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Dellyn offered that same controlled, empty smile, his hands tucked inside his emerald cloak. He turned slowly toward the exit, casting one final glance over his shoulder.

“My days on the sand are behind me, Konungr,” Dellyn said smoothly, a thin, wolfish smile touching his lips. “My son shall champion for More Alora. I’m sure he’ll remind her to enjoy the small victories while she still has them.”

A cold shock struck my chest.

Enjoy the small victories.

That exact phrase. That mocking, honeyed cadence. The blood drained from my face as the pieces violently collided in my mind. Kaelor. Kaelor was Dellyn’s son—the true heir of More Alora hiding right in front of us all along.

A low murmur rippled through the galleries. Lords shifted in their seats, whispers erupting across the room. His son.

I watched the older ministers near the pillars. They looked confused, their eyes darting to one another in silent calculation. No one had ever seen the heir to the More Alora province. He had been kept hidden in the deep shadows of the northern borders for decades—a faceless figure whispered about in the taverns, but never presented to the throne.

But now I knew. I knew who it was.

I was sure.

“Should either party fail to uphold the sacred rules of the Dagda-Fae,” the King proclaimed, his voice carrying absolute finality, “should any hand interfere, or any magic break the boundaries of the ring, the Blood-Tithe shall pass judgment.”

He held up the crystallized blade. Bound to our vital signatures, the dagger would hover over the center of the arena during the duel. The moment an outsider stepped across the warding line or a challenger summoned forbidden magic, the crystal would shatter—tracking the transgressor across shadows and distance until it drove straight through their heart.

Dellyn bowed his head; a sharp, mocking nod. “As the law demands, your Majesty.”

He turned and walked toward the heavy oak doors, his boots clicking against the granite in a slow, steady rhythm that sounded like a countdown.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I stayed where I was, my bleeding palm clamped into a tight fist, fresh red drops staining the silver embroidery of my cuffs.

I looked toward the vanguard line, and this time, I didn’t stop myself.

I looked at Caspian.

He was staring straight at me, his broad frame rigid, his face pale as stone. His blue eyes were turbulent with a dark panic that made the air between us feel heavy and charged. Beneath my velvet sleeves, the marks on my skin throbbed with a volatile, consuming darkness. And I was tempted to let it swallow me whole.

The courtly games were over. The pieces were set. And the obsidian sand was waiting.

FIFTEEN

The doors of the throne room slammed shut behind me with a thunderous bang that vibrated right through the stone floor.

I didn’t walk—I practically ran. My boots skidding against the polished granite as I bolted down the corridor. The heavy velvet of my formal gown tangled around my ankles, hot and suffocating. I kept my right hand squeezed into a tight fist, but blood was already leaking between my fingers. The fresh cut burned like fire. My stomach churned, a sudden wave of cold nausea hitting the back of my throat so fast my vision blurred. Adrenaline drained out of me, leaving me lightheaded and gasping for air in a hallway that felt ten sizes too narrow.

Heavy, fast boots echoed down the residential wing behind me. Not the steady, measured pace of a guard detail, but the erratic stride of people coming after me.

I reached my quarters, grabbed the iron handle, and threw myself inside. I didn’t care about the freshly stacked books or the clean linens the maids had spent all afternoon replacing; I just wanted to shut the world out. I whirled around and slammed my weight against the heavy door to throw the deadbolt.

A hand caught the edge of the wood a fraction of a second before the latch clicked. The door was shoved backward with enough force to throw me off balance, my heels catching on the stone flagstones as the door swung wide open.

Aerynn stormed in first, kicking the door shut behind him with a deafening crash that rattled the sconces on the wall. His golden hair had come loose from its formal braids, falling in wild strands around his face. His blue eyes flashed with a raw energy I rarely saw in him. The static charge of his Stormcall magic humming so tightly in the air that the room smelled sharply of lightning.

Caspian filled the doorway right behind him like a wall of dark velvet and muscle. He didn’t look at the room. His blue eyes locked straight onto my face, his jaw set hard as he tracked the red stain spreading across my sleeve. The sheer heat off him seemed to warp the chilly air of the room instantly.

“What the hell were you thinking, Taur?” Aerynn barked, dropping his usual easygoing posture completely. He paced the floor like a caged animal, his hand clamped white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword. “An einvígi on the obsidian sand? You just walked straight onto an executioner’s block and signed your own name!”