She releases a heavy breath. “When a Scion is Awakened, all the power from their knight transfers to them. The Spell of Eternity is… serious casting, you know? But we’re still human. The longer the Scions are Awake, the more it drains them. After they age out, most don’t make it past thirty-five.”

I struggle to breathe, to speak. William didn’t say anything about that. I can’t imagine him dying that young. “It kills them?”

Sarah hurries to correct me. “Only if they’ve been Awakened. It’s… it’s why the Legendborn are revered. Holy warriors and everything.”

I think of Felicity. Six hours ago she thought she’d live till her eighties. But now… “Can’t the Scions just not fight? Let some other relative take the inheritance?”

She kicks a pebble as we walk. “Scions can’t opt out of their blood. And once Awakened, they feel this… this need. To fight. Directly from their knights. If Tor’s Called, she’ll feel it, and when we’re bonded, so will I. Once I take some of Tristan’s power through her, Abatement will come for me, too.”

My chest is so tight I can barely get the words out. “Why would you choose this?”

“I can’t answer for everyone, but service is how I was raised. And…” She shrugs, flushes. “I love her. I won’t let her fight alone.”

Before I can ask anything else about the bond of Scion and Squire, a shadow descends overhead. Sarah is in front of me in a blink, dropped into a fighter’s crouch—hips angled, knees bent, one fist on guard, the other ready to strike.

“Page Matthews.”

Sel takes three determined strides toward me before Sarah slides between us. Even though the Merlin is the superior opponent with a foot of height on her, the pint-size girl glares up at him poised for a fight. The steel in her eyes tells me she’d put up a good one.

“Back off, Sel. I’m taking Bree to her dorm.”

“Not before I question her.” It’s only when he moves that we notice something’s not right. He stumbles. Actually loses his footing.

I didn’t think that was even possible.

Sarah stares in disbelief too. “What the—”

“She’s not what she seems,” he says imperiously. He dashes around her, but he’s nowhere near as fast as he was earlier. When he comes to a stop, he towers over me—and brings a hot, oppressive cloud of smoke, charred cinnamon, and leather. The smell is so intense, I cover my nose in disgust and retreat.

“You’re blitzed, buddy. Move.” Sarah wriggles her arm between us and pushes him away from me. He bats at her hand—and misses. The economy of movement he’d always displayed is gone; every gesture imprecise, too big.