“Could it have been because of Arthur’s Call?” Cestra prods.

The center of me, the very core of my being seizes up at the memory of Arthur’s possession. Arthur, stretching at my skin. Moving my limbs the way he wanted, controlling me. I scowl.

Erebus raises a brow. “Something to share about the Call of Arthur, Crown Scion?”

My mouth turns sour. “It was not enjoyable.”

Erebus nods. “It is written that the Call of Arthur in particular can appear quite violent.”

“Sure,” I mutter.

“Tell us about the other abilities of this Line,” Cestra searches through her tablet for a note. “When you pulled the sword, were you a… Medium at this time?”

I’m so exhausted. “That night, both Vera and Arthur were within me.”

“Within you?” Erebus questions. “As in, you could interact with them?”

“I… I could hear their voices, and they could control my body.”

Cestra and Erebus go still and exchange glances. She clears her throat. “The other Legendborn reported that your voice changed during and after the battle. Are you saying that the spirits of the dead can use your body without your will and speak through you if they wish? As in, possession?”

I nod weakly. “Yes.”

Erebus inhales sharply. “I would like to explore this ability further, Regent. Perhaps without the suppressant?”

Cestra waves a hand. “Another time.”

I look between the two of them, alarmed. This is what Sel said could happen. That the Seneschals would want to examine me. But I never imagined it in these circumstances. Not like this.

I should have.

Cestra has already moved on. “And Arthur’s aether constructs and armor? Our intel says that you cannot forge them. That you draw on a large quantity of aether, and your attempts at castings result in burns.”

My face flushes. “Yes.”

Cestra crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. “Somehow, this interview has been both fascinating and disappointing.” She gestures to Erebus. “We’re done for now.”

Erebus moves faster than thought, seizing my face in both hands. “Rest now, Briana. And forget.” His mesmer tumbles me into dreamless sleep.

“Good evening, Briana.”

Then.

“Good morning, Briana.”

Then.

“Good afternoon, Briana.”

Then.

16

“WHY ISN’T SHE responsive?”

The first voice, cold and distant, would have sent my heart racing—if it had been beating normally. Instead, it is a sluggish thump beneath my ribs.

“She is responsive. She just hasn’t gone through a full sleep cycle.” The second voice is stretched thin and taught, like piano wire. William is here.

“They want her alert today. Can you check to see if she’s working or not?”

“She is not a toy.” William’s tone is hardened to a sharp edge. “She’s a human being.”

“Eh. Hurry up.”

A hand against my brow. The room is bright before I open my eyes. Strong fingers wrap around my right wrist.