We hold each other’s gaze steadily, the familiar tug thrumming between us, until Sarah clears her throat. It’s only then that I realize the others have been watching us intently. Their expressions range from fascination on Felicity’s face to annoyance on Tor’s.

“Ugh,” the blond girl says, walking away. “That was gross.”

Nick ducks his head, scratching a thumb across his brow to hide his blush.

“Scion Davis?” An older man appears at his elbow, nodding apologetically for interrupting. I stifle a gasp at the sudden loss of Sel’s gaze. I’d gotten used to it and forgotten he’d been watching my entire exchange with Nick. And listening, too, I’d bet. “Your father would like everyone to be seated.” The man gestures to a table behind us. “If you would?”

We follow him, sitting at a table with eight place settings. As we walk, Nick leans in close and gives a wry grin. “You don’t text, you don’t call.”

“I know. I’m sorry for shutting you out—”

He wraps his hand around my wrist, his face warm and forgiving. “We can talk later. Right now, I’m just glad you’re here.”

I nod, because he’s right. We can talk later. Our final goodbye, our real one, should be in private.

Whitty and Greer are already seated when we arrive, and Evan and Fitz walk up at the same time we do. Tor and Sarah sit across from me and Nick.

Greer tips their head in my direction and waves. “There she is!” They’re looking sharp in a navy check three-piece suit and a matching Lamorak red tie and pocket square set. Tonight their long hair is completely up in an elegant crown braid.

The others greet me with smiles and raised glasses. The only sullen expression is on Fitz’s face, but even that I ignore. If my friends could accept that I’m here without dragging me over the coals, then I could, maybe, do the same.

Nick catches me looking around the room. “Who are you looking for?”

I smile, feeling rude for not paying attention to my own table. And, for some reason, sheepish about looking for Sel. “Is Vaughn here?” I ask.

Nick’s eyes darken. “I asked that he be seated on the opposite side of the room.”

Across the table, Fitz rolls his eyes. “He’s a good fighter, Nick.”

“He fights dirty.” Nick pulls his cloth napkin from the table and settles it over his lap.

Fitz snorts. “You think the Shadowborn fight clean?”

“Last I checked, it was my decision who my Squire is, Fitz.” Nick’s face is the picture of civility, but the steel in his blue eyes says the conversation is over.