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THE NEXT NIGHT, the chapter mills around the great room. The competing Pages are too nervous to eat, but other people are enjoying satay chicken skewers and peanut sauce. I’m trying my best to stay calm, even with my heart pounding in my chest.

Tonight’s the combat trial and, while I still feel unprepared, the session with Sel last night at least gave me hope. We never reproduced the red mage flame—and we both agreed that was a good thing, in the public setting of the trial—but he’d shown me how to use my height and limited abilities in new ways.

Nick enters and finds me right away, pulling me to the balcony windows. It feels like I haven’t seen him in ages.

“I’m so sorry I had to leave without notice. My dad just wanted me close, and the other chapters are asking questions about the Table, and… it’s bad. Really bad. Can you forgive me?” He leans back and frowns. “You look scared, B.” His eyes widen. “Did Sel get to you again?”

“Not like that,” I say vaguely. “He… gave me some combat tips yesterday.”

“What?” Nick’s jaw clenches. “I ordered him to stay away, not to look at you, talk to you—”

“It’s fine.” I squeeze his arm. “It was good. He genuinely helped.”

He looks skeptical, but some of the strain leaves his shoulders. “Still, Rule Three is in full effect. Even more so after he performs Tor and Sar’s Oath ceremony tonight.” His eyes are slate and storm, worry and tension. “Did something else happen?”

Every time I think of Patricia, I get both angry and sad. “Remember that person on campus who I thought could help me? The one I trusted?”

“Yeah?”

Our moment of privacy is coming to a close. Heads are turning our way. “I was wrong. They can’t help me.”

I can tell he’s genuinely disappointed. “I’m sorry, B. It’s gonna be okay, though. We can—” The lights flicker, cutting him off.

Time to head down to the trial.

The room empties around us, and Nick leans against the window, my hand in his still hidden from view. He watches the others file out while I try to find some semblance of reason. As soon as the last person leaves and the door clicks shut, he wraps me in his arms and buries his face in my hair. I resist for a moment, not ready to let him in, but as soon as he holds me, I feel warmer, stronger, safer. Nick’s heart beats and mine answers, call and response. I could sob with relief.

“You’re hurting, and I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Deep breaths, okay? It’ll help you stay calm.”

Irritation flares inside me. Deep breaths. Stay calm. The same things Patricia says to me when I get upset. When the memories come, the anger and the sadness wash over me in waves, each one bigger than the last, and she has no idea how much they hurt. “Don’t tell me to be calm .”

“I’m sorry,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my temple. “I won’t say it again.”

“I’m really tired of people telling me to be calm and take fucking deep breaths .”

“Okay.” He nods against my forehead. “Then let me just be there for you tonight.” He reaches his hand into his back pocket and presses a key into my hand.

I look down, wiping my tears away with a sleeve. “What’s this?”

He smirks, but there’s hesitation there, mixed with pleasure. “My room key.”

“And why are you giving this to me?”

“I have to go pick up my dad from the airport after the trial. It’s a four-hour round trip. After the bouts, why don’t you go upstairs and wait for me in my room. When I get back, we can talk about whatever’s going on. Or not talk.”

“Not talk?” I lift both brows. Red rushes up to his cheekbones.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says hurriedly, then pauses, reconsiders. “Unless that’s what you meant? The version of not talking that means we’re doing other things?”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “I didn’t actually say any words just now, Davis. That was all you.” The look on his face is an adorable blend of hope and uncertainty. “Tell you what,” I say, closing my hand around the bronze key. “I’ll take this and wait upstairs in your room after Gillian kicks my ass, as long as you let me use your shower while you’re gone.”

“Deal.”

We smile at each other, and the moment feels like it’s ours. Secret. Butterflies swarm in my stomach because while we’ve exchanged a few pecks, nothing has been as heated or intense as that first kiss. Taking him up on his invite means we’ll be alone in his room for the first time since the second trial. Nick gazes down at me, that same awareness mirrored in his eyes. He tugs on my belt until we’re standing flush and presses a warm thumb into my palm like a promise.

It takes another flicker of the lights to break us apart and send us in our separate directions, but I head down to the prep area with at least one thing to look forward to.

The arena for the combat trial is not far from the silver Chapel in the woods. There’s a single drawn circle in the densely padded dirt about the size of the middle ring inside the training room. Chairs and stools surround the circle where our audience will sit. Owen and Gill are posted at opposite sides of the arena with a clear view of the center. I don’t know where Sel is, but I feel his gaze from above. A tree, maybe. It’s not quite dark yet.

The six competing Pages wear fitted pants for maximum mobility, and tunics in the color of our sponsor’s Line, adorned with their sigil in the center.

I am the only Page who wears the gold of the Line of Arthur.

Sel said I had too many reasons to be here. Fractured goals.

Tonight I have only one focus, and I fight for only one family: my own.

The matches are set up so that each Page goes in the ring three times, for a total of nine matches. When the first pair goes up, Nick makes eye contact with me and winks. He’s never seen me in the arena, and his easy confidence in my abilities triples my nerves.

Sydney easily beats Greer with the quarterstaff but loses to Blake when it comes to the longsword.

Whitty knocks Blake out of the ring with rapid stabs and swipes of his dagger. Then, to everyone’s surprise, manages to beat Vaughn into submission with the staff. Vaughn smacks Whitty’s staff away and leaves the ring, face as red as his tunic. It’s been obvious since warm-ups that he’d planned to get through the night three for three, winning each match with each weapon. He launches his staff against the trees, splitting it down the middle. Fitz walks over to his Page to pat his back encouragingly and murmur in the other boy’s ear. Even though Fitz doesn’t need a Squire—he’s got Evan—it seems he’s still invested in his Page’s success.

The other Pages, Squires, and Scions cheer or groan, and chat between rounds. Only Nick sits hunched over, silently watching the bouts with a neutral expression.

Each time Pages enter the ring with the hard, black practice swords, all eyes go to him. Everyone wants to know what the Scion of Arthur is thinking.

My first match is against Sydney, with the dagger.

Greer claps me on the back and nods when I go up. “You got this.”

Sydney, in an orange tunic, smiles back and struts to the ring. I’d never seen the Line of Bors’s sigil up close—three bands across a circle. She doesn’t seem to be at all concerned about the outcome of our fight. I shake my shoulders to loosen them up, and force the fingers of my right hand to stretch wide before grasping the handle of the rubber dagger. Sydney and I take our stances: balanced over bent knees, body and vital organs behind the knife, blade up and forward in a hammer grip.

Gillian signals the start.

We dance—Sydney attacking, me dodging—long enough for sweat to build on our brows. I manage to avoid every attack, but I only get in one of my own: a swipe that she blocks, with effort. She lunges underneath our elbows, and I leap back—only to hear a whistle.

“Out of bounds, Matthews. Round to Page Hall.” Gillian claps. Match over.

Damnit!

I’m angry about losing to a simple misstep, but the fury in Sydney’s eyes almost makes up for it. She’d never expected me to last even that long in a match and, from the looks on a few of the others’ faces—including Gillian’s—neither had anyone else.

When I take the bench, Nick and I lock eyes. He wiggles his shoulders as if to say, Shake it off.

I get one round to rest before my next match. Had Vaughn’s dagger been real, Greer would have been fully disemboweled.

When Gillian calls his name, Blake stands. He flexes his broad shoulders, pulling against his tunic, the dark yellow of Owain. Then she calls mine.

Right away Blake presses his advantages—strength and height—with a powerful overhead strike. I block, but it’s clear that if we stay on his terms, the win will be about sheer force more than speed or fancy footwork.

I’m faster than he is. I know I am.

I have to keep moving.

His arm and weapon rain down again and again, each crack echoing in my ears like a thunderclap. Every block sends a teeth-jarring reverberation into my elbows. Three minutes in, my thighs burn . Countering him takes every muscle in my body just to remain upright.

“Everyone leaves an opening. Find it, then throw everything into it.”

Blake pauses to pace around the ring. “Give up, Matthews.” I’ve been up close and personal to Sel’s snarl; Blake’s watered-down version would make me laugh if my lungs weren’t on fire. Our breaths come in hard, labored pants. “You can’t block forever.”

He lunges.

I snap my staff up longways to block his two-handed midbody strike, but it takes everything I have to keep the weapon in my shaking hands. My fingers spasm around the wood, barely keeping it in a grip.

He retreats.

His brown hair is black under a river of sweat. He’s running out of steam too, and catching his breath.

Blake swings high to my left, and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion. My eyes track each shift of his muscles, every movement from his shoulder to his arm.

I have plenty of time to duck, so I do. I keep my eyes on Blake’s broad chest—there!

I launch myself forward, ramming the end of my staff into his solar plexus. For a moment, he seems to hang in the air. His staff flies out of his hand and over my right shoulder.

Time accelerates.

Blake’s back hits the mat.

Gillian’s whistle splits the air.

“Weapon out of bounds. Match to Matthews.” She sounds just as surprised as I am.

Applause reaches me, but I barely register it. Blake rolls over with a groan and pushes to all fours before standing. His face is a blistering red grimace. I stand stunned in the middle of the ring until Gillian steps in front of me and waves a hand. A small smile plays over the older woman’s face. “Earth to Matthews.”

“Matty,” I correct. “Earth to Matty.” Alice would be proud.

I head to the benches, but not before I see Sel. Up in the trees, he tips his head in a silent salute that fills me with an embarrassing amount of pride. Great, overflowing buckets of the stuff.

Whitty offers a fist bump before he and Greer go to the ring together. Thanks to their fencing experience, Greer handily defeats Whitty with the sword. I’m gently massaging my sore shoulders when I hear my name again.

I should have known that my last match would be with Vaughn.

Vaughn leaps off the bench without hesitation. He throws a towel from his shoulders and struts to the rack, pulling his black, heavy polypropylene practice sword.

A few of the Scions murmur to one another. Apparently news of our rivalry has spread.

Greer and Whitty say something encouraging to me, but I don’t hear it over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears. Nick sits up as I pass the viewing area to pick my own sword. I look away from his worried expression before it becomes all I can think about.

Vaughn prowls back and forth in the center of the ring, waiting for me.

When I step onto the mat, Gillian calls for a clean match. She looks at me. “Match is over when one opponent yields or steps—or loses a weapon—outside the ring.” She looks at Vaughn. “No headshots.”

A short, high whistle signals the start.

Vaughn sways in a wide opening stance, tossing his blade from hand to hand. Every time he catches the hilt under the crossguard, the hard muscles on his shoulders and biceps roll and flex. His mouth parts in a taunting grin. “No shame in yielding now, Matthews.”

“Don’t listen to him, Bree!” Greer cheers.

I don’t want to listen to him, but I can’t help but hear his low, mocking laugh. Can’t help but notice his eyes meandering up my body, starting at my legs and lingering over my hips and chest. “Fine, stay.” He mutters, so that only I can hear him, “I don’t mind the view.”

Anger floods me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of an emotional, undisciplined attack. He shrugs as if to say, Have it your way —and lunges.

He strikes so quickly, the black blade whistles when it swings. I parry, catching the broad side of his sword against the hardest part of my own—the forte—and leap back.

Vaughn spins his sword once with a smile, as if to remind me what his weapon can do. The Order’s practice swords aren’t steel, but they’re plenty heavy and wide. Strong enough to break a bone with a well-aimed hit.

He surges forward. Brings his blade down in an overhead strike. I raise my sword to block it, but he stalls—then leans back and kicks me hard in the stomach.

I stumble, my midsection a dizzying cocktail of nausea and pain.

Vaughn sweeps in—I just barely turn my sword to meet the low hack at my legs.

Then he charges again, swinging, and it’s a basic drill, just a twist of my wrist to deflect.

Too easy.

I cough, and blood—iron rich and salty—fills my mouth. Feral humor glitters in Vaughn’s eyes. Understanding dawns.

That kick was well aimed. Strategic.

Every movement, every twist and stretch and pivot, is ten times harder with internal bleeding.

He’s toying with me.

Everything—Vaughn’s face, the trees, the ring—blurs under the veil of white-hot fury.

I shift my grip, preparing for a two-handed blow to his ribs, when Sel’s last lesson echoes in my ears.

“Typical anger can hinder or help. But the kind that burns in your gut? That’s fury. And fury is meant to be used.”

I strafe, twisting left, then pivot. The flat of my blade smacks his fingers hard, breaking his grip. Both swords drop to the ground.

Vaughn looks up, shock crossing his features, and lunges for me, but I’m already in the air.

His momentum carries him forward—right into my flying knee.

His head snaps back.

His spine hits the mat, and blood streams across his nose and mouth.

For a second, the woods are completely silent.

Then Russ jumps to his feet and whoops, triggering a wave of shouts and applause.

Vaughn rocks slightly, his hands covering his face. But he doesn’t get up.

“Match to Matthews!” Gillian calls, an astonished smile lighting her face.

At some point, Nick had gotten up from his chair and approached the outer ring. He stands there, feet just touching the red paint, wearing the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. I take a stumbling step forward. Triumph fizzes in my chest; I could burst with it.

Nick’s gaze locks into mine, his eyes widening and smile falling. He roars my name.

Vaughn’s blade swings down in my peripheral vision.

I hear the deep crack in my collarbone before I feel it.

When the pain comes, darkness follows. There’s shouting, then silence.