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SEVERAL EMOTIONS CARTWHEEL across the girl’s face: alarm, doubt, and curiously, hope. “Nick told you to meet him here? Tonight?”

“Yeah.” I add an uncertain frown and waver to my mouth. “Is that… is that okay? He said it would be—”

A squeak leaps from the pixie girl’s mouth. “Yes! Of course it’s okay. If Nick said it, ohmygosh… yes.” She squirms like a caught mouse, and I feel a little guilt mixed with triumph.

When she opens the door farther to let me in, I notice a blue silk ribbon bracelet wrapped around her wrist. Sewn into the center of the fabric is a small silver engraved coin. “It’s just that you’re a little early,” she exclaims. “No one’s really here yet. I can’t let you into the great room without your sponsor, but we have a salon for guests. You can wait there while I call Nick.”

Sponsor? “Sounds great,” I say, and follow her into the foyer.

I immediately recognize the smell and the Southern Living –meets–ski lodge decor, but that’s where the Lodge’s familiarity ends.

I’ve never seen anything so grand in my life.

The stone walls of the three-story foyer extend up into open rafters. On either side hang paintings in gold-leaf frames and heavy-looking tapestries in dour browns and blacks. There are actual, honest-to-God iron sconces lining the entryway before us, but instead of flames behind their glass coverings, there are vintage Edison bulbs. Twin staircases flank the porcelain-white marble floor and curve up to an open balcony connecting the two wings of the second floor.

Bentonville doesn’t have houses like this. Normal people don’t have houses like this. At least not in my world. My parents had renovated an old split-level from the seventies, and we’d moved there eight years ago. Most of the homes nearby are rural farmhouses passed down from grandfathers and great-grandfathers, or middle-class neighborhoods filled with older houses that look like mine.

As I gape, the girl looks over her shoulder with a dimpled smile. “I’m Sarah, by the way. But most people call me Sar.”

I smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

Sarah opens a door tucked under the left staircase. The salon is circular, just like the stone tower above. Four round tables sit in the center of the room, each with a wooden and marble inlaid chessboard embedded in its center, and a leather couch sits in front of a fireplace by the window. Sarah gives a guarded but polite smile and closes the door, leaving me alone.

I walk the perimeter of the room while I wait, studying the frames on the walls. Directly across from the door are two prominent portraits hung side by side under a pair of brass picture lights. The first is a man with bushy brows staring out with unyielding blue eyes. JONATHAN DAVIS, 1795. The next portrait was painted much more recently. Dr. Martin Davis, 1995. Nick’s ancestor and his father. Of course. The Order must be the organization his dad wanted him to join. Like Nick, Martin in the portrait is tall and broad in the shoulders, but his eyes are a deep blue that’s almost black. Instead of the sun and straw strands that fall into his son’s eyes, he has a shock of thick, dark blond hair cropped close at the temples.

I gnaw on my lip, adjusting the information pile in my head. No, piles won’t do anymore. I need drawers and cabinets now. Organized places to add new details that feel important, like the fact that even though Nick seems to despise Sel and maybe even the Order itself, his family portraits are displayed in a place of obvious honor.

Another image draws my eye. To the left of Jonathan, there’s an old black-and-white illustration on yellowed parchment behind glass: five men in long, aristocratic waistcoats with puffy white sleeves, standing around a table in a drawing room. The bronze plate beneath it includes a short paragraph:

PIONEERS FROM GREAT brITAIN, THE FOUNDERS OF THE ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE’S CAROLINA COLONIAL CHAPTER WERE STEPHEN MORGAN, THOMAS JOHNSTON, MALCOLM MACDONALD, CHARLES HENRY, AND JONATHAN DAVIS, C. 1792.

The plaque includes brief bios of the men and their achievements:

Served on the legislature. Lieutenant governor. Tobacco baron. Co-owners of one of the largest plantation complexes in the South.

Buzz, buzz.

The door opens, and I turn around with as pleasant a look as possible. This is where my plan gets wobbly; I have no idea what Nick may have said on the phone, so I brace for Sarah’s response.

From the look on her face, my gamble has paid off. “Nick’s on his way. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Perrier? Wine?”

“No, thank you. Did he say how long he’d be?”

“Maybe ten minutes. He lives off campus, but it’s not far.” She stands on one foot, then the other, as though she feels required to play host but doesn’t know how. In the end, she mutters a quick “Okay” and slips out the door.

Part one of my plan is complete. I drop onto the leather couch and wait for part two.

Ten minutes later, part two surges into the room, his cheeks bright as blood oranges. Nick slams the door behind him and reaches me in two steps.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His normally kind eyes strike me like blue lightning. The force of him, the sheer momentum of his anger, pushes me back against the pillows.

“Getting your attention.”

He studies me, his chest rising rapidly like he’d run here on foot. “We need to leave. Now, before everyone else arrives. Especially Sel.” He leans down, grabbing my elbow. “Come on.”

I can’t help but stand when he yanks me up, but I don’t make it easy for him. I pull against his grip and he pulls back. “Let me go. ” I jerk my arm out of his grasp. Before he tries again, I take a deep step into his space so he’ll retreat. It works, and he takes two stumbling steps back.

I take a sharp breath. Because broken hearts strip vocabularies down to their raw bones, and because I don’t want After-Bree to show up and turn this conversation into a tear-streaked explosion, I’ve scripted an admission using as few words as possible: “My mother died three months ago.”

Nick blinks, confused dismay overtaking fury until his expression lands somewhere in between the two. Most people say something right away, like “I’m sorry to hear that” or “Oh God.” Nick doesn’t. It makes me like him more than I should.

“Bree… that’s…” Nick shudders, and there—that response right there —makes me worry he won’t understand. That he hasn’t lost anyone close, so he won’t get it. I plow ahead anyway.

“It was a car accident. A hit-and-run. At the hospital, they took me and my dad into this… this room with a police officer and a nurse who told us what happened.” Hard now. Panic bubbling. Finish fast. “Or at least that’s what I thought. Yesterday, a memory came back. Just a snippet, but enough that I know that police officer was a Merlin. He mesmered me and my father to forget something from that night. If we know the full story, then maybe…” I break off, swallow again. “I just have to know what happened and why he hid it from us. And I need your help.”

Nick turns away, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“Nick?”

“I’m thinking. Just—” He shoves both hands through his hair.

“You don’t look surprised.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. “That’s because I’m not.”

I set my jaw. “I need your help.”

He’s silent for so long I think he might turn around and leave. Shove me out the door for real. Call security, like in the movies. Then he closes his eyes, sighs, opens them—and starts talking.

“Merlins are the Order’s sorcerers. Their affinity for aether is so strong they’re essentially supersoldiers. Trained from birth, assigned to posts, and sent on missions to hunt rogue Shadowborn, keep Onceborn populations safe, close Gates…”

My breath catches. A mission. “They never let us see her body. Could—could she have been attacked by a demon?”

Nick doesn’t look convinced. “A Merlin can detect a demon miles away, and even then, most are incorporeal isels. Visible to someone with the Sight, but not strong enough to cause physical harm. Onceborn deaths are extremely rare because they’re exactly what Merlins are trained to prevent. That, and securing the Code. If Onceborns ever knew the truth, there’d be mass fear, chaos—two things Shadowborn thrive on. No, this doesn’t make any sense.” His eyes darken. “Unless…”

A cold hand grips my heart. “Unless what?”

“Unless the mission went bad. The Code threatened. Merlins are authorized to do whatever it takes to keep the war hidden.”

I remember Sel’s cruelty with the boy at the Quarry. The near torture of the isel. His disregard for my wounds last night.

“What if she got in his way somehow? Or—or he failed and wanted to cover his tracks?”

When I look up, Nick’s expression holds disgust. Old pain, resurfaced. And a question.

Maybe the question. The one all the others have led to.

The one that changes everything just by the asking.

“Would a Merlin kill someone?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t—”

“The truth.”

He looks at me then, his voice iron. “I’m not a liar. Not outside the Code.”

“Would they?”

His eyes slide shut. A single nod.

Everything inside me burns. A furnace, roiling, turning. I draw my shoulders back and steel myself. “I know the date. The time. Location. If I tell you what he looks like…”

He spreads his hands. “There are hundreds of Merlins all over the world. Even if I knew every one, they won’t tell me anything. Each Merlin takes the Oath of Service to the High Council of Regents. They’re the ones that assign Merlins to their missions, and no Regent will speak to an outsider.”

“You’re Legendborn. Speak to the Regents on my behalf.”

A heavy sigh leaves him. “Technically, yes, but procedurally? No. I renounced my formal title years ago— very publicly. Upset a lot of people. I’m sorry, Bree, I—”

“I don’t care!” I shout, and close in on him until our faces are inches apart. “Let me make this clear. My mother is dead , and a Merlin might have killed her. At the very least, he hid the facts. I’m not leaving until I get answers. If you can’t help me, tell me who will.”

He holds both palms up. “I hear you. I do! But you’ll never get near the Regents.”

“Because I’m not in this—this club?”

“The Order is a strict hierarchy, all titles and ranks,” he explains in a voice meant to calm. “The Legendborn title is sacrosanct. They outrank Vassals, Pages, Lieges, Viceroys, Mage Seneschals, you name it. The Regents have all the functional control, but if a Legendborn makes a demand, they are Oathbound to comply. The Regents won’t answer to anyone less.”

“So I live the rest of my life without knowing what really happened?” The defeat on Nick’s face fills me with desperation. How can I be this close to the truth, and yet it’s still out of my reach? Fear is a tight knot in my throat, but I swallow around it. There has to be a way—

Outside, the massive front door swings open with a bang. We both freeze. Sarah’s voice, then another. Several feet enter the foyer. Laughter. Someone says, “Welcome!”

And just like that, a solution strikes down into my core. A path. A purpose. Lightning. Our Brave Bree.

“Why did Sarah think you were my sponsor?”

Nick’s eyes widen, a glint of fear in their depths. “Bree…”

“It’s the first week of school. Are they recruiting?”

Nick says no. Then repeats himself. But I don’t hear it: the idea is already coursing through my veins, hot and heady.

If the Regents won’t talk to outsiders, then I won’t be an outsider.

“It’s not possible.” Nick groans. “Even if it were, you’re the exact worst person to appear before the Regents.”

I raise a brow. “What does—”

“Listen to me.” He reaches for my hands, forces me to look at him. “I’ve been around the Order my entire life and I’ve never heard of anyone like you. An Unoathed Onceborn who can See aether and voluntarily resist mesmer, the Code of Secrecy’s greatest weapon? All of that means the Legendborn, the Order, and the Regents will see you as a threat, an anomaly. Something to be contained if not eliminated. Not to mention the Merlins. They’re an army dedicated to enforcing Order law—and Sel’s one of the most powerful Merlins in years . If it gets out he’s failing at his post here, it’s his head and future on the line. He’ll report you to the Regents himself, the Regents will put you on trial, confirm what you can do, and then disappear you. Now, please, we have to leave before—”

“No!” I yank my hands away, walking back toward the door. “The timing is perfect. All I have to do is go out there and confirm what Sarah already thinks she knows. Then I’ll join and become Legendborn. Easy peasy.”

Nick stares at me, incredulous. “That right there is proof you have no idea what you’re talking about. I was born into my title, but you’re an outsider. If I bring you in, you’ll only be a Page. You’d have to compete against all the other Pages to become Legendborn. The tournament lasts months, and all of it is rigged. It’s a setup to favor certain families, certain kids.”

“Kids like you, right?” I’m drunk on the idea now, the solution to everything. I jerk a thumb over my shoulder at the two paintings. “Your ancestor founded the damn Order. You’re the textbook definition of a legacy.”

He laughs bitterly. “A legacy I rejected . I’ve never even seen a tournament. Even if you do well in the Trials, there’s no guarantee you’ll get chosen at Selection. The other Pages have been trained to fight, they’ve studied—”

“And I’m pushy,” I retort.

A wry smirk tugs at the corner of Nick’s mouth. My heart is thundering so loud I’m sure he must hear it. He paces, stares at me, then paces again. Stops. “Say we do this. Then what? You join, find your evidence, and go? These people don’t let members just walk away for good.”

The fight in me is still there, but resolve folds around it. “The last words I said to my mother were in anger.” He flinches like I’ve struck nerves in multiple places. “If there’s even a one percent chance that she was…” I swallow hard. “Either way, I can’t let our fight be the end. And if you don’t help me, I’ll just find another way.”

His eyes search mine. That tug between us pulls tight.

We both jump when the door opens and a new face peeks in. “Davis!” A tanned boy in a dress shirt and slacks ambles into the room, swirling a glass of sparkling water in one hand. His cool gaze lands on me for a second before it flows back to Nick. “Sar said you were here! This your Page?”

Nick’s eyes never left my face. I meet them with every ounce of determination I possess. Finally, after a long moment, he answers us both.

“Yeah, Fitz, she’s mine. Figured it’s about time I reclaim my title.”