If Lord Davis takes Sel’s title, will he remove his name from the Wall? Sand the silver until it’s smooth, like Sel was never there? Dig his ceremonial marble out, replace it with another—

I sit straight up on the bed, a realization striking me like lightning.

The tower rooms are at the far end of the top floor’s residence halls. The dim hallway ends in a T shape, with a nameplate that points left for the north wing and right for the south. Faint music, slow and bass-heavy, reaches me through a door on my right.

I stop in front of a plain wooden door with a brass plate bearing the initials S.K.

Half a second after I knock, I remind myself that it’s useless to listen for his footsteps. Half a second after that, I’m struck thoughtless—because Sel flings the door open wearing nothing but a deeply annoyed expression and a pair of low-slung jeans.

I can’t help but follow the path of banded muscles from his abdomen to his chest. Intricate black and gray tattoos encircle his arms, cover his shoulders, and connect in a Celtic knot on his breastbone. I should look away, but instead I notice the droplets of water that fall from his thick black hair and the tiny transparent beads still clinging to his lashes.

His eyes widen before he trains his features into an annoyed glare. “I told you to go away.”

I raise my chin. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

I take a step forward, but he shoots a toned arm out across the doorway to block my path. “ ‘Go away’ is a complete sentence.”

“What you said earlier about the Order never stripping a Kingsmage of their title? It’s not true.”

I’ve never seen Sel look so shocked, or confused. As still as a painting. He’s so stunned by my words that I’m able to duck under his arm before he can stop me.

His room is circular, following the cylindrical shape of the tower itself, with windows curving along the exterior wall. A bed extends into the center of the room from a curved wall; on one side is a desk piled high with books, some modern, some old, and a laptop. On the other there’s a small rug and what looks like an altar of candles. Fragrant, clean-smelling steam drifts out of a door left ajar, leading to an en suite. He’s just taken a shower.