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King Fjörn Drakhar stood like an ancient statue of granite. He wore his heavy crimson robes of state, a high iron crown, his broad shoulders squared against the mountain wind. His emerald eyes—the same eyes I saw in the mirror every morning—were unreadable and unyielding.
Beside him stood the High Mages, their hands hidden inside their sweeping sleeves, their faces drawn into tight masks as they stared down at the Nyxalith resting behind me.
The King’s gaze swept over the small, battered line of survivors. He saw Dax leaning on his bound blade. He saw Mal standing rigid at the flank. He saw Kaelor holding his blood-red Vorlith.
Finally, King Fjörn’s heavy gaze landed on me.
He looked at my soot-stained face. He looked at the opalescent titan standing at my back, its twin heads towering over his royal guards.
He looked at me like I was something he couldn’t use his foresight to control, like I was a threat.
And now that I knew of the prophecy, I was about to be the biggest threat of all.
The silence stretched for ten agonizing heartbeats. The gathered thousands held their breath, waiting for a royal decree, waiting for a speech of victory, waiting for the King to acknowledge his daughter’s unprecedented triumph.
King Fjörn did not smile. He did not step forward to offer a father’s embrace. He did not proclaim a national celebration.
He simply stared down at me with a cold, absolute detachment that held the weight of a divided kingdom.
He gave a single, rigid nod.
From mongrel to monster…
THIRTY-NINE
Ifoolishly believed that surviving the trial would earn me a single breath of peace.
I was wrong.
Forty-eight hours after our return from Isath Nalore, the quiet halls of the keep did not offer rest; they offered a new kind of prison. My skin still burned with the memory of dragon fire, my ribs were a map of deep bruises beneath my tunic, and the brand on my right shoulder throbbed with a persistent hum that never truly slept.
I had expected an audience. After years of being buried in the shadows of the citadel, after being sent onto the northern sea to die and returning atop the sovereign titan, a naive corner of my soul expected recognition. A word. A glance. A single acknowledgment from the man whose blood ran in my veins that I had done the impossible.
Instead, I was handed a mountain of parchment.
“Sit, Tauriel,” King Fjörn stated without looking up from his mahogany desk.
The King’s private solar smelled of old leather, bitter ink, and stale wine. High arched windows looked out over the lower courtyard, where the Nyxalith was currently roosted atop the central watchtower, its broad wings folded like a dark shroud over the stone, casting a colossal shadow directly across the royal gardens.
I remained standing before his desk, my spine straight, my hands resting near the hilts of my obsidian daggers. “I was summoned, Your Majesty.”
My father finally raised his head. His eyes—so hauntingly identical to my own—swept over my battered frame. There was no warmth in his gaze. No relief that his daughter had not been returned in a wooden box. There was only the cold, analytical evaluation of a ruler inspecting a newly forged blade.
How could he use his new weapon to his advantage? And if I couldn’t be of use, how could he exhaust me enough to neutralize the threat?
He slid three heavy leather ledgers across the polished wood toward me.
“The eastern border patrols have been restructured,” He said, his deep voice devoid of emotion. “With the threat of More Alora escalating along the mountain passes, the vanguard tiers are being reassigned. You will take command of the dawn sweeps along the Frost-Spire ridge. In addition, you will sit at the High Council table every third bell to represent the royal dragon riders, and you will oversee the quarterly supply tithes from the southern provinces.”
I stared at the ledgers, my stomach dropping into a cold abyss. “Command shifts? Tithing ledgers?”
“You are a rider now,” He said simply, leaning back in his tall chair. “Your status at court carries obligations.”
“I survived a trial designed to slaughter me,” I rasped, the taste of old anger rising in my throat. “I brought the Twin Eclipse back to your gates. And you are assigning me border sweeps and council meetings?”
His brows pulled together, a dangerous, granite edge creeping into his features. “What did you expect, Tauriel? A crown? A parade?”
“I expected you to look at me!” The words tore from my throat before I could stop them, raw and sharp enough to slice through the heavy silence of the room. “I expected you to acknowledge that the daughter you tried to throw away just saved your kingdom’s military standing!”
