I kneel to the ground to reclaim it. As soon as Briana’s fingers grasp the hilt, the short section of blade still attached blazes blue fire, shining bright and wide and sharp once again. One swipe at my wrist with the jagged edge and the first cuff falls. Flip the blade to sinister, slice again, and the right cuff follows. My armor roars to life up my arms and across my shoulders, down my chest and over my hips, knees, feet.

By the time I am wrapped in aether and breathing easy, the Seneschals are retreating, outnumbered by the nearly full Round Table and Morgaines.

My triumph is short-lived, however, because abruptly, my sister’s descendant Ava stands before me, regarding my armor and Excalibur both with solemn eyes. “I wish you had not called on your aether.”

I toss the broken end of Caledfwlch to my left hand, the hint of battle crackling between us. I pull aether toward the edge of the half blade, hastily rebuilding its shining length from memory until the sword is complete. “And why is that?”

Ava casts her own sword in a blink, drawing it close and dropping into a well-honed battle stance. “Because while we came here to fight the Regents, you are the heart of the Order, Arthur. And for it to truly die, so must you.”

“I do not wish to harm my own sister’s descendant, but I will if I must.” I raise my half-aether blade into position.

Before either of us can strike, there is a screeching sound from a dark tunnel set between two stone staircases. A large vehicle exits, careening across the lawn and over the grass straight toward us.

58

AS WE MOVE through the hallways of the castle, I follow Arthur and Morgaine close behind, but try to get a sense of how big it is, how many rooms. I get lost, or the rooms shift as we move. Arthur’s dream of Camelot seems part real, part fiction, part wish. I have no idea how much time has passed in the outside world, whether the dream moves quickly or slowly. I have no idea what Arthur is doing while in possession of my body. I am terrified to find out.

Wishes are the dangerous mind games we play with ourselves. The only way to win is not to play.

Sel’s words ring truer here than ever.

The Shadow King’s crown rests in a dungeon deep in Camelot, on a metal stand behind a near-translucent, hatch-patterned aether construct. Although I can tell that we are somewhere underground, the crown sits in a patch of sunlight, delivered down several stories from a small, round, open skylight overhead.

“I cast this barrier myself,” Morgaine is saying. “Merlin taught me how.”

“Truly?” Arthur asks, and she beams with pride at her brother.

It is hard to listen to their conversation, because my eyes are drawn to the crown.