Behind the building lies a strange sort of arena surrounded by four sections of carved stone steps that create entry from every direction, with a field in the middle. On the far end lies a gauntlet course made of suspended rings and thin beams on which to balance. “Is this place for training purposes?”

Erebus nods. “One such location for the Legendborn, of many.”

Erebus directs my attention to the other side, where a growing crowd of young people has gathered in a loose circle. We move toward the nearest set of steps, approaching from the east.

Even at this distance, the clamor of an argument is audible. As we walk down the stone steps toward the crowd, some voices and faces become clearer. I recognize many of Briana’s friends from the Southern Chapter: Peter, the Scion of my knight Owain, and his Squire, Greer. Victoria, the Scion of Tristan, and her Squire, Sarah. Felicity, the Scion of Lamorak, still without a new Squire. The new Scion of Bors, a young, untested boy of sixteen, Squire-less as well.

Children who possess mere echoes of my men.

There are others gathered here whom Briana has not met, Scions and Squires from other chapters. I assume that I am also seeing the Scions of Kay, Bedivere, Erec, Caradoc, Mordred, and Geraint.

I wish that their faces were familiar to me. Wish that I could feel their bloodlines and spirits, but I do not.

All of the current Table members are present, save her friend the Scion of Gawain and her beloved Nicholas. I require a fully gathered Table to finish what I started, to live truly on this plane and turn back Camlann myself. This incomplete group of ten Scions and assorted Squires will have to do, for now.

Cestra shouts as she walks. “Honored Legendborn of the Round, may we have a moment?”

The group turns as one—many producing aether weapons on instinct.

“A Regent…?” “Regent Cestra!” “That’s a Seneschal.”

“Bree!” Greer and Peter move to the fore of the group.

“Not quite,” Cestra says with a smile. The two children stop short, glance at each other, then back at Cestra.

I glare at her. “I can speak for myself.”

“Where is William?” Greer asks. With a flick of their wrist, they call forth the aether lion of Owain.

“And Selwyn?” Felicity strides forward, the armor of Lamorak flowing into place along her shoulders.

Cestra holds her hands up for peace. “William tends to the injured. One of whom is your dear Kingsmage, near succumbing to his blood.”

The crowd gasps. “Enough of this,” I say. “Let me speak to my Table.”

“Your Table?” A haughty voice joins the group from behind. The Regent who plays politician descends the stone stairs from the west, with his Seneschal in tow.

“There you are, Gabriel,” I say. “And Tacitus.”