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FITZ SLAPS NICK on the back, spilling his sparkling water in the process. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Davis!”

Nick’s eyes slide from mine to Fitz’s. “Give us a minute, Fitz?”

“Not a problem.” Fitz backs out of the room with a wide grin. “My man!”

“That’s right!” Nick flashes a smile and points to Fitz, looking for all the world like a fraternity bro at a tailgate. When the door closes, he turns to me, expression solemn again.

“Questions: Was that your bro face? Because I super don’t like it. More importantly, your Page?” I exclaim, eyes narrowing. “Like I belong to you? Your servant?”

“No!” Nick says, flushing. “Of course not. Sorry. Not that kind of Page. Here—” He fishes under his collar and draws a long silver chain up and over his head. “A medieval Page’s service was voluntary, honorable, and mutually beneficial.” He nods toward my neck. “May I?”

I eye the jewelry in his palm. “I guess.” He drapes the necklace over my hair. A heavy silver coin like the one on Sarah’s bracelet drops down to the center of my chest. I run my fingers over the engraving on the still-warm surface: a circle with an elegant diamond shape etched in the center. A line with no end, and four points stretching beyond its curves.

“Calling you ‘mine’ means I’m the one who tapped you. That my bloodline—my family and I—vouch for you, and you have our protection and blessing.” He holds a hand up to stop the question on my lips. “Later. I’ll go along with you competing for now, only while I figure out an alternative. But if we’re going to do this—and I just need to state for the record, one more time, that this is a bad idea—then we’re doing it together. You and me. And on my terms. Agreed?”

I cross my arms, but he tilts his head expectantly. “Fine.” I relent. “What ‘terms’?”

“We literally just came up with this plan, Bree, gimme a second.”

The lights above us flicker once, twice. Outside, Sarah announces that the event will begin in ten minutes. When I look back down, Nick’s eyeing me speculatively. I can’t help but feel like he’s measuring me for a coat that I’m not going to like.

“Okay. First rule…”

When we leave the room ten minutes later, there are over twenty students milling in the foyer. Some are dressed like Nick and me, in jeans and T-shirts; others wear cocktail dresses and suits. Some Pages assess me with not-so-subtle glares, while others stare at Nick, blinking twice as if he’s a heaven-sent mirage.

Nick sports an expression I’ve yet to see on him. With each step into the crowd, he becomes some new iteration of himself: a combination of the confident, warm charmer from the first time we met and… something I don’t recognize.

A curvy, short girl with wavy red hair and a tall, lanky boy with cropped brown hair approach us. Although they walk close together, they seem like polar opposites: she’s dressed in loose slacks and a paisley blouse while his jeans and wrinkled button-down shirt look like he’d plucked them from a sad pile of clothes on the floor. Interestingly, they wear matching red leather cuffs on their right wrists with identical silver coins in the center.

What are these coins?

“Nick…,” the girl breathes, “Sarah said you were here, but…” A soft British accent curves around each word before her voice trails off in awe.

The boy squeezes her shoulder and steps forward with his hand out. “While Felicity here regains the power of speech, I’ll say it’s good to see you, man.” He doesn’t sound Southern at all. A New Englander, probably.

“Hey, Russ. Thanks.” Nick clasps Russ’s hand with a smile and nods in my direction. “This is Briana Matthews, my—” He clears his throat. “I invited her to join the Order.”

I shoot him a look that says real smooth , and his mouth quirks.

Russ notices our exchange but doesn’t comment. His mischievous eyes immediately put me at ease. “Nice to meet you, Briana,” he says while shaking my hand. “Welcome to the Lodge.”

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my tone light. Gracious. I force a goofy smile, hoping that I look overwhelmed and clueless. “I’ve never been in a house like this before. It’s so… fancy.” Nick’s first rule is still ringing in my ears.

“Remember that Sel thinks you’ve been mesmered twice: the Quarry and last night. So, behave as though you know nothing and have witnessed nothing. Everyone here has to think you’re an ignorant Onceborn brand-new to our world. Don’t let anyone know what you can do.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t really do things halfway.” Russ follows my gaze. “It has a certain museum-chic, don’t-touch-anything-or-else-someone-will-rap-your-knuckles charm, I suppose.” I giggle at that. The sound feels completely foreign, but I think I pull it off, because Russ gives me a wink. “Of course, fancy and formal means Flick made me wear something other than a T-shirt.”

Beside him, Felicity scowls. “I really hate that nickname.”

“Felicity is way too many syllables!” Russ exclaims. “Your parents were sadists.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ignore him.”

Somewhere a small chime rings, and double doors open at the back of the foyer.

As Felicity and Russ walk ahead, Nick and I follow at the back of the crowd. I lean in to him, my voice pitched low for his ears. “What’s their deal? And what are the coins?”

Nick replies quietly, without looking at me. “Felicity Caldwell, junior, and Russ Copeland, sophomore.” He waves at a tall boy with a gentle face and light-colored hair, who salutes him back with a wry smile. “Both Legendborn. They wear matching sigils because Felicity is a Scion, born with the title like me, and Russ is her chosen Squire.”

“Why do you hate them?”

He blinks. “Who said I hate them?”

I gesture over his shoulder to the undergraduates chatting around us, then to the opulent foyer. “Sel called you the prodigal son. You rejected all of this.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek. “The reason I renounced my title has nothing to do with the people here.”

“Then why—”

“Another story for another day.”

I frown but don’t feel like I know him well enough to press. But if I don’t know Nick, I think, then why do I trust him?

He bumps me with his arm, nodding ahead to where the crowd is moving into the great room. “We both need to be ‘on’ when we walk through those doors. Any more questions?”

“A ton.” The features of his face are caught halfway between the loose, charismatic boy I’d met last night and the stern, noble Nick whose eyebrows are drawn tight with some emotion I can’t identify. “Why are you helping me?”

His mouth quirks. “I like helping people, if I can.” The light in his eyes dims. “And I know how it feels to watch your family shatter right in front of you and not be able to stop it.”

Before I can ask another question, he turns away—and then I’m struck silent by the massive living room in front of me. Brown leather couches sit clustered in front of a large fireplace on one far end. The fireplace itself is Biltmore House–big; the marble hearth could hold a horse standing upright. I glimpse a bright chef’s kitchen through a swinging door to the right, but most stunning are the twelve-foot-high floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire back wall and give an expansive view of the forest. The Lodge is high enough on its hill that the darkening horizon is visible through the earthen browns and evergreens.

Nick has paused beside me while I take everything in. Once I’m done, I notice that, again, half of the eyes in the room are glued to Nick and the other half have found me. A few of the more nicely dressed people from the foyer trail curious eyes up my boots to my jeans and T-shirt. Some stare openly at Nick’s coin around my neck, and heat rises up my ears. Nick leads me over to a display of beverages in a corner. When the eyes follow us, I find my irritation shifting from the gawkers to Nick.

The moment the voices around us return to idle chatter, I move closer to him and whisper, “Everyone’s staring.”

His back to the room, he passes a glass of cucumber water to me and keeps his voice low. “As far as they know, I haven’t walked into this house since I was twelve years old. Then I show up out of the blue to reclaim my title and sponsor a Page no one’s seen before. And…”

“And?”

Nick presses his lips into a thin line and pours a water for himself. “And, traditionally, new Pages come from the Vassal families who pledged themselves to the Order decades or even generations ago, so…”

I groan inwardly. “So it looks like I skipped the line.”

He chuckles. “You could say that.”

Nick explained Vassals in the salon: Onceborn outsiders who are sworn to the Code and the Order at large, but pledged in service to one of the original thirteen Legendborn bloodlines that founded the Order in the medieval ages. The Vassals know about aether and Shadowborn, but they don’t fight in the war. Instead, their network shores up any gaps in their assigned family’s needs and resources. In exchange, the Order grants them favors. Most Vassals start out with power or money and use the Order to gain more. Climbers. Like Deputy Norris, probably. Vassalage creates CEOs, elected officials, cabinet members, even presidents.

I scan the room, hear the buzz again, then mutter into my drink. “And then there’s the fact that no one else here looks like me.”

Nick follows my gaze, sees what I see—a room full of white kids, not a person of color in sight—and grimaces. His jaw sets in a hard line. “If someone says something to you, anything, let me know. I’ll put a stop to it.”

I look at Nick’s face. He is so certain that he understands what I’m facing. Then I think of Norris, the dean, and how some things, some people, don’t want to just… stop. I think of what it might cost me to infiltrate the Order. To succeed in an institution founded by men who could have legally owned me, and wanted to.

“Sure you will.”

I hear my cynicism, and Nick does too. He frowns and starts to reply, but gets cut off by a new voice at my shoulder.

“Hey, Davis!”

We turn to see a pair of students looking at us with bright, curious eyes.

“Whitty!” Nick smiles and slaps hands with one of them. “Man, is it good to see you. It’s been what, two years since the rafting trip?”

Whitty grins. “Not our finest hour.” He has a stocky build with wild, pale curly hair, and he’s wearing a worn camo jacket and jeans. While the other kids are dressed for classes or the formality of the Lodge, Whitty’d look equally at home on a tractor or up a hunting blind. His casual indifference appeals to me immediately, but then I remember he’s probably a Vassal kid, and my guard goes up.

Nick had been disdainful about Vassal families whose sole focus is positioning one of their children to join the Order: “The Order’s mission is fighting Shadowborn and protecting humans. It’s safer on the outside, but for some the benefits of membership outweigh the risks. Even Pages and their families get privileges Vassals don’t. Only Legendborn can recruit new members, so these climbers will do anything to curry favor with their assigned bloodline in hopes that their child will get tapped,” he’d scoffed. “But those Vassals don’t want to help people, they want the status. And they put their kid in harm’s way to get it.”

Hence, Rule Two: “Keep your head down. Disappear. Make them forget you, so they don’t consider you competition.”

But Nick seems genuinely happy to see the other boy, so maybe Whitty’s not the “sport and glory” variety?

“The Upper Nantahala’s class three and four rapids, though. We did all right.” Nick nods in my direction. “This is Bree Matthews. Bree, this is James Whitlock, also known as Whitty. The Whitlocks are Vassals to the Line of Tristan, and they own most of the pig farms out in Clinton.”

“We prefer the term ‘hog barons.’?” Whitty gives me a conspiratorial wink. He offers his hand; his grip is firm and warm. The faded blue cuff around his wrist is held together by a rubber band. “Nice to meet you, Bree. Nick here your sponsor?” I nod, and he whistles low. “Well, all right then.”

“I’m Sarah’s Page.” Whitty jerks a thumb at his companion. “And this is Greer Taylor. They’re Russ’s.”

“Hey, y’all.” Greer gives a short wave. They’re basketball-player tall and lean, with long, muscled arms and legs. Their dirty-blond hair lies in a single braid over their shoulder, while a few shorter strands fall out the front of their slouchy gray knit cap. An unbuttoned, expensive-looking, slate-colored suit vest over an untucked denim shirt and cuffed jeans puts their look somewhere between designer and hipster. They’re also wringing their hands in front of their belt buckle in a nervous gesture that reminds me painfully of Alice.

“Thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves,” Whitty says with a sidelong glance at the rest of the room. “Plenty o’ time to be at each other’s throats later, if the tournament stories are true.”

Nick starts to reply—to assuage our fears or to counter Whitty’s casual prediction of violence?—but stops when a tall boy with brown curly hair appears at his elbow.

“Sorry to interrupt, but are you Nick Davis?” When Nick nods, the boy’s brows shoot up. He offers his hand. “I’m Craig McMahon, fourth-year Page.”

The year of study doesn’t affect when a student can be tapped, so someone who joins as a senior will only ever be a first-year Page—and will only get one chance to be Selected as a Legendborn Squire. If Craig’s a fourth-year, then he was tapped as a freshman.

Nick returns the boy’s handshake. “McMahons are Vassals to the Line of Bors, right? Fitz or Evan brought you in?”

“Yep.” Craig nods and raises his hand to show off a thin, dark orange leather band wrapped around his wrist with a silver coin at the center. “My family’s given five generations of outside service. I’m the first to Page.” His eyes dart to me, then back to Nick. “It’s true, then? You’re claiming your title?”

A slight flush creeps into Nick’s cheeks, but his chin tips up. “It’s true.”

Craig grins. “I’m a senior. Last opportunity to Squire. Didn’t think I’d ever meet you, but…” His eyes drift my way briefly, something sharp behind them. “I’d like to put my hat in your ring. Officially. Got a minute?”

Nick’s jaw clenches, and Whitty smiles into his drink. Craig pulls Nick into a conversation and they drift a few feet away. Greer sees the confusion on my face and leans in close. “You’re brand-new to all this, right?”

I have our agreed-upon story ready to go. “Nick and I met through Early College. He thought I’d be a good fit.”

“Only Nick could get away with plucking somebody outside Vassalage,” they say, and offer an encouraging smile. “He’s probably happy you’re not one of these.” They point their chin discreetly in Craig’s direction.

“One of what?”

“Legendborn acolyte. Fundamentalist Line worshippers. Craig there wants Nick to choose him before the Trials’ve even started. Want some gum? I chew when I’m nervous.” They reach into their bag to fish out a fresh pack. I notice their red ribbon choker and make an educated guess that Greer’s family serves whatever Line Felicity and Russ belong to. When I decline, they keep talking. “The acolytes are a special kinda believer, that’s for sure.”

“You say that like the Order’s a cult.”

“Not far off from one, some days,” Whitty interjects, watching a few more people wander in.

Greer shrugs. “All of it’s a leap of faith when you’re an outsider and don’t have the Sight yet. You seem to be taking it pretty well, Bree.” Greer assesses me with their brown eyes and kind smile before stuffing another piece of gum in their mouth. “How’d you react when Nick told you about Arthur?”

Arthur? Greer says the name without pause or inflection. Like King Arthur is some guy who could walk through the door at any moment. It takes me a few seconds to put together an answer that doesn’t betray the extent of my ignorance. “I was… stunned, of course.”

Nick and Craig make their way back over, with Felicity in tow. She bounces up to us with a clipboard and an infectious smile. She may have been surprised by Nick’s appearance, but now that her event is underway, she’s in her element. I’d bet good money that she’s in student government in the Onceborn world beyond these walls.

The Onceborn world where King Arthur is just a story, not a person. If Arthur is real, are his knights real? The Round Table? The Holy Grail?

When Nick sees my expression, concern ripples across his brow, but Felicity speaks up and draws our attention. “As this year’s recruitment coordinator, I have the pleasure of giving the initiates a tour of the Lodge before we begin. Shall we?” She inclines her head toward the foyer. Another pair of Pages is already waiting.

Whitty and Greer move to follow Felicity, but Nick touches my elbow. He walks me over to the window and out of earshot. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late—”

“King Arthur is a real person?”

Nick pales, blinks. Blinks again. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

“What does that mean?” I nearly shout.

A few Pages across the room turn in our direction, their eyes darting between the two of us. Fitz looks like he’s considering clobbering me. Nick flashes a winning smile but speaks to me through gritted teeth. “Low. Profile.”

“Explain.”

His eyes canvas the room as he talks. “What you think you know of the legend, the versions you’ve read or heard? Almost all of them can be traced back to the Order. They had a hand in most of the stories about Arthur that spread beyond Wales and a pen in every text from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. Vassal clerics, writers, archivists worked on misinformation campaigns to keep Onceborns from the truth. This is what I mean by ‘bad idea.’ The other sponsors have had way more than ten minutes to prep their Pages—”

“Stop.” I sway on my feet, still reeling from lies and truths. “This is happening. I don’t care if it’s all real.”

“Page Matthews!” Felicity calls from the doorway.

“Be right there!” I wave, a false smile on my lips.

I start in her direction, but Nick steps in my path. “Legends are dangerous, Bree. Don’t underestimate them.”

The group is already halfway up the curved staircase and finishing introductions by the time I reach them.

“There are common spaces and private residents’ rooms on the second floor,” Felicity is saying. Her red curls sway behind her as she walks backward up the stairs with ease. “We’ve also got a theater room with enough seating for twelve and a wet bar.” While Felicity leads us across the balcony and down the hall, I study the other initiates.

All told there are five new Pages: Greer, Whitty, me, and two other boys named Vaughn and Lewis. Vaughn, Fitz’s Page, is as tall as Nick, but so broad across the chest and biceps that the buttons of his pale blue dress shirt look liable to pop. Lewis, Felicity’s Page, is the opposite: small-framed, thin, and a little green around the gills.

When we reach the end of the hallway, Felicity shoves open a pair of heavy doors. “And here’s the library.”

Rows of bookshelves are filled with great tomes bound in worn browns and blues and green leather. Solemn, heavy crimson curtains drape windows that stretch up into a Gothic arch. One side of the room holds rectangular study tables with green-shaded banker’s lamps. On the other side, three leather couches face a fireplace and tall mantel.

I float against the back wall alongside Greer, half listening to Felicity, who is now listing the many perks that Order of the Round Table members receive on campus. She’s so bubbly and welcoming that I can’t quite imagine her hunting a demon. There are portraits here, too. A floor-length oil painting of a knight on horseback hangs between two windows. Green-and-black gore runs down the center of the blade he brandishes, and his bright, cyan-blue eyes glitter beneath a medieval helmet.

A waist-high glass display case sits on a table in the back corner. It holds tattered, delicate-looking journals and small artifacts made of stone and silver. Nothing seems particularly remarkable about the objects until I see— “What the hell are those?” I blurt. Beside me, Greer gasps.

Felicity and the others walk over to the case to examine what I’ve found: a chained pair of dented, silver bands resting on a black velvet stand. The info card beneath them reads: MERLIN JACKSON’S MANACLES. SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS. 1692.

“Oh,” Felicity says, her bright demeanor faltering. “Those are, er, handcuffs. That Merlins can enchant with aether to restrain individuals.”

“You mean aether users from outside the Order,” Vaughn says with a nonchalant shrug. “Witches, looks like. From the Trials.”

“Merlins use handcuffs?” Lewis breathes at the same time that I say, “The Salem Witch Trials?”

Vaughn rolls his eyes at us both. “Only weak Merlins need material tools and weapons. The powerful ones can make aether constructs that are hard as diamond.”

“It’s true,” Felicity adds, eager to change the subject. “I’ve never seen our Kingsmage use metal weapons. My father says Selwyn’s constructs are the strongest he’s ever seen, and he Squired at Northern in the seventies when Merlin Jenkins held that post.”

While the others follow her to the door, I linger at the case, shaken by all that had been left unsaid: why the manacles were used initially, why they’re on display now, and, most disturbing, what they mean about Merlins and their missions.

Merlins don’t just hunt demons.

They hunt people.