I look back up at him then, and our gazes lock. I put all of my faith into my eyes, so that he can receive it, hold it, remember it when I’m gone. I communicate it with a squeeze of my right hand to his left, and the press of my palm against his shoulder. I’m not scared of you. His golden eyes widen, and I think he understands. At least, I hope so.
Sel clears his throat and turns us again. He admires my hair, taking in the size and shape of it; then his eyes follow the line of my temple to my borrowed earrings, down my neck and shoulders. “You look stunning this evening, Briana.”
The material of my dress is so thin I can feel the searing heat of his hand against my waist. I imagine his fingertips leaving red imprints on my skin, and the image makes the fine hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. “Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
“It’s the truth,” he says with a shrug. “You do. Even though you’re distraught.”
“I’m not distraught.”
He leans down so close that his lips brush against my ear when he whispers, “Liar.”
When he stands back up with a small smile, I get a whiff of something sharp and pungent, and a bit like sandalwood and vetiver. I wrinkle my nose and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Your magic smells much better than your cologne.”
His face blanks for a moment. “My… magic?”
It hits me a second too late that the conversation has taken a turn toward the intimate and that it’s all my fault. I fight the urge to run from his curious gaze by finding a speck of dust on his tie to stare at instead.
“You can smell my castings?”
That bit of dust is captivating. “Yes…?” He laughs, easy and loud. When I look up, he’s shaking his head. “What?”
His grin is completely unguarded, and filled with something like awe. “You are remarkable.”
“Thank you?”
His eyes dart over my shoulder toward the stage before he spins me in his arms, my back to his front. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
At the front, the band is closing out the slow dance, and just off the side of the stage stands a group of Legendborn, with Nick, Pete, and William in a line at the end. Nick’s eyes are glued to us, to Sel’s body draped around mine—and the anger on his face burns bright as a firework, even halfway across the room.
I pull away, but Sel’s fingers hold fast at my hip, keeping me close. He murmurs low, just for my ears, “Oh, the scene he’d make if he could.”
I twist to glare up at him. “Are you doing this just to make him jealous?”
His eyes flash. “No. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”
He lets me go, but there’s nowhere to move, so the most I can do is avoid eye contact while he chuckles beside me.
Finally the band brings the song to an end and the ting-ting-ting of a knife against glass breaks up the murmuring crowd.
Lord Davis steps forward to speak into a microphone on a stand. “If I could have your attention, please.” He’s in a dark black suit with a deep gold regalia sash that drapes over both shoulders and comes to a point in the center of his chest. A gold star pendant hangs down from the pointed end, and in its center, a white diamond winks in the chandelier light.
The ballroom quiets into a restless silence. On the edges of the room, I notice the waitstaff being ushered out of the side doors by people who look like bouncers. Gillian’s there, and Owen too. Lieges, escorting outsiders out of earshot. Once the band members leave too, the doors are locked.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to the annual Selection Gala of the Southern Chapter!” The crowd applauds until Lord Davis waves them down. “Unfortunately, this year’s gala comes at a time of strain for our Order. As you all know, increased crossings have been seen up and down the East Coast at all chapters, including our own here in the South.”
Beside me, a woman reaches for her husband’s hand. Sel’s shoulders stiffen.
“The last uprising of demons was over two hundred years ago.” Davis raises his chin. “And while none of us were living in that time, we know from the records that this”—he thrusts his finger down toward the floor, his voice rising as he speaks—“is how Camlann begins. This is how it starts. And we know, as in centuries past, that our ancestors prepared us for such a time and equipped us with the birthright to beat the hordes back!”
Applause from the crowd rises to meet his fervor, and the Tristans pump their fists. Out of the side of my eye, I see Fitz, cracking his knuckles like a prized fighter about to go in the ring.
“And as in centuries past…” Davis pauses, tipping his head back to the sky and holding his hand over his chest in reverence. “Let us recommit ourselves to the mission and one another by joining in our sacred pledge.”
Around me, the voices speak the pledge in unison.
“When the shadows rise, so will the light, when blood is shed, blood will Call. By the King’s Table, for the Order’s might, by our eternal Oaths, the Line is Law.”
Sel’s eyes, swirling with emotion, fall to mine.
Davis fixes the room with a steady stare. “My fellow descendants, let us waste no time in our preparation for what we know comes next.” He gestures for Nick and the others to step forward alongside him.
Down on the floor below the stage, the five remaining Pages stand in a line, facing the stage and the three Scions. Sydney, Greer, Blake, Vaughn, and Whitty.
A week ago, I’d have been there too.
“Scion Sitterson, please step forward and announce your choice for Squire.”
When William steps to the microphone, I can’t help but grin at my friend. His tux is a deep green with near-black aubergine lapels, and tailored to perfection. “I, William Jeffrey Sitterson, Scion of Sir Gawain, twelfth-ranked, select Page Whitlock as my Squire.” He raises a long green ribbon with a single silver coin before him, and I know without seeing it that it bears the sigil of Gawain. A token for his Squire to wear. “With his agreement, we will be bonded. For this war and beyond.”
A cheer rises up at the Page table before Lord Davis calls the room to order. “Page Whitlock, do you accept?”
Even from behind, I can see Whitty tugging nervously at his tie. It takes him three attempts to get the words out. “I do. I accept Scion Sitterson’s offer.”
The older crowd—the Vassals and Legendborn parents and Lieges—applauds while wild cheers rise up from the Legendborn table, and from the Pages’ tables too. I join their crows and whoops, delighted for my friend, while Whitty walks forward and accepts William’s colors and sigil. He gives an awkward wave to the room and sits down as fast as possible.
Lord Davis calls the room to order, then beckons Pete forward. Pete looks scared out of his mind, but duty sends him to the mic. “I, Peter Herbert Hood, Scion of Sir Owain, seventh-ranked, select Page Taylor as my Squire. With their agreement, we will be bonded. For this war and beyond.”
A hushed murmur travels through the room. Lord Davis leans down beside Pete. “Page Taylor? Do you accept?”
Behind Greer, the crowd shifts. I track the wary eyes, the hesitation, and the curiosity of some of the parents and Lieges in the room. And some outright sneers. People who don’t want to be inconvenienced. Don’t want to adapt. People who don’t want to get better or learn more, just like Greer said.