Erebus’s eyes widen, searching our features, the streak of white in our hair. “Briana, your appearance… your eye color…”

“Now!” we shout. “An exchange.”

The conflict in Erebus’s face disappears. He snaps his fingers, and Olsen releases Patricia. She rushes from the Merlin’s grip and hesitates. When she looks at us, alarm twists her features. She knows who we are, what we are. She walks with the memories of the dead, and her power sees that we are flesh and memory both.

“Bree, no…”

“Go,” we say. She jumps, but moves quickly to the barrier. The ancestors are ready, and an opening appears before her. With two steps, she melts through the golden shield, and disappears on the other side, where Sel is waiting for her.

Erebus steps forward, and takes our arm in his hand, gripping to hurt. He beckons to Olsen, who is at our side in a blink. “Let’s go.”

But when they pull us, we do not move. We have the strength of kings.

Olsen strains.

Our mouth smiles.

Olsen pulls again. The effort of a child trying to pull a boulder from its ancient rest.

It makes us both chuckle—our amusement puts fear on her face.

Erebus is smarter than his guard. He steps back, hands loose and palms up—ready for the fight he suspects is coming. “Briana, what… what are you doing?”

“We agreed to cross the barrier,” we say, and hold our palms out and up to mirror him. “We never agreed to go with you.”

Erebus snarls. The Mageguard whoosh into position. We snap our armor in place with a loud pop. A sword materializes in our hand between one breath and the next—not Excalibur, but it will do.

Then… the next few minutes are a blur.

We rip through the Mageguard like a fiery blue hurricane.

We are speed and light, laughter and destruction.

We move as one—but so can the Mageguard.

It takes two of them on each limb to take us to the ground, and even then, we are fighting. Their Oaths hinder their attacks: they seek to contain, not harm, or risk the Oaths turning on them mid-battle. We shove one off and into the air. A deep snapping sound, mixed with wet. A bone breaking as he lands. The other Merlin twists out of reach, is joined by another.

A warrior’s roar to our right—Selwyn is a black streak rushing through the Volition barrier, spinning a chain overhead. Clipping Erebus in the shoulder with a sharp scythe. Taking another out at the legs. The Seneschal is on him in a second, power rushing to him as he attacks. The Kingsmage screams—

The two Merlins nearest us move as one, but we meet them mid-stride. Slice at the one on the left while twisting low, spinning, meeting the other with a backward thrown elbow to the face.

But they are replaced by two more—