“Got any healing salve?” he joked, his words faint.

Emry’s tears spilled faster. That joke was a very bad sign. She’d never see him become king. Or wear that ridiculous sportswear. Or examine an herb in the garden. Or tuck a book under his arm on his way to the library. Or sip a mug of coffee in the morning, his eyes bright and awake as he slipped into the seat across from hers in the wizard’s workshop.

She had lost him once, and she wasn’t going to lose him again.

“I’ve got something better,” she promised. “Magic.”

She was going to save him. She had to.

She dragged him toward the altar, propping him gently into a sitting position. He grimaced, his face white, and Emry tried not to stare at the smear of blood across the ground.

And then she sliced her hand open with Excalibur, laying her bleeding palm on the altar.

She didn’t know if she had the strength to reopen the portal, but she had to try. She had to save him. Before she could speak the command, the stone pressed against her hand. Except this time, instead of draining her magic, power flowed the opposite way.

Magic flooded into her, cool and crisp and wonderful. Magic that wasn’t hers.

It felt unfamiliar and strange, but there wasn’t time to question it.

Emry lifted a hand, picturing the jagged path of the dagger, and Arthur’s wound healing itself. Before she could cast the spell, the magic snapped out of her, a bright crackle of light that shot from her fingertips to his stomach.

The dagger came loose, trailing in Arthur’s hand. His eyes closed, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. Emry stared down at him, her heart pounding, her throat tight, unsure what had just happened.

And then Arthur opened one eye.

“That was odd,” he said. “Effective, but odd.”

He groaned, lifting his tunic to take stock of his wound. His skin was still slick with blood, but in the center of it was a bright silver scar shaped like a sunburst.

Emry stared down at her hand, unsure what had happened. She hadn’t cast the spell, not even in her head. The magic—not her magic, but the strange magic that coursed through her—had done the work itself.

And then the altar stone cracked in half. There was a threatening rumble, and Emry realized with horror that the henge was going to collapse. All around them, large cracks laced across the ground.

There was a shimmer between the stones, as though the door was trying to open from the other side.

“Father?” Emry whispered.

“We have to go,” Arthur said urgently. He’d dragged himself to his feet, and Emry didn’t think she’d ever seen Excalibur grow as brightly as it did now.

“But my father—” Emry protested, gesturing toward the door.

“There’s no time,” Arthur insisted as the floor fissured again, revealing a crack nearly too wide to jump across.