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My eyes locked onto the center of Mal’s chest—onto the slight gap in his armor right over his heart.

Mal saw the movement. His eyes widened in sudden realization as he began to bring his broadsword down to chop the spear out of the air.

“Too late, Malice!” I screamed.

With every last ounce of physical strength left in my battered, bloody body, I kicked off the ward and hurled Vaelthrys straight at his chest.

The spear flew through the air like a comet of shadow. The blackened star-iron cut through the dead air of the dome, its twin dragon-wing blades gleaming with a lethal edge, the blood-red gem at its center pulsing with a sudden crimson light as it sought the blood of its target.

It was a perfect throw.

A lethal strike that was aimed straight for the center of his sternum—guaranteed to slice through his skin, drink his blood, and unleash the absolute, relentless tracking pact of the First Era relic.

The crowd gasped in unison, the sound sucked out of the arena as hundreds of souls held their breath.

The spear traversed the ten feet of space in a fraction of a millisecond.

A sharp, violent sound echoed through the entire amphitheater.

My heart stopped in my chest. My lungs locked. The world froze.

Standing ten feet away from me, his broadsword held half-lowered, was Mal.

He hadn’t been impaled. He hadn’t been sliced. The crimson gem had not drunk a single drop of his blood.

Mal had moved his right hand—not to draw steel, not to block with a shield, but reaching out into mid-air with blinding, terrifying precision.

His long, calloused fingers were wrapped tightly around the light-drinking shaft of Vaelthrys.

He had caught the spear.

In mid-flight. Bare-handed. Inches from his chest.

The weapon vibrated violently in his grip, the crimson gem pulsing with a desperate energy, but Mal held it completely still—his arm locked like an iron vise, his dark armor untouched, his skin devoid of a single scratch.

Silence dropped over the sand—a dead, absolute quiet that felt like the bottom of a grave.

I stood paralyzed against the wards, my hands empty, my breathing ragged, my chest bleeding, staring at the male holding my only weapon.

Mal slowly lowered his arm, bringing the spear down to his side. He turned the weapon idly in his grip, inspecting the blades with a slow, dark smirk.

He raised his gaze to meet mine. His eyes burned through the quiet dome with a cold, triumphant malice that shattered the last remaining thread of hope in my chest.

“A valiant effort,” Mal whispered, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet sand as he took a step toward my disarmed, bleeding frame. “But you forgot one detail... I was trained by a better master than you.”

FIFTY-TWO

Iknew death had finally come for me.

My knees hit the volcanic grit of the obsidian sand with a heavy, final thud. The impact sent a dull, echoing jolt up my spine, but I barely felt it. I was hollowed out—stripped of dragon fire, drained of darkness, and bleeding from my ribs. I sat on the cold black ground like a sacrifice waiting for the blade.

Across the space, Maloce did not rush to finish the job with his broadsword.

Instead, a slow, sickening smile spread across his sharp face. He unbuckled the front clasp of his dark chest plate, reaching into the inner lining of his armor. When his hand emerged, his fingers were holding the thick, blood-soaked wad of cotton gauze he had stolen from my nightstand in the medical bay.

“You played your part beautifully, Princess,” Mal whispered, his voice smooth as silk and cold as grave-dirt.

He did not hesitate. Mal brought the saturated gauze up to the head of Vaelthrys, pressing the blood-caked cloth firmly against the blood-red gemstone.