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I raised my bare hands, pulling on the volatile core of my Remnikai.

The response was instantaneous and violent. A blinding flash of golden light erupted from my right palm, hot enough to singe the hairs on my arm, while a thick, writhing plume of pitch-black shadow exploded from my left. The two elements didn’t blend; they collided in mid-air with a violent, acoustic snap that sent a shockwave of cold wind whipping through the sand pit.

The blast threw me backward, my boots skidding six feet across the dirt before I slammed my palm against the ground to stabilize myself.

“Control!” Malakai barked, stepping through the clearing smoke, his blade pointing straight at my chest. “If you flare like that on a battlefield, you’ll incinerate your own guard before you ever touch the enemy. Balance the core!”

“I’m trying!” I yelled, my breath coming in short wheezes. The black ink of my tattoos was writhing beneath my skin, rising like hot wires against my flesh, resisting my willpower.

You are trying to leash a thunderstorm with a thread of silk, little ember.

The voice didn’t enter my ears. It detonated deep within the marrow of my sternum—a sound so profound that my entire ribcage vibrated with it. It was smooth, measured, and entirely undisturbed by the chaos thrashing in my blood. Ancient wisdom wrapped in the cold confidence of an immortal titan, delivered with a dry thread of amusement.

I froze, my hands dropping slightly, my eyes wide as I stared into empty space.

Nyx? I thought back, my mind stuttering against the sudden telepathic link.

Nyxaroth, the dragon corrected, his mental tone calm and deliberate. Though I suppose your mortal tongue lacks the stamina for four syllables. Nyx will suffice. You are trying to leash a thunderstorm with a thread of silk. The shadow does not obey fear. And your instructor smells faintly of cheap ale and desperation. Tell him to move his foot three inches to the left before you blind him.

“Tauriel! Focus!” Malakai demanded, stepping into my guard, his broadsword sweeping toward my shoulder.

Driven by instinct and the dragon’s dry prompt, I didn’t try to separate the elements. I let the solar heat and the living shadow bleed together in a single, fluid surge.

I ducked beneath Malakai’s blade, my right hand sweeping upward. A wave of twilight fire—a shimmering mixture of celestial gold and midnight void—erupted from my palms. The blast caught the flat of Malakai’s broadsword, blowing the heavy iron weapon cleanly out of his grip. The blade clattered across the stone floor, sticking upright into the dirt ten feet away.

Malakai stumbled back, staring at his smoking, empty gauntlet, then up at me with a mixture of shock and respect.

“Better,” Malakai rasped, wiping a line of soot from his cheek. “Still sloppy. But better.”

Adequate, Nyx chimed in my chest, his deep voice smooth and unimpressed. Though if you had aimed two inches lower, you would have solved your political council problem entirely. We shall work on your precision tomorrow.

Before I could answer the dragon in my head, the heavy iron door at the top of the vault stairs creaked open.

Soren stood at the threshold, clad in his full royal guard armor—polished black plate, dark velvet cloak, and his longsword sheathed at his hip. The moment we had returned from the isles, Soren had resumed his post as my primary guard, maintaining his strict military discipline. A warm smile softened his usual guarded posture when his eyes landed on me.

“Princess,” Soren called down, his tone formal yet laced with subtle relief. “The archives are cleared for your requested rotation. I am prepared to escort you.”

I took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve. “Thank you, Soren. Give me a moment.”

“I am glad to see you breathing,” Soren added quietly as I approached the stairs, his eyes earnest.

“It takes more than a few reptiles to kill me,” I murmured with a tired smirk.

Malakai retrieved his sword from the sand, giving me a short nod as I turned toward the stairs. “Rest that shoulder, Tauriel. The council meets at second bell tomorrow.”

The trek through the subterranean corridors toward the Grand Archives was quiet, broken only by the rhythmic clank of Soren’s armor.

I walked beside him, my leathers still smelling of training dust. While the rest of the keep treated me like a monster or a political weapon, Soren’s presence was a professional anchor. He walked half a pace behind my right shoulder, his hand resting near his sword hilt, his gaze sweeping every dark alcove we passed.

“Are the bruises healing?” Soren asked softly, breaking the silence as we turned down the torch-lit corridor leading to the library vaults.

“Slowly,” I murmured, glancing back at him. “The King’s daily assignments don’t leave much time for sitting still.”

“He’s driving you hard,” Soren noted, his brow furrowing slightly. “He put extra guards on the archive doors tonight. He knows you’re looking for something.”

“Let him put twenty guards on the doors,” I said quietly, setting my jaw. “He can assign me all the border sweeps he wants, but he can’t stop me from finding a weapon before More Alora challenges me.”

Soren gave a firm nod. “Then I’ll make sure no one disturbs you while you search.”