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PATRICIA’S WARNING HAUNTS me for the rest of the day.

But it dissolves as soon as I walk into the training room, where excitement ripples through the five Pages waiting for Gillian and Owen. Something’s happened, but I don’t know what.

Greer and Whitty pull me aside to fill me in:

Yesterday afternoon William barred Sel from performing the Warrior’s Oath to bond Sar and Tor until he calmed down—which only made Sel even angrier. After that, Nick, Sel, and Lord Davis were overheard on a tense phone call that lasted late into the night. There’d been shouting. Even a scuffle. It ended with Sel smashing a chair and storming out the front door. No one’s seen Nick since.

Gillian walks in right as they finish talking, so I don’t get a chance to text Nick for answers. Between the sour taste in my mouth from my “breakup” with Patricia and my worry about Nick, the rest of the evening goes miserably.

Sel and Gillian demo the longsword, and face off to a draw. Again, Sel doesn’t speak to anyone and leaves as soon as they’re done.

Owen and Gillian introduce us to hard, custom-designed polypropylene practice swords. For me, it’s an utter disaster—even against the heavy wooden dummies we start with for the first hour.

On the second hour, they pair us up and that’s much, much worse.

Gillian drops her head into her hands every time Whitty disarms me. “It’s an extension of your arm, Matthews!” When I raise a hand to ask Whitty for a break three times in ten minutes, out of breath and hands clutching my knees, Gillian groans. “You have no stamina, Matthews! What if your Scion needed you? Do you think you can call time with a gwyllgi on your heels?” I want to scream at her that I have no idea what a gwyllgi is, but instead I stagger to standing, my heart thudding in my chest like a hammer, and start again.

When it’s over, I call Nick’s cell twice, but he doesn’t pick up.

Alice is studying when I get home. She notices my workout gear right away, and I’m ready with a lie: “Scavenger hunts and obstacle courses and team-building crap. Nothing dangerous, just ridiculous initiation stuff.” It takes everything in me to stay awake as we catch up. I tell her an abridged version of the “date” with Nick at the bar, and she gives me news about classmates from back home.

Nick texts right as I drift off in bed:

Hey, my dad sent a plane for me. Said I needed to join him at Northern and show face at the other chapters. Things are getting worse up here, just like there. Gates opening where we haven’t seen them before. I’ll be back for Thursday’s trial. Gillian’s good—trust her. You can do this, B.

Monday with the daggers is far worse than Sunday with the longsword.

I lose every match with Greer. They have years of training on their side and use their long arms and legs to every advantage.

After, they help me walk to William’s with a sore tailbone and a smattering of bruises from one side of my rib cage to the other, and from sternum to belly button.

According to Gillian’s calculations, if the blades were real, I’d have been gutted thirty times.

When I get home, I force myself to walk normally in front of Alice.

On Tuesday, there is no demo, but Sel shows up anyway. To watch, it seems.

He’s not the only one. Vaughn and Blake, and even Sydney now, watch my drills and smile smugly in the corner of the room.

I don’t need to hear them say it. Their eyes and laughter communicate clearly enough: no Scion would ever select me.

Each night there’s a cycle: I tell myself I don’t care what they think. Then, because I’m not used to losing, frustration wells inside, spilling into my limbs and burning muscles, and I push myself to get better, train harder. Later, while William heals my wounds—three broken fingers, a broken elbow, a bruised kidney and ribs—I remember that I’m not planning to stay. That this isn’t truly my life. And the cycle begins again.

Only Whitty and Greer seem to take pity, but any kindness they show me during our sparring matches is immediately caught by our trainers, who deal out punishment to us all in the form of laps or push-ups or tire flips.

Wednesday night goes horribly.

“Sydney, you’re up. Pick the weapon.”

Sydney walks to the rack and pulls the quarterstaff. By now I know that she and Blake are in a silent battle to become Pete’s squire, so I’m not surprised she picked the staff. We’d never be friends, but after the hellboar trial she’d at least treated me with respect.

I already know Owen’s going to call my name. I feel it in my gut.

“Bree.”

At the end of the line, Vaughn’s laughter is a deep, mocking rumble.

“Can it, Schaefer,” Gill warns.

Greer uses the distraction to lean close. “You’re taller than her and have a longer reach, but she knows that and will go for the sweep.”

I nod a silent thanks and make my way to the rack. When I turn back to the ring, I see Sel slip through the open door and take a seat on a bench near the wall.

Owen lays out the rules of engagement. “A match is won when your opponent yields or when they take a step outside the line.”

We step inside the blue ring and stand in starting positions, staffs at an angle across our bodies, one grip facing down, the other up. Owen gives the signal.

Sydney whips up; I block before it hits my ribs.

She dances back. I surge forward for a strike to her shoulder. She blocks. Counters with a low swing. Wood cracks against my shin, and pain blazes up to my knees.

Satisfaction glows in her eyes. She’d been waiting for that opening, and I’d walked right into it.

I stand—her staff flies toward my neck—and duck.

She throws her weight into a thrust at my solar plexus. I block, pushing her weapon to the left of my waist. It forces her off-balance, and I lean right so she falls forward. She plants her staff hard just before the blue line, halting her momentum before she tumbles out of the ring.

I should have used that opportunity to drop her to the mat.

She pushes off, pivots on a heel, and twirls her staff to strike at my temple. I panic and lean back too far. Miss the attack, but fall hard on my ass—

Her staff is at my throat.

“Yield,” she pants.

Everything happened so fast. Too fast. My throat bobs against her weapon.

Sydney presses lightly against my neck.

“I yield!” I snarl, knocking her staff to the side.

A few days ago she would have helped me up, if begrudgingly.

Now she smirks and walks away. The other Pages clap lightly at her performance.

I curse and roll to standing. When I recover my staff, I find Sel’s eyes on me from the bench where he’s leaned forward on his knees, chin on his palm. I’d forgotten he was here. Heat spreads over my throat and chest when I realize he’d watched me fail horribly, and with his personal weapon of choice.

Greer manages to best Blake with the practice sword, disarming him in a few minutes. Vaughn uses his weight and size to press Whitty out of the ring before they exchange more than a few blows. Whitty curses and throws his blade down, the maddest I’ve ever seen him.

Gill calls it a night. Her eyes linger on mine when she reminds the group we can use the rooms any time we want to practice before tomorrow’s trial.

Right as I meet Greer at the door, I feel Sel’s gaze on my back. I haven’t spoken to him all week, but there’s an expectant weight in the sensation of his eyes.

I sigh. “You know what? I’m gonna stay for a bit. You go on ahead.”

Greer raises a brow. They look over my shoulder at Sel sitting on the bench, then back at me. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

He waits until their footsteps disappear down the hall.

“Do you want to be a Squire?” His voice is inches behind me, and I yelp even though I should expect his silent approach at this point.

I frown, not sure how to answer. Do I want to achieve the title? Yes, so that I’ll be powerful enough in the hierarchy to demand an audience—and the truth—from the Regents. Do I want to fight in this war as a Squire?

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“I do, yes.”

He hums. Then turns, shucking his jacket and tossing it onto the bench behind him as he moves to the center ring. Then he stands there in his usual black tank and loose pants, rotating his wrists and stretching until corded muscles stand out on his forearms and biceps.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve decided that watching you fail this spectacularly is too painful to bear. Get over here.”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m offering to train you, silly thing.”

“What happened to ‘Briana’? I like that better than ‘silly thing.’?”

“Stop stalling.”

I toss my towel into the linen basket by the door. “There’s no way I’d let you train me.”

“Why?”

“Why do you want to in the first place? You can’t want me to succeed.”

He bends to stretch one arm to an ankle, but I can still see the upturned edges of his smile. “Let’s just say that I am not particularly fond of bullies at the moment, and the way they attack others’ weaknesses. It would please me to watch yours fall tomorrow.”

I jut my chin out. “I don’t believe you.”

“Obstinate creature,” he huffs under his breath. “Come here. I am serious. I swear it.”

I swear it. A vow Nick utters too. For all their differences, there are still echoes.

I pace slowly to the ring, step over the white line, and come to stop in front of him.

He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes me with a stern gaze. “Do you know why you keep getting taken down in the ring?”

“Because the other Pages have years of experience fighting and I don’t.”

“No. It’s because the other Pages fight with singular focus. You don’t, because you’re here for more than one reason. The other reason is that they know their strengths well and use them. I’ve seen you punch a hole through a hellfox. The fact that you’re bumbling around this week tells me you still can’t control your gifts. Or aren’t trying to.” He scoffs. “If I could produce aether from my body, cook it up the way you can, I’d spend every waking moment trying to do it again.”

“We have different priorities.”

“An understatement.”

“Bye.” I turn to leave.

“Wait.” He catches my arm. When I look down at his fingers, he releases me. “I can still assist you, aether furnace or not.”

“You’re going to help me win a match?”

He snorts. “Oh no, you’re nowhere near skilled enough to win anything. I’m going to help you lose less terribly.”

“Wow. You’re a peach.”

“No,” he retorts, pulling a spinning ball of blue aether into his palm. “I’m part demon.”