Aldrich replies, but I don’t follow any of it. I can’t hear it. Blood rushes in my ears, the ground tilts beneath my feet, then steadies. When I look up again, only some of the crowd is paying attention to me, because Tor has successfully taken their attention away from the strange Page who no one really knows.

My heart pounds in anger, and a second heartbeat pounds behind it.

A battlefield soaked in red. My tunic and leathers, shining with it. Sweat running into my eyes. The stench of ozone and flash of aether in the distance. I am shouting with my first knight. We are arguing. We are always arguing, even here with our comrades screaming on the ground around us, bleeding—

“Please, lass. Leave it for now….” Lark’s voice, close in my ear.

Has he been speaking to me? I don’t know how long I’ve been standing, immobile—moments, at least? The scene fades before my eyes, lifting like a layer of film until the world is sharp and clear and I am at a funeral where no one is bleeding. But now everyone is on their feet, chanting the Order’s mantra with the Regents in a unified voice to close the ceremony.

“When the shadows rise…”

“He—Sel—didn’t kill our friends. He’d never do that. They’re lying—”

Lark’s hand claps over my mouth. I lose balance. His arm loops around my waist and suddenly he’s pulling me away from the shocked Pages around me and down the aisle.

“By the King’s Table…”

At first, I let Lark drag me away, because I should let him do this. I can’t fight a hundred people and the Regents with my bare fists. I shouldn’t be here anyway.

But as soon as we clear the seating area, I tear his hand from my mouth.

“Let me go. Now.”

He watches me carefully, hesitating against the order in my voice, then drops his arms.

I narrow my eyes, remembering what he’d said about Kingsmages earlier. How he’d spoken about Sel in ways I didn’t understand. “Did you know?”

Lark flushes. All the answer I need.

I push past him. “Wait—” His hand shoots out to grasp my elbow.

This time I do use Arthur’s strength to break his grip. Pull my hardest. I hear a pop. A bone, broken. Lark draws back with a sharp, pained sound, eyes wide.

“I—I’m sor—” I stammer.

‘Do not apologize for doing what needed to be done.’ I know it’s his voice now. Recognize the deep baritone.

“No,” I hiss. “I’m not listening to you.”

Lark blinks. “What?”

I turn on my heel before Arthur’s thoughts, his disregard, somehow shows on my face, leaving Lark blinking in surprise behind me.