch the sand, both challengers shall drink the essence of the Crescent moon—the bitter draft that locks all internal magic, ensuring no power can be summoned.”

No desperate surges of instinct. No magic reaching out to save my life if steel pierced my ribs.

“Irrevocable Challenge,” the King declared. “The date is set. The words are spoken. This challenge cannot be revoked, rescinded, or delayed by either party, regardless of rank or bloodline. You shall meet when the first day of spring clears the sky, upon the obsidian sand of the ancient arena.”

The trap locked shut. No delays. No royal pardons, no political loopholes, no way for Aerynn to pull me back from the edge.

“Single Weapon,” my father finished. “Each challenger is allowed a single, declared weapon. You must declare it before the wards rise, and you shall use only that weapon throughout the entirety of the duel.”

My fingers twitched against my skirts. A single weapon. I fought with twin daggers—a fluid, dual-wielding style that relied on balance, speed, and two edges. Restricting me to a single blade stripped away half my defense before I even set foot on the sand.

The King paused, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked down at the crystallized dagger in his hands.

“Champion Appointment,” Fjörn said softly, his gaze anchoring onto my face. “Under the ancient rites, either party possesses the right to appoint a champion to fight on their behalf.”

Dellyn’s eyes flicked to Caspian. The high captain went rigid—his shoulders setting, his jaw locking as he prepared to step into the ring in my place.

No. A wave of nausea hit me. Caspian would willingly bleed out on that dark sand for me, and Dellyn would take vicious delight in tearing him apart just to break me before coming for my head next.

A mongrel and forsworn son, surely just where Dellyn wanted us.

“The proxy must willingly accept the responsibility before the court,” Fjörn continued, “and they are bound to the same blood-lock as the original challenger.”

I caught Caspian’s eye, my gaze screaming at him to stay back, to keep his mouth shut. I would not let my safety be bought with his life.

Don’t you dare. If you take that blade, Caspian, I won’t just lose you—I’ll lose whatever’s left of my grip, and the thing inside me will tear this entire court to ash.

The King straightened his posture. “Princess Tauriel, do you wish to appoint a champion to stand for your blood?”

Before I could speak, Aerynn stepped forward. His golden hair was messy, his blue eyes fierce as he stepped directly to the center of the map.

“I will stand for her,” Aerynn said, his voice booming through the chamber, discarding all his usual levity. He drew his blade, holding it high before the throne. “I will be her champion. I accept the rites.”

“No,” I said instantly, my voice sharp and clear.

Aerynn turned to face me, pale with disbelief. “Tauriel, don’t be a stubborn fool—”

“I am my own champion, Aeri,” I interrupted, stepping past him until I was looking directly at my father. If I let my brother die for me. Then I was exactly the fragile thing Dellyn claimed I was. A coward hiding behind someone else’s blood.

Let them watch me walk onto the obsidian sand. Let them see what happens when the leash finally snaps.

“I will stand on my own,” I whispered, the words tasting like iron and ash.

My father’s hand tightened around the crystallized hilt, the crimson light staining his fingers as he turned his stare toward the lower floor. “Let it be known that the Princess stands for herself. And what of More Alora, Lord Dellyn? Do you choose to appoint a champion?”