“There have been eight Camlanns in the fifteen hundred years since the Spell was cast, including this one. Every two, three hundred years or so. Some last a few months, others last years. They get hidden in bloody Onceborn wars—revolutions and coups and countries at one another’s throats. But between Camlanns is what we Lieges call ‘the quiet war,’ and that’s the war the Legendborn fight daily. It’s the same Shadowborn war the original Table of one hundred and fifty knights fought in the sixth century, and it has never ended. There are only three people at one time who hold the title of Regent: currently Aldrich, Cestra, and Gabriel, and there’s been hundreds of them elected by the Legendborn families over the years. The Legendborn cycle, on the other hand, has produced thousands of Scions. Thousands of young people fighting on the front lines of the same quiet war, year after year, either dying in battle or, if we’re lucky, by Abatement. All of those deaths across all of those centuries, and not once have the Regents in power sought a way to end the war we fight every day.” Jonas chuckles dryly. “They don’t even allow formerly Awakened Lieges to become Regents and have a say in our own leadership.”

The water bubbles behind me, ready for the pasta. “Why not?”

“Because we’re war heroes,” Jonas says with a dismissive flourish. “If we’ve made it long enough to lose eligibility, for our inheritances to leave us, we’re more valuable as trainers for the new Scions and Squires. Or we’re needed out in the field, still fighting. Or”—he reaches for the jar of sauce, rolls it in his palms—“we’ve lost our bondmate in battle and are too broken to do either.”

“The agony,” I whisper.

Jonas levels a gaze at me. Then his eyes lose focus, returning to a memory—or a person. His fingers pull at the label on the sauce jar, and the soft tearing sound echoes loud in my ears, over the bubbling pot, over the music, over the water running in the old pipes. Finally, he answers, his voice a low rasp. “Yeah.”

“I’m—” I swallow hard. “I—”

He turns, moves to the stove behind me, picking up a small sauce pot along the way. The jar pops as he twists it open on the counter. He glances to my side of the stove, eyeing the bag of rotini. “Gonna need more pasta than that. Saw another bag in the pantry.”

“I’ll get it.” I move past him, dazed with all he’s revealed. I pull on the accordion door, and it catches on the floor. Pull harder—and a clawed hand reaches out from the darkness to wrap itself around my throat.

26

BEFORE I CAN make a sound, before I can struggle, the goruchel’s grip tightens.