Page 95 of Avalon Tower

Raphael peers through the rain-slicked window. “Ah. You felt it, didn’t you? That’s the other Sentinel. Her name is Nivene. Auberon wouldn’t have sent a veil mage as an assassin for just anyone. He must have gone for our Sentinels. That’s why I assigned her these guards.”

I wince. I’m not sure the assassin went for me because I’m a Sentinel. But I’m not supposed to tell him about Tana’s prophecy. That they’re probably not after Nivene at all. They’re after me because I’m what Tana calls the “Lady of the Lake.”

“After tonight,” he goes on, “I’ll make sure your door has guards. You’ll be well protected.”

I stare at him as he unbuttons his white shirt. Gods, his body is perfect, and the candlelight sculpts every one of his chiseled muscles. He grabs a blanket off his bed and carries it over to a red velvet chaise longue beneath a window. He curls up, his pale eyes flicking to me.

We’re not touching. We’re across the room from each other. I didn’t really know if this is a whiskey-induced mistake, but I feel comfortable with him.

He flashes me a smile, a full, genuine smile that I’ve never seen on him before. I won’t be getting over that smile, ever. “Good night, pixie.”

My eyes drift closed to the sound of the rain.

But just as I’m relaxing, a horrible thought comes to me. The moment I fall asleep, the Dream Stalker could turn up again.

“Raphael?” I ask. “Do you know any way to protect yourself against the Dream Stalker’s magic?”

He shakes his head. “As far as I know, the only way is to never attract his attention.”

Well, fuck.

CHAPTER 32

It’s been nearly a month since the assassination attempt, and I’ve been haunted by something other than the Dream Stalker—anxiety about the Culling.

And right now, it all begins.

Two weeks of trials, tests, and sleeplessness. Success and failure. Life and death. All options are on the table.

Even though I’m just a spectator today, my body is tense.

Summer clouds slide over the sun, and the humid breeze kisses my skin. The stone benches of Camelot’s ancient arena, Knight Riding Court, are packed. Once, this was the site of deadly jousting matches. Bashed skulls, pierced helmets, severed limbs—let’s hope the first round of the trial by combat isn’t quite so violent as it was in Arthur’s day.

Out of all four trials I will face, the only one I’m not worried about is the written test tomorrow—I’ve got that nailed. But the other three scare the shit out of me. In just a few days, I have to pass something called the “shadow trial,” which is a total mystery that changes year to year. Then, my own combat trial here in the arena, one week from today. And finally, the magic trial, where I have to prove my Sentinel abilities. The ones I still haven’t fully mastered.

But it’s not just me who’s worried. I sense the tension in the air concerning what’s about to unfold.

I take a deep breath. Lightning spears the sky, and a few people around me jump. I pull my jacket snugly around me. Thunder rumbles, and a light rain spatters against my face.

As much as I hate it, the rainy weather reminds me of sleeping in Raphael’s bed with the rain pattering on the window. Hugging myself tightly, I glance back at him sitting behind me. His pale eyes are focused straight ahead, and I’m not sure he even realizes I’m here. Since the night of the assassin attack, he’s been nothing but formal and guarded. His old emotional restraint has returned. Perhaps he only lets down his guard when the alcohol is flowing.

I turn to the arena, my skin prickling with the apprehension thickening the air. Are any of us really prepared for this? Across the sandy tiltyard, the three trial judges wait in an elevated, covered pavilion. They sit in large wooden chairs that might as well be thrones—Viviane, Wrythe, and Amon, garbed in long, embroidered robes of blue and silver that remind me of Merlin. Wrythe sits in the middle, his golden torc flashing as another bolt lights the sky.

In just a few minutes, two cadets will battle one another, and their performance will help determine the torc they earn in the end. Will they become knights with gold or silver torcs? Squires with brass or copper? Or will they fail so miserably they’ll get tin—meaning they’re culled?

“Gods, I can hardly breathe,” Serana mutters by my side.

The rain starts to pick up, dampening my hair and jacket.

“I’ve given up on breathing altogether,” Darius says. He may be having a panic attack, but the man’s silver eyeliner is impeccable. “My trial by combat is tomorrow. Have you heard that sometimes people die?”

My stomach clenches. “I’m sure not very often,” I say. “They’re not going to want to kill their graduating class.”

Right?

We stare ahead at the arena. Slowly, the first two cadets march in. There’s Horatio—Tarquin’s pink-cheeked lapdog—and Nolan, Darius’s crush. Both of them are ridiculously tall, their shirts wet with rain. Horatio carries an enormous sword, its blade dulled. Nolan has a rapier in one hand, a stiletto in the other. His long brown hair drapes down his broad back.

“Smash him, Horatio,” Tarquin yells from the crowd.

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