Foldrey buried Ranka’s axe in the Murknen. She collapsed with a scream, dead before she hit the ground. He bent down to pull the weapon free, but it was stuck.

Ranka turned her attention back to the Kerth. She’d come south to kill humans, not witches. She was so tired of failing. Of letting the ones she was meant to save burn or die. But the Kerth was too far gone—there was only one way this could end.

The Kerth hissed. Tears cut through the grime on Ranka’s cheeks. She would kill her with the weapon, not her hand, to avoid seeing the flashes of her life.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka whispered.

The Kerth lunged for the Sunra twins, and Ranka swung. The sword blade arced, cleaving one of the Kerth’s hands away. The witch barreled forward as if she hadn’t even felt it. She kicked out at Ranka and knocked the sword from her hand. Ranka staggered, lost her balance, and fell.

The Kerth stood over her. She stared down at Ranka with nothing but hatred and hunger registering in her gaze. But she looked so frail—a girl of sixteen, maybe seventeen, her entire body ruined by a man-made plague.

Maybe it was fitting that winalin would end Ranka, when its makers had sought to re-create her. Ranka took a breath and readied herself for the blow.

The Kerth raised Foldrey’s sword.

A hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back.

Ranka saw the Kerth, face warped with bloodlust, skin broken by sores, hands shifted into claws—and Foldrey, dragging her so hard that her feet left the ground. Weaponless, bloody, and alone. He pulled her away from Ranka, bloody fingers buried in her shaggy mess of hair, chest heaving, a wild, desperate light in his eyes.

He saved me, Ranka realized numbly. All his threats, all her fears, all his reasons, but he’d saved her all the same.

The Kerth twisted and drove Foldrey’s sword into his stomach.

Time slowed. They stared at each other, witch and guard, the Kerth holding the sword, Foldrey holding her hair, each looking bewildered by how easily the weapon had gone in. A gasp rattled out of Foldrey. His face softened. Tenderly, he reached up and cradled the Kerth’s face in his hands. She looked so small in front of him. So young. Blood spread across Foldrey’s stomach in a slow red wave, staining the linen of his uniform.

Foldrey broke her neck with a crack.

The Kerth crumpled. Foldrey swayed, his hand going to the sword protruding from his abdomen. From down the street a familiar scent rippled forward—smoke-stained robes, oil-streaked skin, and torches, ready for burning.

It was only a matter of time before someone heard the commotion. And only one group would respond to a fight here, deep in the city, where the palace had long since left its own people to die.