Aramis curled over Percy, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts. He stretched across the alley floor, unconscious, bleeding heavily from a deep slash in his thigh. Jagged claw marks curved down his cheek, weeping the black substance that coated the witches’ knives. Galen cowered against the wall, frozen in place.

The Murknen took a step toward them.

“Don’t touch them,” Ranka slurred. Blood dripped down her chest. “They’re mine.”

The Kerth and Foldrey both turned. The Kerth bared her teeth—but Foldrey froze, a strange expression sweeping his face. It was the first time he had seen Ranka truly transformed, and when Foldrey looked at her, it wasn’t with horror, but with weary regret. As though Ranka had given him an answer to something. He looked at her like he was sorry.

I will not let anything jeopardize those twins or the future they represent.

At least he saw her fully now. A monster made, if not born.

A girl made weapon, whose only purpose was to kill.

Ranka recalled the day Ongrum had given her her axe. She’d known, in that moment, she was starting down a path she could never walk back on. That was how Foldrey looked at her now, with something like grief flickering in his eyes, fading to a grim resolve. Like he’d just made a choice.

She could only hope that choice involved fighting alongside her.

Ranka held his stare and bent slowly. She placed her axe on the cobblestones and put her toes against it. Understanding brightened Foldrey’s eyes.

The Murknen raised her knife.

Foldrey’s legs tensed.

Ranka kicked her axe across the ground.

Foldrey lunged. His fingers closed around the handle and he turned, swinging his arm in a great, sweeping arc. The axe blade slammed into the Murknen’s calf, and she screamed. Ranka darted forward, snatching up Foldrey’s sword, slashing it toward the Kerth.

And finally—blessedly—her blood-magic took over.

Every ache, scrape, and worry vanished. She was no longer Ranka. She was just a vessel made to kill, a heartbeat piloting flesh and bones. The Kerth howled, clawing at Ranka’s arms and face and neck, pressing the black substance deep into the fibers of her torn muscles, but Ranka’s blood-magic ate the pain, just as it had every time she’d stepped onto the battlefield. It was like pulling on a second skin, so familiar in that haze of chaos.

Monster. Butcher. Murderer.

Ongrum was right. This was who she was, all she’d ever be—and it was glorious.

Behind her, Foldrey kept fighting.

Numbness crept up Ranka’s legs, her body growing stiff and cold as it lost more blood. Her skin burned as though someone had lanced open her veins and filled them with hot metal. Her blood-magic propped her up, but she was so tired. The alley swam.

Behind her, Galen’s voice: “Aramis? Aramis, wake up.”