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“I have to, Caspian,” I whispered, my voice cold, steady, and cut from pure vanguard steel.

“Tauriel, no!”

Before Caspian could break his ribs against the barrier, I reached across the sticky table and slammed my palm into the warlock’s open hand.

The impact was not physical. It was a cosmic detonation.

The moment my skin brushed his frost-pale palm, a shockwave of ice exploded through my veins, freezing the blood in my chest. The noise of the tavern; the jukebox, Dax’s panicked yell, and Caspian’s roaring command; was instantly vacuumed into an absolute, deafening silence.

The colors of The Nauti Mermaid bled out. The glowing neon sign, the red vinyl booth, the pink slushy drinks, and the four Fae males dissolved into streaks of grey ash, swirling away like dust in a hurricane.

My physical body remained anchored in the booth. A frozen, lifeless shell sitting across from the warlock in the mortal realm.

My mind, however, was ripped violently through the cosmic ether.

I fell through a bottomless void of blackness, tumbling through time and space until my feet slammed hard against a solid stone surface.

I gasped, hauling air into my lungs, my eyes flying open as I threw my hands out to stabilize my balance.

I was no longer in Oregon. I was no longer on Earth.

I stood at the center of a monumental subterranean amphitheater forged from polished black iron that mirrored the infinite, starry void above. Rising around me in endless concentric circles were towering pillars sculpted with the ancient runes of the First Era. In the distance, floating in the cosmic dark, were the shattered fragments of a dozen dead moons.

The air here smelled of ozone, fire, and ancient, unyielding metal.

“Welcome to the Inner Vault, Tauriel Drakhar.”

I whipped around, my hand flying to my thigh out of instinct, but my obsidian daggers were gone. My modern leather jacket, my Levi’s, and my Converse high-tops had vanished—replaced by shimmering, midnight-black battle armor that clung to my frame like a second skin, woven from living shadow and solar thread.

The white-haired warlock stood twenty paces away on the black iron floor, his dark trench coat drifting in a wind that didn’t exist, his glowing silver eyes reflecting the dead moons above.

“Where are we?” I demanded, my voice echoing infinitely through the vast, empty amphitheater. “What did you do to my mind?”

“We are inside the walls of your own consciousness,” the warlock replied, his voice smooth, melodic, and resonant as a ringing bell. “Your physical form sits frozen in that mortal tavern, held in stasis alongside your guardians. To them, not a single second will pass. To us, an eternity can unfold.”

I took a deep, steadying breath. “Why am I here? The nymph said the spear was taken inland.”

“It was,” the warlock said, taking three slow, weightless strides toward me. “Centuries ago, Ambassador Lorian realized that Vaelthrys could not be trusted to mortal hands, nor could it be hidden behind simple stone doors. A weapon forged to end victors carries a soul of its own. It cannot be stolen. It cannot be found on a shelf in a tavern basement.”

He gestured to the vast, star-carved floor beneath us.

“We bound the spear to the metaphysical ley-lines between Earth and Elfain,” the warlock explained, his silver eyes locking onto mine with solemn gravity. “We locked it deep within the mind-vault of the First Maker. To claim Vaelthrys, you must face the trial of the weapon. You must survive your own internal darkness, locate the spear within this realm, and drag it across the threshold of your own mind.”

“And if I fail?” I asked, my jaw setting into a hard line.

A faint, chilling smile touched the warlock’s frost-pale lips. “If you fail, your mind remains trapped in this void forever—and your body in the mortal tavern will wither into a mindless, empty husk while your friends watch you die.”

“Fair enough,” I rasped, my eyes blazing as a wave of gold and black twilight fire flared across my knuckles. “Show me the trial.”

The warlock didn’t strike. He simply raised his pale hand and snapped his fingers.

The black iron floor beneath my boots shattered into a million floating fragments.

The starry cosmic void dissolved, replaced instantly by a violent nightmare forged straight from the deepest, most hidden terrors of my own soul.

I was standing in the center of the High Council Chamber in the citadel of Nymeria.

The air was thick with the copper stench of fresh blood and burning ozone. Surrounding the long oak table were the corpses of the High Lords, cut down, their eyes wide with terror. Sitting upon the obsidian throne was King Fjörn—his dark eyes cold, detached, and unfeeling as he looked down at me.