On my first day in Cesarine, a stray dog had meandered into the garbage where I’d hidden. Shivering and alone, his only possession had been a bone. I’d watched as a cruel child had stolen it from him, as she’d beaten him with it until the dog had snapped, lunging forward to bite her hand. Later that day—after the girl had scampered away, crying and bleeding—a man had patted the dog’s head as he passed, feeding him a bit of calisson. The dog had followed him home.

Like a stray dog in the garbage, Nicholina snapped, plunging her nails into her mistress’s calf.

Josephine jerked as if startled, her eyes narrowing with incredulity—then widening with rage. With a feral snarl, she swooped to seize Nicholina’s hair, wrenching her attendant upward and sinking her teeth deep into her throat. Bile rose in my own as those teeth crunched and snapped—feasting hungrily—while Nicholina kicked helplessly. Her screams ended in a gurgle.

Josephine had torn out her vocal cords.

Even then, she didn’t stop. She drank and drank until Nicholina’s hands slackened and her feet fell limp. She drank until splashes sounded behind us, accompanied by piercing undulations. Battle cries. When the first naked woman sprinted past—silver hair rippling and trident flashing—I never thought I’d be so grateful to see Elvire’s backside.

Dropping Nicholina’s body, Josephine whirled with wild eyes. Blood poured from her mouth, but she caught Elvire’s trident before it connected with her skull. Aurélien felled my tree with the single stroke of his club. He caught me with surprising tenderness, while Lasimonne dropped to his knees beside us. “My lady sends her regards,” he rumbled. “Forgive me. This is going to hurt.”

He peeled the thorns from my mouth, drew the spikes from my hands and feet, as Olympienne, Leopoldine, and Sabatay fell upon Josephine. Dozens of others streaked past, finding prey within the trees—the blood witches who’d gathered to watch my execution.

As I coughed and spluttered, Aurélien and Lasimonne dragged me from harm’s way. “What can we do?” the former asked. “How may we heal you?”

“You can’t do anything unless you’re hiding an antidote to poison in your . . . not pocket.” I coughed on a laugh, cradling my hands in my lap. They’d rested me against another tree. This one thankfully free of blood. “Go. My body will heal.”

Just slowly.

They didn’t need to be convinced. With two impeccable bows, they charged into the fray once more. I tried to breathe, to anchor myself in my magic. It had purged the hemlock from my body. It would cleanse Josephine’s blood too. Though the patterns shone dimmer than before—stretched too far and too thin across the city—the Brindelle trees helped. Even now, the power of this sacred grove flowed through me, deepening my connections. Restoring my balance.