“Now, if you will, Page Matthews,” Theresa presses, her voice low, “a funeral for our fallen is about to commence.”

I open my eyes, smile returned to position as I face Theresa. “After the Rite tonight,” I say, “you will stop calling me that.”

Theresa raises a brow and taps the dark golden Order-symbol pin on her lapel. “I am the voice of the High Council of Regents, acting on their express commands. I will refer to you in the manner in which the Regents have advised me to, Page Matthews, until they tell me it is safe to do otherwise.”

It takes everything in me to bite my tongue, but there’s no real point in being angry with Theresa. She’s a mouthpiece. She tilts her head toward the near-full seating area. “They need you in place before—”

I’m already moving, following her direction, weaving through the other guests finding their seats.

There are only a couple open seats left in the Page section, right in the center. Great. I get to be tucked between Pages who not only competed against me in the selection tournament, but who have no idea who I truly am now. As I shift down the aisle, Spencer waves hello from a seat next to the empty pair. Ainsley, who failed the first trial, narrows her eyes at me from the back row.

The Mageguard must have been waiting until I was in place, because the second I sit, my ears pop painfully. A gust of aether signature hits me from all sides in a wave.

This is definitely not like my mother’s homegoing.

Whatever happened at my mother’s funeral at Whatley Baptist Church in Bentonville, North Carolina, there wasn’t magic crackling in the air.

I tip my head back to gaze at the largest aether construct I’ve ever seen. Most wards are close to invisible to those with the Sight unless disturbed or attacked, but a dome construct is an actual, physical barrier. The dome above the services for Russ, Whitty, Fitz, and Evan stretches a hundred feet in every direction, and shimmers silver against the Carolina blue sky.

Eight of the twenty-four Mageguard on site are spaced evenly along the circle perimeter, in black suits with hands outstretched. I watch them pull aether into their palms only to send it up through their fingers, where it flows into the shared casting. The density of this much aether—sharp and strong signatures, all blending together—burns my nose.

Someone at my side clears his throat, and I jump.

“It takes deep mastery over aether constructs to build an annistryw—indestructible—barrier. Extraordinary discipline and focus.”

I blink at Lark. I hadn’t seen him at all when I’d squeezed into my seat.

“Where did you—” I stop, taking him in. I’m not sure I would have even recognized that it was him without hearing his voice. “What are you wearing?”