I subtly shake my head. How could I? I’m an imposter of Jessica Stone—I know less than anyone on this panel. Except for maybe Calvin. I don’t think Calvin realizes what is happening at all.

I didn’t prepare for this. I hadn’t even thought this could be a possibility. And also, this prick interrupted me. He could’ve waited until after I’d answered.

Or maybe this is symbolic of how Princess Amara and Jessica Stone are old news?

Whatever it is, it is very, very bad for me.

“I have woken from an endless slumber, brothers,” the golden knight says, addressing the audience, “and I know some of you are not quite sure what to make of me yet. But you will, I promise. All will become clear within the guiding light of the Sun. You will be saved, my children, my brothers, my…friends.” He says the last bit slowly, oily, and a tremble races down my spine.

He turns his head slightly—to me—and leans back against the table. He slowly raises a hand and runs his finger along my jawline. My brain turns to putty.

“All you must do,” he says, as if we are two lovers whispering intimately, “is conscript your fate to me.”

I stare into his face, which is lit from the glow of his costume, and see the thin mic headset clipped to his ear, the slope of his nose, the thin curve of his lips.

He slides the tip of his finger to the edge of my chin, following the contour of my face, before turning back to the audience. His smile imitates that of the original actor—the late Arthur Boise—down to the slight uptick on the left side of his lips.

His voice, languid and commanding, slithers across the crowd. “Any volunteers?”

Everything I know about Starfield changes in an instant. Of course no one wants to be conscripted to the Path of the Sun—it’s like watching Patrick Stewart be assimilated into the Borg—but honestly I don’t think anyone’s thinking straight. I know I’m not.

In that moment, I admit I’m kind of fantasizing about how long that conscription would take.

The crowd explodes like the Death Star after Luke hits the sweet spot.

Amon stands as the lights rise and then walks in front of the table. “Vance Reigns, everyone!”

Vance Reigns.

Ohmygod. The heartthrob who stole MTV’s Hottest Actor award from Darien Freeman last year. The face of Chanel advertisements. The magic-sword-carrying hero in the Blades of Valor TV series. The guy I watched play Never Have I Ever and cop to “had a crush on Ron Swanson.”

That Vance Reigns.

I swallow thickly.

Amon grabs him by the shoulder and grins, pleased as a peacock. “And Vance, can you tell me who you’ll be playing?”

The golden knight sneers, still in character. “General Sond, you plebeian.”