I’m not Nick. I’m not some chosen one. I am the product of violence, and I am the Scion of Arthur, and I don’t want to be either. I just want to be my mother’s daughter. And my father’s. I just want to be 𝘮𝘦.

Sometimes I wish I could shrink into someone more convienient.

Twenty-four hours ago, I pulled Excalibur from its stone. Now, I am paying the price. The ancient blade shattered me. Who I was. Who I could be. Who I’d never be again. I became shards of myself.

Does a king imagine strangling her own knight?

I’d thought myself brave for facing the Order. For chasing down the truth. But every time I close my eyes, all I see are the faces of the people I’ve lied to in order to find it.

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to launch myself at Tor. 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘦? I wonder. 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘚𝘦𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘦?

“We ran for many reasons. We ran to protect ourselves. We ran so we would not die, so that our daughters could live. But one purpose, one dream reigns above all others. Do you know what that is, Bree?” I shake my head, gasping. “No.” “We ran… so you would not have to.”

The Briana Matthews who held Excalibur had been broken apart—and forged into something new. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘸. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭. That’s how William described me.

It tends to make older men uncomfortable when I meet their gaze equally.

Growing up Black in the South, it's pretty common to find yourself in old places that just... weren't made for you.

My mother didn’t pursue the Order and its war. My mother didn’t share her Rootcraft. Not with me and not with anyone else. The least I can do, after defying her in so many ways, is finally follow in her footsteps.

I emerge from the shower with my hair wrapped in a microfiber towel and rub the foggy mirror until I can see the genuine, full smile on my face. Tangles gone. Scalp clean. Curls moisturized and bouncy. Head and soul lighter. More me than I’ve been in months.

Even though I can only recall hazy snippets from the hospital—trauma-related memory loss, according to my father’s weird, preachy grief book—I have After-Bree. She’s the unwanted souvenir that death gave me.

While I wait for Alice and Charlotte to come over, I take the rest of the day to wash my hair—and it’s the most therapeutic, loving thing I could have done for myself. Condition, detangle, deep condition with a heat wrap, paint my nails and watch a movie while I wait, rinse.

I listen to these people I don't know use the past tense about my mother, the person who brought me into this world and created my present. They are past-tensing my heart--my whole beating, bleeding, torn heart-- right in front of me. It is a 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

“Nick was right,” I say in a low voice I barely recognize. “Merlins 𝘢𝘳𝘦 monsters. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 are a monster.”

It’s way too easy to convince the bouncer that I'm a 21 year-old Black woman named Monica Staten. “I can’t believe that worked,” I say. “It says here that Monica's 6 inches shorter than I am! And she wears glasses.” “White folks’ face-blindness for different races is a thing!”

I stare blankly. “All Merlins are part sex demon.” He smirks. “Technically, yes, but at this level of genetic distance, their seductive traits are… passive.”

I blink, head spun by the turns in this conversation. “Sex demons?” William's mouth widens into a full, amused smile. “Did you just whisper the word ‘sex’?” “No,” I retort, flushing around my collar. “I emphasized it.”

I unravel the rage until it courses through my veins like fuel in an engine. I let it become a part of me, but not all of me. I let it spread through me—until there is no more “Before” and no more “After.” I am her and she is me.