Page 94

In the era of the First Maker, a weapon was crafted specifically to end champions. They called it Vaelthrys...

My breath caught in my throat as my eyes dropped to the detailed, full-page illustration drawn on the facing page.

It was a spear.

The spear stood nearly seven feet tall, its shaft forged from an impossibly dark metal that drank in the light instead of reflecting it. Veins of crimson pulsed beneath the blackened surface like living arteries, slowly carrying blood toward the weapon’s heart. At the center of one of the blades rested a flawless, blood-red gemstone the size of a clenched fist. It wasn’t polished like a ruby—it looked alive, wisps of scarlet swirling endlessly beneath the crystalline surface. The twin crescent blades curved away from the gem in perfect symmetry, forming a double-edged head that resembled the spread wings of a dragon preparing to strike.

“Vaelthrys...” Soren read aloud softly, his voice tight with awe as he scanned Lorian’s notes. “Look at the description, Taur.”

I read the faded calligraphy aloud, my voice a quiet thread in the vast, silent library:

...The gem absorbs blood, and the spear becomes a tracker. Once the blood pact is forged within the gem, it does not stop, it does not yield, and it cannot be turned back until the blood pact is complete and the target is dead, turned to dust...

A profound silence fell over the alcove.

Now that, Nyx’s deep voice rumbled, carrying a genuine, dark appreciation, is a proper weapon. Seven feet of light-drinking steel that turns your enemies into ash. I approve, little ember.

I stared at the detailed drawing of Vaelthrys, my fingers brushing the ancient ink of the twin dragon-wing blades.

Then, my gaze dropped to the final paragraph on the page, and my blood ran cold.

...Realizing the devastating power of Vaelthrys, Lorian removed the weapon from our realm entirely. It was carried across the Great Divide and hidden deep within a sanctuary on Earth, locked away where no lord of Nymeria could reach it without royal passage...

My breath hitched in my chest.

It wasn’t in the Northern Reach. It wasn’t in the subterranean vaults of the keep.

Vaelthrys was on Earth.

“Earth...” Soren breathed, looking from the journal up to my pale face. “Tauriel... the portal archway is locked by royal ward. No one can cross to Earth without the King’s personal seal.”

I stared at the illustration of the dragon-winged spear, my fingers tightening around the brittle leather of Lorian’s journal.

King Fjörn saw a dragon. The court saw a threat. He was trying to bury me in border sweeps and council meetings to keep me leashed to his war board.

And now, to get the only weapon capable of guaranteeing victory in a Dagda-Fae against More Alora’s champion, I was going to have to walk into the King’s solar and demand his permission to leave the realm.

I closed the journal with a sharp, definitive snap, looking up at Soren as an unshakeable resolve settled into my marrow.

“Get your armor ready, Soren,” I whispered, my eyes blazing through the dim amber light. “Tomorrow, I request leave from the King.”

FORTY

The High Audience Chamber smelled of cold marble, melted beeswax, and old, bitter secrets.

King Fjörn sat upon his obsidian throne, his heavy gold-and-iron crown catching the pale afternoon light filtering through the high lancet windows. He looked every inch the stone monarch. Unmovable, unfeeling, and utterly detached from the blood that had been spilled to keep him upon his seat.

And I was almost certain mine would be next.

Beside the dais, High Commander Manem stood in full ceremonial plate, his dark vanguard cloak pinned with iron studs, his hand resting on the pommel of his broadsword.

I stood at the foot of the marble steps, my vanguard boots silent against the polished floor, the leather-bound volume of Lorian’s journal clutched tightly against my ribs. Behind me, Soren stood at rigid attention, his silver armor gleaming in the dim light, his posture perfectly stoic despite the tension vibrating through the hall.

“You requested an urgent audience, Tauriel,” Fjörn stated, his deep baritone echoing off the high stone vaults. “Speak. The council convenes at third bell.”

I didn’t offer a courtly bow. I took three slow, deliberate strides forward, bringing me to the edge of the dais, and held out the open journal.

“The heir to More Alora is preparing for the challenge,” I said, my voice cold, sharp, and clear. “When he crosses our borders, he will bring a weapon of destruction with him.”