Nick’s jaw tightens; then he visibly forces himself to relax. I realize I’ve been watching him do a version of the same progression since we’ve met: anger, restraint, resignation.

“No one, not even the Regents, thought I’d be Called. My renouncement was symbolic. Political. A child’s protest. And it will take symbolic and political steps to restore the kingdom’s, and the Table’s, faith in me. To own the title in full.”

Before last night, the odds had been in Nick’s favor. Two hundred years since anyone in his Line had needed to step up to the plate, or had the power to. I see it now. The desperation in his face is for me, but it’s for himself, too. The road ahead is long, and the bridges burned.

“What happens to you if… if…”

He sits on the room’s window seat with a sigh. “If I am Called and Awakened, I’ll inherit Arthur’s strength and wisdom. And I’ve been trained for that moment since I could walk. If the Shadowborn army is rising, I won’t let my friends fight it alone.”

“And the Abatement?”

His face turns grave. “My father says focus is death’s most precious gift.”

“Death doesn’t give gifts.”

“Tell that to a Scion.”

I nudge his foot and he shifts over so that we can share the seat. “You don’t want to lead.”

He answers without meeting my eyes. “Never have.”

“Don’t want the glory?” I lean into him. “Don’t want to be a king?”

He turns to me then, eyes serious. “Bree, if I get all of that, it means that Camlann is inevitable. I don’t want the world to need a king.”

21

TEN MINUTES LATER, we descend the stairs with a prickly sort of awareness bouncing between us. Yesterday we entered the great room in agreement, but we each had limited information about the nature of our situation. Twenty-four hours later, Nick’s world is heading to war, and I’m preparing to unravel my mother’s history. As our paths continue, will we still find common ground?

When we reach the foyer, the sounds of dinner reach us from the vast dining room around the corner. Clinking cutlery. Chairs scraping the floor. Voices.

I look back to find Nick watching me, my own uncertainty echoed on his face. “We good, B?”

I nod. “We’re good.”

His mouth quirks. “I don’t know why, but—”

Suddenly, the front doors open and humid, light rain sprays across the tiles. Outside, three women stand deep in conversation, shaking their umbrellas on the patio before entering. They’re dressed head to toe in country club–chic: blouses, cardigans, capris, spotless white tennis shoes. Their pale, perfectly contoured faces light up when they see Nick.

“As I live and breathe…” The woman on the left wears a neck scarf the deep yellow of the Line of Owain.