Two warm palms pull my face away from the sight. I twist, gasping, to face William. His eyes bore into mine, now glowing the deep, pulsing green of Gawain. He yells over the noise. “If he has to protect you, he won’t protect himself!”

“But—”

“We need to run, Bree!”

I gulp and nod. Okay.

We run.

But it’s too late. We only make it a few strides toward the stone stairs on the cliffside before William shouts in alarm.

A large shadow streaks down the cliff, a black bullet in the shape of a man—and aims right toward me.

Without stopping or slowing, the shadow bends at the last second and upends me over their shoulder in a single, gut-swooping motion. The world twists upside down. Breath leaves me in a painful wheeze. They pivot in a blink, locking me in place with an arm across my thighs, and run back the way they came before William can react.

I’m already dizzy, but panic sends my mind spinning. My head bounces against my captor’s back with each step, breaking my thoughts into jagged pieces.

A Shadowborn legion. Fully corporeal—powerful enough to take out the underpowered Legendborn. Sel on his own at the border, outmatched.

Captured. Someone took me from inside the ward—can’t be a demon. Not a goruchel shapeshifter. A human figure attacked me, just as Sel turned away… timed perfectly with the demon attack, too perfectly—

Suddenly, the answer flashes through my mind.

“My mistress, Morgaine…” Rhaz had warned us, warned me—

Shadowborn and Morgaines working together. Allied against the Order.

My survival brain kicks in. Rage pumps clarity through my veins.

I won’t be taken.

The Morgaine has us halfway up the stone staircase, with William giving chase in full armor. I pound at the figure’s spine with a closed fist. Once. Twice.

“Oomph.” The Morgaine grunts under Arthur’s strength—good—and trips, nearly dropping me.

Before I can strike again, the Morgaine tightens their left arm against my legs—and springs up the rest of the cliff, landing us at the top in a single jump.

A heartbeat later, and they’ve leapt again. This time we land in the large lower limbs of the giant white oak tree that stands in the woods between the Lodge and the arena.

Still draped on their shoulders, my chest rises with theirs when they take a deep inhale—and jump again, and again, until we are six stories up in one of the tree’s middle branches.

Abruptly, they bend, sliding me down to my feet until my back rests against the wide trunk. The branch below me is just broad enough that both of my feet can fit. The hard bark at my spine is somewhat reassuring, but we’re terrifyingly far off the ground.