“I did.”

I didn’t think I’d cry, but my eyes start to burn anyway. “God, Sel. What if we’d both died?”

His gaze hardens. “Are you suggesting I should have let you perish?”

“No, I just—” I blow out a puff of air. “Of course not. I know the Lines—”

Hurt flickers across his face before anger blankets over it. “Be very, very careful what you say next, Briana,” Sel says, his voice low.

I sigh. “I know what it means if the Scion of Arthur dies. I’m not going to just forget that, okay?” Shame from William’s anger is still close to the surface, but I can’t shake what I know. What I’ve seen be important to the Order and Legendborn. “I’m not going to act like the Lines aren’t part of this.”

He speaks through clenched teeth. “You think I did what I did… because of the Lines.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“And yet you’re saying it anyway.” He laughs humorlessly.

“No, I’m saying thank you for saving my life.” I clench my fists. “But you’re the one who said saving me was an obligation, not a choice. So, yes, I do think you saved me because of the Lines, because of your Oaths—”

He takes a step toward me, eyes flashing. “My Kingsmage Oath is to Nicholas! As you’ve helpfully pointed out in the past. Some days it is nearly impossible for me to fight that instinct, but with you—” His brows draw tight as he stares down at me. He shakes his head, some decision made. “No other Merlin can protect you like I can, because no other Merlin feels about you the way I do. I want you to live, because I want you to be happy. Not because of a spell, but because so very many things would break and go dark if you weren’t in the world. Myself included.”

His voice is a warm pressure against my chest. A pressure that gets bigger and brighter until it spills out in a shaky breath and a tear that he catches with a gentle finger. I don’t even know why I’m crying.

In a hoarse voice, he says, “And because those moments between us were real, and you know it.”

“Nick…”

Sel’s eyes are unreadable, his voice even. “Do you truly think Nicholas would begrudge us this? After everything?”

Sel is never imprecise.

“This?” I whisper.

Sel watches me carefully. Long enough for the wind to catch his hair. Release it. Lift it again.

“This” could be the feeling between us, all warmth and sharp edges that we keep almost touching. “This” could mean how close we’re standing, and the breath shared between us. “This” could mean my heartbeat, thundering in both of our ears. Sel could define our “this” in any number of ways, but right now he chooses one.