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“Lord Dellyn of More Alora,” Fjörn commanded, his voice echoing through the silent dome. “Name your champion!”

Lord Dellyn did not draw a weapon. He did not step into a fighting stance.

Instead, a slow, dark, and utterly triumphant smile spread across his ancient, scarred face—a smile of pure, depraved victory that made the cold blood freeze in my veins.

“More Alora does not send a mere soldier to execute a half-breed, Your Majesty,” Dellyn drawled, his raspy voice carrying an insufferable, lethal arrogance.

Dellyn turned his head toward the deep, vaulted shadow beneath the eastern archway of the arena. He raised his hand, pointing a single, ringed finger toward the darkness.

“Step forth, my son!” Dellyn called out, his voice booming across the black sand. “Claim your rite!”

From the deep, pitch-black shadows of the archway, a figure stepped out onto the Obsidian Sand.

It was not Kaelor Ashborne.

The crowd gasped as the warrior stepped into the pale morning light, the heavy soles of his dark vanguard boots crunching deliberately against the volcanic grit.

My heart stopped beating in my chest. The world around me collapsed into a dizzying, suffocating blur.

Mal stood clad in full, dark-forged armor lined with polished obsidian plates, carrying a four-foot broadsword. His training leathers, replaced by high-born armor adorned with the silver crest of the western mountains. His sharp features were completely devoid of the casual charm he had worn in the mortal tavern—locked into a mask of terrifying dominance.

His eyes burned through the clear gold of the wards, locking onto mine with a dark, sinister heat that sent a wave of icy terror straight down my spine.

Lord Dellyn raised his arms toward the High Council, his voice roaring across the quiet arena with absolute authority:

“Here stands my champion! The blood of the Western Reach, the terror of the mountain passes... Heir to More Alora, Maloce!”

FIFTY-ONE

Malice.

I was right to call him that. That was exactly what he was.

All those weeks of quiet observation. The way his eyes tracked my every breath, offering subtle warnings wrapped in smooth, poisonous concern—it hadn’t been intrigue. It hadn’t even been rival curiosity. It had been the cold, calculated evaluation of a butcher picking out the exact angle to drive the hook through a carcass.

Maloce. The Heir of More Alora.

The name echoed through the hollow silence of my magic-less skull, clashing against the deadened walls of my mind where Nyx’s voice should have been. Without the dragon’s deep rumble, without the warmth in my veins or the living shadow beneath my skin, the silence inside my own body was loud enough to drown out the roar of the crowd.

Across the pitch-black grit of the arena, Mal stood motionless. The silver crest of the western mountains gleamed on his onyx-plated armor.

He looked at me as if I were already dead.

Beside him, Lord Dellyn let out a dark, raspy chuckle that cut through the heavy air inside the wards. The lord bowed deeply to King Fjörn on the royal dais, backed away with slow, deliberate strides, and stepped through the shimmering, translucent barrier of the wards.

I took three slow steps back to my side of the ring. My feet sank into the cold, volcanic grit of the Obsidian Sand. My hands gripped the seven-foot shaft of Vaelthrys, the star-iron feeling impossibly dense, heavy, and cold in my bare palms.

Outside the dome, standing in the front row of the spectator tiers, Caspian was rigid, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and locked on Mal with a raw terror. He knew what I was standing against. Everyone in the keep knew.

High above us, King Fjörn stood at the edge of his obsidian platform. He did not look surprised. He did not look outraged that the Lord of More Alora had disguised his own heir within the ranks. To Fjörn, the board had simply adjusted. A pawn had revealed itself as a knight.

Fjörn raised his right hand, holding a heavy horn carved from the bone of a dragon.

“Let the blood decide!” the King’s voice boomed across the court.

I was his daughter…and he let them lead me like a lamb to slaughter.

He brought the horn to his lips and blew.