Erebus’s voice goes low and dangerous. “Bring forward the demon that Kingsmage Kane neglected to destroy.”

Sel’s head whips up, eyes wide, just as a sixth guard comes forward from the direction of the arena, dragging something glowing and green through the brush behind her.

The massive demon is alive—just barely. A spear I recognize as Sel’s typical design bobs at the creature’s throat as the fox growls at its captor. Thrown with Sel’s usual force, but it seems to have missed its mark by a matter of inches. Sel scowls. “I believed it to be a killing blow, just like the others.”

“Belief is not fact, Kingsmage Kane,” Erebus murmurs.

A ruddy flush swims up Sel’s throat to his cheeks. “Yes, Seneschal.”

With a signal from Erebus, the Mageguard holding the dying fox releases the creature into the middle of the group of Merlins. Every Merlin—Sel included—steps inward as one to close the circle and prevent its escape. The demon collapses, eyeing its enemies.

“What’s your point?” I turn to Erebus, fuming. “He missed one, but clearly your team found it!”

“My point…,” Erebus murmurs. As he trails off, the wind shifts, and the demon’s snout snaps up and around to single-mindedly follow a scent until it finds its sole prey—me. Without warning, it launches itself toward the opening between Sel and Erebus, trying to get to me. Erebus pivots and, in one smooth motion, grasps the demon mid-leap with one hand. His fingers dig into its armor so deeply that gaseous aether leaks from where they are embedded down to the knuckle. “My point is that all it takes is a single, well-aimed death blow from a Shadowborn demon to kill an Awakened Scion of Arthur and undo fifteen centuries of Order and Legendborn sacrifices and victories, making those same sacrifices worthless.”

The demon snarls. Then, Erebus’s fist blazes with blue flames so hot and bright that they incinerate the fox almost instantly. His aether signature surrounds me with scents I associate with ancient trees and holy places: myrrh and saps, incense burning.

Erebus wipes his hands, rubs the dust from his lapels, and turns to Selwyn. “I gave you this post with the expectation that you would protect the Scion of Arthur’s life with your own.”

Sel is so furious he can barely speak. “And I accepted the post under that condition,” he spits. “As a child.”

“As a prodigy,” Erebus corrects. “And yet you stand before me now, as a failure.”

Sel’s eyes spark with defiance. “Nicholas Davis was not the Scion of Arthur, so in that regard, I suppose we have both failed!”

In a blink, Erebus is a blur across the ground—then his hand is around Sel’s throat. He lifts Sel easily, like he’s nothing. Sel’s boots swipe at the grass, then at the air. He gurgles, his hands scrabbling at Erebus’s wrists—