“You.” My voice quaked, and I rose from my bed, snatching my blade from the side table. She laughed as I armed myself.

“I plan to build a throne from your bones,” I said.

“Perhaps that is what I should do with yours and the rest of High Coven’s.”

“It makes sense that you would need our magic. You were never quite as powerful.”

Ravena smiled, narrowed her eyes, and suddenly, I felt a grip on my neck and I was lifted off the ground. The impact against my throat made me want to vomit, but I couldn’t even if I tried. I was slowly suffocating.

“I think you forget who is powerless now,” she said.

I was still clutching my blade, and I lifted my hands to my neck, hoping to stab at whatever magic she used to hold me. But there was nothing to grasp, nothing to pry away.

“You know this is what they wanted? All of us, divided, at war with one another. It’s hard to reach a goal when everyone is fighting.”

I could not form words; my mouth was full of saliva and my tongue felt swollen.

Suddenly, she released me, and I collapsed to the floor, coughing while simultaneously gasping for breath.

“It’s no fun talking to myself,” she said.

“Fuck you,” I rasped, but the words were choked. “What do you want?”

“To restore balance to the world,” she said.

I crawled forward and sat up, wincing as I swallowed, knife still in hand. “What does that even mean?”

“It means people have to die,” she said. “Peace makes no one powerful, Isolde. Even High Coven knew that. It is what tore us apart in the end.”

“You tore us apart.”

“Vada tore us apart,” Ravena snapped. “She was the one who sent us across Cordova to serve kings in their courts, all because she wanted power. That was the beginning of our end.”

Vada was an elder. She had handed me off to Dragos dressed in red, though I’d begged her to let me wear another color. She’d frowned at me, too proud of her work.

“But you are beautiful,” she’d said.

“This color is associated with depravity among my people,” I’d argued.

“But that is not the truth in Revekka. You must respect their customs.”

“Or they could respect mine,” I snapped. I was the one with real power.

“Yesenia.” Vada cupped my face between her cold and wrinkled hands. Her palms were softer than mine. They always had been. Vada had never planted her own herbs or harvested them. “We will not survive if we are not docile.”

“Is survival worth it, then?” I asked.

“When you have someone to live for, no sacrifice is too great,” she’d said.

But then we had gone on to give up our power, our autonomy, our lives, and we had lost those we loved anyway.