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The physical force behind his blow drove me straight down onto my knees, my boots skidding three feet backward through the sand, spraying volcanic grit into the air. The vibration tore through my palms, numbing my wrists, racking my mended ribs with agony that dragged a sharp gasp from my throat.

Without magic to absorb the shock, without the dragon’s strength reinforcing my skeleton, I felt every single pound of his high-born Fae density slamming into my joints.

“Weak,” Mal rasped above me, pressing his full weight down onto the crossed blades, his face inches from mine. I could smell the bitter ash and cold ozone on his breath. “You rely so heavily on the Drakoryn in your chest, Tauriel. Without your reptile... you are just a girl in chainmail.”

I didn’t answer. I gritted my teeth, twisted my wrists, and used the curved crescent edge of Vaelthrys’s blade to catch the cross guard of his broadsword, deflecting his weight to the side.

I rolled sharply across the sand, my chainmail scraping against the grit, and scrambled back to my feet fifteen feet away, gasping for air.

My breath came in ragged, burning hitches. My hands were shaking, the skin of my palms torn raw from the friction of the star-iron shaft.

Mal turned slowly, completely unbothered by the exchange. He adjusted his grip on his broadsword, evaluating my ragged breathing with cool, academic interest.

Think, I screamed at myself, forcing my concussed brain to lock onto the fight. He knows how you fight. He knows what you favor. He knows your strengths and weaknesses. He knows…

Then, my gaze dropped to the double-edged head of the spear in my hands.

The flawless, blood-red gemstone at the center of the dragon-wings was dim, swirling with dormant, sluggish scarlet smoke. It was waiting.

Lorian’s journal. The records from the First Era. The sea-nymph’s warning.

The rule of Vaelthrys flashed through my mind with sudden clarity:

The gem absorbs blood, and the spear becomes a tracker. Once the blood pact is forged, 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.

I didn’t need to defeat Mal in a protracted, grueling trial of strength. I didn’t need to drive seven feet of star-iron through his chest or sever his head from his shoulders.

Although I would not be opposed to any of those options.

But, I just needed to slice him.

One drop. That was all I needed.

That was all the spear required. A single scratch. A single line of crimson drawn across his skin. The moment Vaelthrys’s gemstone drank a single drop of Maloce Dellyn’s blood, the ancient tracking pact would lock onto his life force, and the spear would execute him automatically.

Just a slice, I chanted in my head, my grip tightening on the dark metal as a cold focus settled over my nerves. Just a drop. Just a single scratch of his blood, and the spear will do the rest.

Mal lunged again.

This time, he didn’t go for a heavy overhead strike. He executed a rapid series of horizontal sweeps, his broadsword whistling through the dead air of the dome like a scythe harvesting grain.

I danced backward, my boots digging into the sand as I parried his thrusts with the shaft of the spear. Metal slammed against metal in a violent, deafening cadence. Every time his blade struck Vaelthrys, sparks of deep crimson erupted into the air, illuminating the sweaty lines of our faces.

“Is this the extent of your training, Princess?!” Mal taunted, stepping into my guard, his heavy shoulder slamming into my chest.

The impact threw me off balance. I stumbled backward, my heel catching a ridge of volcanic grit.

Mal capitalized instantly. His broadsword whipped upward, the tip of his blade slicing cleanly through the thick sapphire cloth of my tunic and cutting a three-inch line across my left ribs.

“AAAGH!”

Pain exploded across my side, sharp and hot. Blood soaked instantly through my tunic, dripping onto the black sand below.

The spectator tiers erupted into a roar of bloodthirsty cheers. Lords stood up from their benches, shouting for the Heir of More Alora to finish the half-breed. High on his dais, Fjörn sat motionless, his face an unreadable slab of granite, watching his daughter bleed.

“First blood to More Alora!” Lord Dellyn’s raspy voice called out from outside the ward.

I pressed my left arm against my bleeding ribs, my breath coming in short, agonizing wheezes as I backed away, keeping Vaelthrys braced between us.