“Be proud of your invitation, but know that there is so much more yet possible. Tonight, many of you wear the color and sigil of the Line served by your family, and as Pages, you always will. But at Selection, those who earn the title of Squire will take the colors and sigil of their Scion. And this Line, you will serve by choice.” A pause. “You have no title, but you do have your names. We must know who you are and know the blood you bring to service.”

“State your name and family.” Sel’s voice catches me off guard.

This is the first time any of us have been asked to speak in over an hour. Vaughn doesn’t hesitate. “Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Fourth, son of Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Third, Vassal to the Line of Bors.”

Lewis speaks up next: “Lewis Wallace Dunbar, son of Richard Calvin Dunbar, Vassal to the Line of Owain.”

Greer follows quickly: “Greer Leighton Taylor, child of Holton Fletcher Taylor, Vassal to the Line of Lamorak.”

My mind spins while Whitty speaks beside me. What do I say? Not my mother’s name, right? No, my father’s!

When it’s my turn, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

The harsh sound of hissing cuts through the night and lashes against me, sends my pulse racing. Disapproval. My ears burn hot. Pressure begins behind my eyes and—No! Wall up! Now is not the time for After-Bree’s anger.

Davis raises a hand, and the sound ceases.

“Your name,” Sel repeats, his voice low.

This time, I speak. “Briana Irene Matthews, daughter of Edwin Simmons Matthews.”

The Chapel is silent, waiting for the final words that they already know I can’t claim. No Vassalage. No Line. Someone in the Legendborn row hisses. Vaughn stifles a snicker.

Davis’s voice slices across the quiet, stiff with warning. “Do not fall prey to hubris. Affiliation with this Order is not equivalent to sworn fealty. Indeed, Tennyson said, ‘Man’s word is God in man.’ Tonight you sever all other promises but these and serve the Order not as individuals but as one.”

My chest unclenches. I say a silent “thanks” to Nick’s father, whose imperious glare has cowed even Vaughn.

“Who brings Vaughn Schaefer forward to make the Oath of Fealty?”

A Legendborn figure steps forward, drawing his hood back. “I do.” It’s the boy from the study, Fitz. He kneels opposite Vaughn and extends one forearm across the stone, palm up, and the other next to it and palm down. Sel takes a knee at the end of the altar and rests long fingers on the silver speckled surface. A ripple of mage flame from his fingertips flows down the altar in a wave, from Vaughn to me.

“Tonight, you make an Oath to us and, through your Legendborn sponsor, the Order makes one to you.” Davis nods to Vaughn.