A long while later, after the monkeys had been soothed with a vat of banana pudding and dragged from the stage, Tedros took his place before Camelot’s chaplain, perilously old, with a bright-red nose and wiry hair growing out of his ears. The chaplain put his hand on Tedros’ back and guided him to the front of the stage, overlooking the teeming hills.

On cue, the sun broke out from behind the cloud, spilling onto the young prince.

An awed hush fell over the crowd.

Tedros could see the legions gazing up at him with wide-eyed hope: the boy who vanquished the School Master . . . who saved the Ever Kingdoms . . . who would make Camelot great again.

“I’m king of all these people?” Tedros croaked, the weight of responsibility finally hitting him.

“Oh, oh, your father asked the same thing, boy! Fear is a very good sign,” the old chaplain said, hacking a laugh. “And luckily, no one can hear us from way up here.”

The chaplain turned to a skinny, red-haired altar boy, who carefully handed him a jeweled box. The chaplain opened it. Sunlight ricocheted through five spires like a web of gold, eliciting gasps from the mob. Tedros gazed down at King Arthur’s crown, the five-pointed fleur de lis, each with a diamond in the center.

Once, when he was six, he’d stolen it from his father’s bedtable and worn it to his lessons with Merlin, insisting the wizard bow and call him King. He assumed Merlin would put an end to his mischief—but instead the wizard obeyed his command, bowing eminently and addressing him as Your Majesty all the way through math and astronomy and vocabulary and history. Perhaps the old wizard would have let him be king forever. . . . But soon the young prince removed his crown and sheepishly returned it to his father’s table. For it was too heavy for his soft little head.

Now, ten years later, the chaplain held out the very same crown. “Repeat after me, young prince. The words might sound a bit funny, given it’s an oath that harkens back two thousand years. But words aren’t what make a king. That fear you feel is all you need. Fear means you know this crown has a history and future far bigger than you. Fear means you are ready, dear Tedros: ready to quest for glory.”

Legs quivering, Tedros repeated the chaplain’s oath.

“By thy Lord, on wrest that Godes doth place on my head, I swear to uphold the honor of Camelot against all foel. I swear to be a beacon in the darknell to thy enlightened realm. . . .”

Like the old man warned, he tripped over the strange syllables and sounds without knowing what he was saying. And yet, somewhere in his heart he did. His eyes welled up, the moment getting to him. Just a few years ago, he was a first year boy at the School for Good and Evil, full of bluster and insecurity.