I roll my eyes. “Sel, please.” I look between him and William. “You’re the only one fast enough to grab Patricia yourself if they don’t let her go. I need you with me. And William, I need you to care for the others if something goes sideways.”

“On it,” he says.

Sel eyes me for a long moment, the indecision and fight in his eyes making them glow brighter. Eventually, he nods, too. “I am with you.”

I hold my hand out for his, and he takes it. Together, we walk close to the border, and stop with ten feet to go. “Okay,” I say, looking around at the open space nearby. I inhale, exhale. “This should do it.”

I don’t tell him my plan, because I know he won’t like it. I don’t even like it.

I near the barrier, and rub at the pin, then the coin in my pocket, opening up a new wound.

By my blood…

‘Daughter of sons.’

“Enough of that. I need your help,” I say out loud. I feel Sel stiffen abruptly beside me, his hand squeezing mine. He wasn’t ready to hear me speak to Arthur, and he won’t be ready for what I invite Arthur to do next. “Don’t take me away to a memory. See what I see, right here and now. Know what I know.”

A beat. The uncomfortable sensation of Arthur shuffling through my recent memories. Images ripple quickly across my mind, then slow. The Mageguard in their dark cloaks. Silver rings flashing beneath fingerless gloves.

‘The children of Merlin.’ Arthur lingers on Olsen and Patricia. ‘Coordinated against you under a strong leader.’ A consideration. ‘You cannot fight this group alone.’

I groan, impatient. “I know.”

A pause. ‘I can best them.’

“Then let’s do it, before I change my mind.”

‘On my own.’

“What?” I hiss. “Let you drive?” Sel’s grip turns into a vice. “No way. Together, like last time.”

‘Inefficient. You have seen my power. This is life or death, in your palm. A king would do what needs must.’

I swallow. I have to let him in, fully. Without losing myself. Without losing total control.

“Fine.”

I know him before I see him, because his presence flares in my chest at the same time that he appears before me. A ghostly figure brought to life, more real than a revival.

Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, wielder of Excalibur, stands before me, because I called him here.

Arthur is massive. Broad-shouldered, gleaming with aether-cast Legendborn-style plate armor. White-blond hair in thick waves around his scalp. Even in the light of aether, I can make out the silver streaks in his coarse beard.

It is the exact color of the lock of curls I’ve been sporting lately.