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I took a steadying breath, suppressing the tremor in my hands as I turned toward the dressing table.

I pulled on a fitted suit of overlapping silver chainmail that clinked softly with every movement, protecting my chest, ribs, and shoulders without sacrificing speed. Under the chainmail, I donned a deep sapphire tunic—the rich, twilight blue of the royal tier—cinched tight at the waist with a heavy leather belt. I pulled on flexible black trousers, tucking the hems into my high, double-buckled boots.

Lastly, I reached for the small, six-inch stylus resting on the wood—the condensed form of Vaelthrys. I slid the dark, heavy cylinder into the leather sheath at my hip.

A sharp, heavy knock echoed off door of my quarters.

I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, and pulled the door open.

Standing in the dim, torch-lit corridor was Caspian.

The High Captain looked lethal and imposing, clad in his full black armor, his dark chestnut hair falling messy around his face. Yet as my eyes met his gaze, something felt subtly shifted. His posture was unusually rigid, his usual predatory arrogance replaced by a quiet, devastating solemnity that made my pulse stutter against my ribs.

I looked past his broad shoulders, scanning the empty hall. “Where is Soren?”

Caspian’s jaw tightened slightly. He looked down at me, his blue eyes softening with an emotion so deep, so fiercely protective, it made the air in the corridor thicken.

“Don’t worry,” Caspian said, his voice raspy, holding a subtle, unfamiliar cadence. “He will be there.”

I nodded slowly, pushing past the threshold into the hall. “Then let’s finish this.”

The walk from the eastern wing down to the subterranean amphitheater was suffocating and long; a brutal march that felt less like an escort and more like a procession toward an executioner’s block.

High above us, the iron death bells of the keep continued their steady, rhythmic tolling.

The sound vibrated through the stone floor, through the thick soles of my boots, echoing off the high marble arches. The corridors were lined with guards and court nobles standing in rigid silence, their eyes tracking my passage with a mixture of morbid curiosity and cruel anticipation. I caught a glimpse of Aerynn standing near a high balcony, his royal blue mantle draped over his chest, his eyes filled with a quiet, helpless sorrow as he gave me a single, solemn nod.

Beside me, Caspian walked at my flank. He didn’t speak a word, but his broad frame remained half a pace ahead of me, positioning himself like an iron shield between my body and every shadow we passed.

We reached the colossal iron doors leading out into the High Courtyard, stepping through the archway into the biting morning air.

The Obsidian Sand of the Challenge Ring sat at the center of the lower citadel. A massive, sunken circular arena forty yards across, lined entirely with fine, pitch-black volcanic grit that drank the pale morning light. Towering forty feet above the black sand were eight rune-carved ward-stones, designed to anchor the impenetrable anti-magic dome during a formal death duel.

The stone tiers surrounding the arena were packed to capacity. Hundreds of high-born lords, vanguard officers, and High Council mages filled the benches, their low, excited murmurs creating a sea of background noise. Sitting high above the arena on his obsidian dais was King Fjörn, flanked by High Commander Manem and his primary advisors.

My boots crunched onto the stone perimeter of the ring, and my gaze immediately shot across the black sand, searching for the champion of More Alora.

I expected a towering, dark-armored warrior. I expected a monstrous Fae lord draped in mountain furs. I expected Kaelor.

Instead, standing at the far side of the arena, flanked by two emerald-cloaked guards, was Lord Dellyn.

The dark-visaged lord of More Alora stood stoic, his sharp black eyes staring across the ring at me with an unholy, triumphant malice.

I halted at the edge of the obsidian sand, my brow furrowing in confusion. Why is Dellyn standing in the ring? Where is the heir?

Before I could step over the perimeter boundary, Caspian turned toward me.

He didn’t maintain his professional distance. He stepped straight into my space, his broad frame blocking out the sight of the crowd, the King, and the black sand. He reached up, his calloused hands coming up to gently frame my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones with a trembling, reverent softness that shattered the cold mask of the High Captain.

He looked deep into my green eyes, his royal blue gaze burning with an unyielding devotion that made my heart slam against my ribs.

“Until my chest stops beating,” he whispered softly.

The words hit me like a physical blow.

Before I could utter his name, before I could gasp out his secret, he pulled me into a fierce, crushing embrace. He held me tight against his armored chest, burying his face in my hair, absorbing the tremor in my frame, giving me every ounce of his strength.

He pulled back slowly, offering me a final, steadying nod, and took a step back, taking his post outside the perimeter line.