I say it without emotion, like this fact isn’t burned into my brain, said first in the voice of a demon. “It’d be easy if all I needed was for Arthur to Call Nick like the others do, but that arrogant prick of a king won’t fully Awaken his Scion until they take the blade.” I remember Rhaz chasing me in the dark not a few hundred feet from where I stand, and shudder.

“That is what the archives say,” Aldrich agrees. “But we are the first Regents in two hundred years to even perform this ritual. Something you hope to never do, but must be prepared for. Not unlike war itself.”

Olsen returns and waves us into the tunnel. It’s time.

In the center of the cave, as before, is a small lake with a rock island in the middle and a raised stone extending upward. Excalibur, shining and sharp, seems to wink at me as I enter. My fingertips buzz with a desire to touch it.

Five Mageguard stand posted around the cave perimeter. The six members of the Council take their position in a line at the edge of the moat, alternating Regent and Seneschal. Aldrich gestures to the island with his hand. “We are ready when you are, Crown Scion.”

I lift my chin and step forward, dropping the green cape from my shoulders until it pools behind me on the sandy bank. Underneath, the Pendragon coin shines bright over my sternum. I bend down, slipping the shoes from my feet, and step into the cold, clear water, letting it seep into my skin and bones, chilling me to the knee. I wade over to the island and circle it until I find the first foothold, taking one step at a time until I reach the platform beside the stone.

I haven’t seen Excalibur since that night, only imagined it when I attempt to cast its likeness. But I think it remembers me; the crimson diamond in the center of the pommel absorbs light rather than reflects it, a reminder of what my touch—my Bloodcraft—did to the ancient blade to make it my own. As I stare into it, the diamond pulses like a heart.

“Crown Scion?” Erebus calls from below. My eyes flit to him and the others, standing with arms clasped beneath their robes, a mixture of curiosity and solemnity on their faces.

“I’m ready.”

The Seneschals produce a copy each of the passages of the Rite—papers I’ve poured over in preparation for this moment so that I know what they’re going to say before they say it.

Erebus kneels, hands wide on the bank, until a flash of aether encircles us, lighting the darkened walls in flickering blues and silvers and snuffing the lanterns out in a silent wind. His signature is harsh and fragrant. The smell of incense lit too close to one’s face.