His words echo Nick’s from the day I demanded he help me infiltrate the Order. He’d spoken of process and titles and recognition then, too. When everyone thought he was the Scion of Arthur, he still had to claim his title publicly before he could sponsor me as his Page. This was one of the first lessons Nick taught me about his world: The Line is Law, but blood is not enough to conquer procedure. Even if that blood belongs to Arthur Pendragon himself.

“Crown Scion.” Sel interrupts my thoughts. “My crimes—the real ones—are not for you to decide. Jury of my peers and all that.”

The tightness in my throat drops to my stomach. Becomes dread, churning and dizzying. Sel… believes them. Believes that this is right.

Erebus moves to place the other cuff on Sel. “Let him go.” I lunge to stop him on instinct, clasping the Seneschal’s clothed arm in both hands.

The Seneschal freezes, as does every Merlin in our vicinity.

“Briana, please release me.” Erebus could dislodge me easily if he wanted. Or try to, anyway. But he’s hesitating, stuck between my title and his duty—and the inability to harm me dictated by his Oaths.

“Bree! Stay out of it,” Sel says through clenched teeth. It’s his low, strained voice that stops me from pulling further on Erebus.

“But—”

“Let him go, Briana!” Sel’s command feels like a slap to my face. His eyes, a darker gold than I’ve ever seen, scorch my cheeks. The ends of his raven hair rise in a silent aether wind—a sign of his anger—the tips bright with magic that he’s not using. Even his fingers are pulsing dimly, the way they do when he calls on aether unconsciously.

I step back, my hand dropping. Quickly, before I have time to recover, Erebus snaps the second iron cuff around Sel’s right wrist. My ears pop again, painfully, at the same time that a sharp breath escapes from Sel’s lungs. When the Seneschal passes a palm over both restraints, a curved symbol I don’t recognize glows aether-blue on the back of each cuff, then disappears.

Sel groans through gritted teeth, and as soon as the magic is gone, his hair falls flat. The little color in his cheeks drains away. His hands are tight fists beneath the heavy iron, knuckles gone pale under pressure—and where there had been mage flames between his fingers, there is no aether in sight. Like the magic he’d called had just… disappeared.

“We know you can owl ’shift, Kane, so don’t even try it,” Ramirez growls. “These cuffs were custom designed specifically for you.”