Directly in front of the raised dais are the families of the fallen.

Then the Pages.

In the back row in dark formal wear sit half a dozen Lieges—retired Scions and Squires, some of whom were never Called by their knight and some of whom were. They are adorned with sashes in the colors of their Lines, and bear both scars and hardened faces. A few have turned my way with curious, cautious gazes.

“Do you know many Lieges?” Lark murmurs. He’s seen them watching me, too.

“Only the two that trained me,” I reply. “Owen and Gillian.”

He hums. “Lieges are a strange lot.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Ah… I apologize.” Chagrin overtakes his expression. “It’s… not polite t’discuss.”

“I already think you’re rude,” I comment. “So say it.”

Lark’s eyes widen. “I appreciate the honesty.” He sighs. “Look, we Merlins have our aether abilities from birth, but you Legendborn only have yours for six years maximum, right? Sixteen to twenty-two.” He shakes his head. “The ones of you lucky enough to survive that long face death from powers you don’t even possess anymore.”

“Abatement,” I murmur. Lieges tend to die by thirty-five. If a knight calls his Scion to power, the Spell of Eternity gives them incredible abilities—but it burns through their lifespan, cutting it short. A form of Abatement seems to affect Vera’s Line too. Mothers, gone too soon from their daughters.

“Aye. Lieges never lose the bloodlust. They don’t leave the battlefield, even when their inheritances leave them. If you ask me, there are de-powered Lieges fighting Shadowborn out there who are far more dangerous than most Merlins. When you’ve got a ticking clock over your head, there’s no reason to hold back.”

I’ll be a Liege someday, if I’m lucky enough to survive that long.

A woman with dark red hair in the very first row weeps loudly. Every time she dips her head to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, the man beside her rubs her shoulders. The man looks familiar, like I’ve seen him on the news somewhere.

“Who are they?” I ask Lark, nodding toward the couple.

“The Coopers,” he murmurs.

Immediately, nausea churns my stomach. Evan Cooper’s parents. The real Evan Cooper. Not the Evan who was not Evan, but Rhaz… My hands curl into fists on my black slacks, nails audibly scratching at the material along the way. It’s not the images of the fight in the cave—the ogof—that haunt me. It’s the sense memories that come flooding back into my body.