“Because Scion constructs are always the same,” Sel says. “Merlins can technically cast whatever constructs we wish.” Sel grins and squeezes both of his hands into fists. Aether armor snaps into place, faster than William’s more instructional display, and more complete than any Scion’s. He even has a helmet.

William cheers. “Show-off,” I mutter.

“And maybe Bree can cast what she wants, too,” Alice says from where she sits on the ground. She can’t see our practice, but likes hearing about the mechanics.

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe.” Sel walks closer to me. “I’ve seen your flames raw and loose around your hands and arms. Seen you throw up a shield even. You and I made something more contained than mage flame that night in the woods with Erebus. It was focused, like a bomb.”

“That was you, though,” I point out. “I just gave you the—the raw materials.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. We did that together. Try again.”

I try calling Arthur’s armor. The most I can manage, after an hour of work, are a pair of loosely fitted bracers over my wrists. Solid to the touch, but soft like leather—and they burn so hot that I have to release them almost immediately.

Nothing I’ve done would protect me from a Shadowborn attack.

“Casting is both faith and intention,” William reiterates. He flexes his fingers to pull aether onto them in a slow-growing silver mist. “I know the aether is in the air around me, even though I can’t see it in its inactive form. But my intention is set on using it before I can see it. I call it to me knowing it’s there.”

“Is that how it feels to you, Sel?” Alice asks.

Sel stares at me. “No.”

“So helpful.” Alice rolls her eyes.

“You cast armor in the woods with Valec,” Sel says one day, frustration evident on his face.

“I begged Arthur for that.”

“You were still yourself when it was cast, though. That’s why we’re going to see if you need a little nudge.”

“You mean a fight?”

“Exactly.”

There’s an unspoken agreement that some things don’t happen on Volition grounds. So, for this session, the four of us walk through the barrier to a flat space near some trees.

Birds whistle overhead. The trees here will release their leaves soon. Not this week, but the next probably.

Sel calls together a quarterstaff, his weapon of choice, and points it at me. “Let’s go, Crown Scion. No Merlin speed, and I’ll hold back on strength for now.” He casts another weapon, a smaller shining staff fit for my hands, and hands it over. “I’ll even make your weapon for you.”

A few whoops from William and Alice.

When I don’t answer, William calls from the sideline. “You feeling up to it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just—”

“Intention.”