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BACK IN THE great room, only Pages remain—first through fourth years. Everyone is standing apart. I don’t know if the competition has already started and it’s every Page for themselves or if people are just nervous. Nick wouldn’t know that part. He didn’t have to do this step, and he never would.

Most of the crowd looks like sophomores and juniors. Almost all of them look like athletes. A handful are tall and muscled, like swimmers. Some look more like wrestlers, wide across the shoulders and hips. Sturdy tanks built for the mat. Two of those Pages look like particularly vicious Ralph Lauren models, with barrel chests that stretch their powder blue and salmon polo shirts at the seams.

Vaughn, the only Page leaning casually against a wall, catches me staring at him. The leer on his handsome, tanned face—and the wink he sends me—makes it hard to play the lost lamb, because all I want to do is scowl back, teeth bared. I look away.

There’s a girl about my build with short auburn hair, her body thrumming with tension. A few of the other girls remind me of Sarah: small, ballerina-like people who stand with both feet planted wide and turned out. Deceptively fast and strong, I bet.

If the Vassal families prepare their children like Nick says, then even a freshman would enter school with some weapons training, if not actual demon-hunting experience. I’ve seen two demon attacks, which gives me an advantage over someone who hasn’t seen one, but I can’t let on that I’ve seen any.

Nick doesn’t know about my wall and After-Bree, but he didn’t seem to think I’d have any trouble pretending to be ignorant. I did lie to Sarah to get into the Lodge.

I wonder what Alice would say.

I think she’d tell me I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and that if I don’t get out now, I might not be able to when things turn for the worse.

Abruptly, the double doors open and Tor strides into the room. She’s wearing a ruched royal-blue dress that hugs her curves, and her hair cascades down her shoulders in sunflower waves.

“Welcome, everyone. I’m Victoria Morgan, the Legendborn Scion of the Line of Tristan, third-ranked.” She pauses for applause, and the Pages in the room actually give it to her. Instead of clapping, I notice her blue bracelet. It’s identical to Sarah’s. And if Sarah sponsored Whitty, Sarah is Legendborn.

“Tonight begins the annual initiation process for our hallowed Order.” Her cheery gaze pauses on me for a brief moment, like she’s trying to place me. Her eyes widen when she spots Nick’s sigil. “Pages, tonight you will take the Oath of Fealty. If the Oath finds you worthy, you will officially become a member of the Southern Chapter and be granted Sight, the ability to see aether. If you are not worthy, you will be mesmered and cast out. In the meantime, not a word until the ceremony, yes? Follow me.” Instead of turning the way she came, Victoria strides through the crowd toward the back of the room.

“Tor?” Craig speaks up.

“Yes, Page McMahon?” She answers without looking, already opening the sliding balcony door to let the night air in.

He glances at the rest of us, then back to her. “How many Squire spots are open this year?”

“Oh! So sorry!” Victoria pivots on a heel, pleasure bright on her face. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, Nick Davis has returned.” Murmurs, eager nods from the crowd. “Thanks to Nick, tonight our chapter makes history in more ways than one. This year will be remembered as the year he claims his Scion title, the year Pages compete for a record three Squire positions, and”—to my surprise, she openly gestures in my direction, a pleased smile on her face—“the year our chapter welcomes its most diverse Page class.”

Victoria leads her own applause, and half of the room joins her.

Heat curls around my neck and ears. Diverse. Like an award she’d given herself. A gold star. Diverse.

We follow Victoria across the balcony and tramp single file down wooden stairs to reach the Lodge’s backyard. Here the humid, dark evening swallows us whole, save for the light from a few tall torches around the yard’s perimeter. She tells us to line up in the grass and wait, then disappears down a path around the side of the building.

I’m grateful for the poor lighting because Victoria’s words are still churning in my stomach, and I can’t control my face.

Its most diverse Page class? Ever? And as if that’s why Nick chose me?

Norris. McKinnon. Tor. Three comments, three assumptions, three people who’ve singled me out because of how I look and what they’ve decided I represent. In forty-eight hours.

I close my eyes against a rush of emotions: anger, hot and burning against my cheeks. Disgust at the self-congratulatory expression on her face. Then the deep fatigue my father calls “death by a thousand cuts.”

How many cuts am I going to have to endure? I wish Alice were here.

Greer nudges me with their elbow, and I open my eyes. “That’s messed up, what she said.”

I blink, startled to hear it from someone else this time. “Thanks.”

Someone shushes us from down the line. Greer leans in. “People say shit about me, too. But my parents are major donors. I come from six generations of Vassal service and three generations of Pages, and I’m white, so they get strategic about when and where. Some folks just don’t care to get better or learn more, and it shows.”

“Yeah.” I take a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“Just remember, you don’t have to be the best. To be eligible for Selection, all we have to do is make it to the end of the tournament without losing or forfeiting. It’s good there are three open Squire spots instead of two. Better odds, you know?”

“Wouldn’t say that.” Whitty is on my right. “The higher-ranked the Line, the more folks’ll be gunning for its title.” Greer nods, their face solemn.

This is gonna be a long few months.

The air pressure changes, setting off a small pop! in my ears. In the next heartbeat, the dark trees in front of us smear and twist into a black-and-green knot, then unfurl with a snap into an identical scene that now includes a line of eight hooded, robed figures. While the Pages beside me gasp in surprise, I scent the air, on edge.

Where is that damn Merlin?

But the smell of Sel’s casting never comes, likely carried away by the warm wind flowing across our faces. The figures take a single, unified step forward, their robes dragging in the grass. Shadows deepen between the folds of the heavy material, and the cowls are so full that nothing of their faces remains visible. I’m certain they’re all Legendborn, but it’s impossible to tell who is who. Beside me, Greer sucks in a breath.

Together, the figures say, “One at a time,” and everything goes dark.

Complete, endless black. Before the cinnamon-smoke scent even reaches my nose, I know that Sel’s mesmer has taken our sight.

My heart lurches against my ribs. Someone yelps, the sound breaking against the trees.

“Quiet!” Vaughn snaps.

Movement, ahead of me. The soft whisper of one pair of feet moving over dry grass. Closer. Greer’s breath, coming in short pants. A sharp gasp far to my left. A pause. Louder steps, shuffling, the sound moving farther away. Two pairs of feet, maybe. Where are they taking us?

One at a time.

The same cycle again, this time to my right. I hear Whitty grunt before he and his escort walk forward. Greer goes next. Then one more. Legendborn sponsors taking their Pages?

Measured paces approaching me now. I hope that it’s Nick. Closer. My heart leaps into my throat. I don’t want to be touched in the dark. My breath rattles in my ears. A hand wraps around my elbow, holding the joint in a loose grip. That subtle warning is all I get before someone pulls me forward.

They guide me from behind by the shoulders. Twigs snap under feet walking maybe twenty feet ahead of us. The ground transitions from soft grass to soil to pounded dirt. A path. My nose tingles with the scent of tree sap and fresh pine needles. The sounds of nature grow closer, tighter. A barred owl hoots above us. Crickets swell in a high-pitched chorus. We’re in the woods.

Two pairs of steps not far ahead of us, shuffling and regular. Another guide, another Page. We walk straight for a few minutes, then turn. Turn again. After a while, I lose track of time. Maybe it’s because I’m under, but the smell of Sel’s mesmer and the disorienting path make me dizzy. We walk for ten minutes. Or twenty. I think we even double back at one point, but I can’t be sure. There’s a hundred acres of wooded land behind the Lodge. We could be anywhere.

Suddenly, my guide halts me. They press my shoulders until I lower into a squat; then warm fingers move my hand to a smooth, cool stone surface that drops off after a foot. A step. Stairs. They stand me up and come around to my front, take both hands. We walk down the stairs one careful step at a time. By the time we reach the bottom, there’s a river of sweat down my spine. We’re back on pounded dirt when the hand on my right shoulder drops down to my wrist and fingers brush across my knuckles.

“It’s me.”

I release the breath I’d been holding. Nick flips my hand and squeezes my fingers, then steps close. I can feel the heat of his chest against my shoulders, and when he leans in, the stale-smelling cowl brushes my ear. “Squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Can you see?” I squeeze twice. “Keep it that way.”

In other words, Let Sel’s mesmer take you. Don’t resist it.

“Listen, Oaths are living bonds sealed by speech. Their words pull aether from the air so that the commitment becomes a part of you. The Oath of Fealty will know if and when you intend to break it, but it works like mesmer, so—” He stops, his words lost to the night.

I whisper, “Nick?”

He releases my hand. I feel him step in front of me. Overhead, towering pines creak in the wind. Nick’s feet shift on the ground, like he’s pivoting in the darkness, searching. My heart begins to race. I tongue at the still-healing bite in my cheek.

“Wha—”

“Hush.” Indignation sparks, then dies when I hear the sound of his sword, extending. I imagine his face: brows tight, eyes and ears intent, weapon drawn. A swell of rustling leaves. A single branch snaps up high and to the right.

The barest whisper of movement—and a palm strikes my chest so hard the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.

I hit the ground back-first, and pain shoots across my spine.

A low growl from above—the harsh clang of metal on metal.

The high-pitched whine of weapons grinding against each other.

“What are you doing ?” Nick shouts, his voice strained.

“You bring a Shadowborn onto our grounds, to our sacred ceremony, and you ask what I am doing?”

Sel!

Adrenaline rushes through my veins, along with Nick’s voice and Rule Three: “Never let Selwyn Kane get you alone. He can’t find out what you can do.”

I skitter backward in a frantic crabwalk, hands scraping dirt and gravel.

A burning-hot hand seizes my ankle.

A thud, a grunt. The fingers release.

Impossibly strong fingers dig into my bicep. Pain like daggers. I scream.

The hard smack of flesh hitting flesh. A punch?

Sel’s fingers let go.

Labored breathing above me. Nick, between us. My heart thunders with panic. How much do I trust him now that I know what Sel can do?

“She’s not Shadowborn!”

“Three nights in a row of Order interference is not coincidence. I mesmered her twice myself and yet she stands here. An uchel—”

“Jesus, Sel,” Nick groans. “An uchel?”

What is that? Another demon? They say the new word with a short “i” sound at the beginning, then the throaty “ch” from “loch.”

“I decided to bring Bree forth today. She is my Page. Mine . You swore an Oath to serve—”

“And I am keeping my Oath.” The wind picks up just as Sel’s casting reaches my nose. There’s a tight, rhythmic sound like a small cyclone spinning to life.

“Sel…,” Nick cautions.

“It has enthralled you,” Sel growls. Electricity arcs across my nose and cheeks. The wind picks up, and something crackles. Ozone enters the air.

“Don’t do it—”

“SELWYN!” A man’s voice slices through the woods, and the cyclone dies immediately.

Footsteps approach behind me on the path. The steps are low and measured, but the older man’s heavy drawl holds barely contained fury. “You wouldn’t be callin’ aether against my son, now would ya, Kingsmage?”

Another pause. Even in the darkness of Sel’s mesmer, the tension in the air raises the hair on my arms.

“No, my lord.”

My lord?

Dr. Martin Davis—Nick’s father—steps close, and his cologne falls over me like a rich, heavy cape. “Well, that’s good. Because if you were, I’d expect that Oath o’ yours to be burnin’ a hole through your throat right about now.” It’s part observation, part warning. Sel hears it too; in the following silence, I hear his teeth grind together.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Nicholas.” The breathless way Dr. Davis says Nick’s name makes me wonder how often he sees his son.

“Dad.”

“?‘And there be those who deem him more than man, and dream he dropt from heaven.’?”

“Tennyson,” Nick says, his voice tight.

“Indeed.”

The strain of distance in their voices makes me wonder what happened to their family. What shattered them?

Beside me, the man’s body weight shifts in the dirt. “Mercy! And who is this lovely lady?” I’m still half-frozen on the ground, adrenaline thrumming through my body. Light fingers land on my shoulder. “May I help you up?” I nod, and he slips his hand under my elbow, pulling gently until I stand.

Another pair of hands around my other elbow. Dr. Davis lets his son pull me to his side. “This is Briana Matthews, my Page.”

Davis inhales sharply. “ Your Page?” Hope runs through his voice like a quiet current. “Does this mean—are you—”

“Last-minute decision.” A clicking sound and the whine of Nick’s retracting sword.

“Ah.” I get the feeling Nick’s father is weighing what words to use next, like the wrong phrase might send his son running into the woods. Finally, he says, “I’m sure you know how much this means to me. And to the greater Order.”

“Yeah.” The resignation in Nick’s voice catches me off guard, and my stomach twists. I’m the one who pushed him here. Am I the reason his voice is that heavy?

Pride and awe mingle in the older man’s voice. “My son claiming his title and bringing forth a Page, all in one night. That is… somethin’ else.” His next words are directed at me. “I don’t know how or if you’re responsible for my son’s change of heart, but if y’are, consider me eternally grateful. I’m in your debt, Briana. Welcome.”

A pause. Am I supposed to respond?

I mumble a quiet, “Thank you.”

Davis clears his throat. “Now, I’d like an explanation as to why the two of you were fighting.”

Nick doesn’t hesitate. “Sel thought he sensed a Shadowborn here in the woods, but he was mistaken. Our Merlin remains vigilant, as always.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Sel’s outburst and correction, but it never comes.

Davis is shocked. “Here? The Shadowborn have never been bold enough to open a Gate on our land, not with so many Legendborn under one roof. Selwyn, is this true?”

Silence. I wonder why Sel isn’t speaking up. Just a few minutes ago he had been so certain, so full of determined rage.

“We rely on your senses, son.” Davis makes a thoughtful sound. “Are your abilities becomin’ unpredictable, Kingsmage?”

A pause. Sel’s terse response comes through clenched teeth. “There is always that risk, Lord Davis.”

“You look unhappy, boy. As the Gospel of Luke instructs, let us celebrate and be glad of Nicholas’s return, for ‘he was lost and is found.’?” Another pause in which Sel could counter Nick’s explanation, but doesn’t. “Bree, I must apologize for both my son and Selwyn here. Oil and water, these two, ever since they were children.” I nod. Satisfied, Davis moves down the path. “Let us proceed to the Chapel. Don’t want to keep the others waitin’. Not on a night such as this.”

Nick guides me forward. I don’t hear Sel say or do anything else. In fact, the only footsteps I hear are Nick’s and his father’s.