And then, dimly, as if through a fog, she saw Arthur lying on the ground, a dark wound spreading across his stomach. He clawed for his sword, staring at her with an expression she’d seen him wear only once before, after he had been poisoned and was convinced of his demise.

And then his fingers found purchase, and Arthur—brave, wonderful, clever Arthur—pushed Excalibur toward her.

The moment she grasped the hilt, the sword glowed bright as sunlight in her hands, a dazzling thing. She dug the blade into the altar stone, scratching out that hateful binding symbol.

Magic flooded back into her, and she climbed to her feet, pointing the glowing blade at Morgana.

“Tell me,” Emry demanded, “how to bring back my father.”

Morgana laughed. “You foolish girl! There’s an entire world beyond the stones. How should I know where Willyt Merlin is? Or if he still lives?”

“So you lied to me,” Emry said, her voice dangerously low.

A clap of thunder sounded from the forest on the other side of the stones.

Emry could sense Anwen’s magic calling out to her.

Something you want?

Something you wish?

Something you desire?

She braced herself against the magic’s call, but Morgana stared at the doorway, transfixed. The sorceress licked her lips, eagerness blooming across her face as she took a step toward it.

“κλείσε την πόρτα!” Emry ordered.

The doorway started to shimmer.

“No!” Morgana screamed, hurling herself through just as the doorway faded.

The altar went still, and Emry stumbled backward. Excalibur trailed from one hand, and she stared down at the other, where she now carried a fresh silver scar across her palm.

“Arthur!” she said, gaping in horror as she spotted Morgana’s dagger buried to the hilt in his stomach.

“Hi,” he said faintly. “Came to help.”

Emry knelt at his side. He looked terrible. His face was white, and his clothes were torn, and a dark, sticky stain had spread across the front of his tunic. He caught Emry staring at it, and then he brought a hand to the wound. It came away wet.

“Lance is going to kill me,” she said, her breath catching.

“He’ll speak kindly at our funerals,” Arthur promised, his voice barely more than a whisper.

He was dying. They both knew it. Blood bubbled from the gash in his stomach and spotted the corners of his mouth.

“Here,” Emry said, pressing Excalibur into his hands.

She stared down at him, waiting for color to return to his cheeks. For him to sigh with relief and push himself up. But he merely gave her a sad smile and shook his head. His eyes were glassy with pain.

“Why isn’t it helping?” she asked, frantic. “I thought wielding Excalibur means you can’t be defeated in battle.”

“I’d assume dying isn’t the same as being defeated,” he said, his voice tight. “Hence the need for a scabbard that prevents death.”