One by one, they reached into their pockets and donned gold pins.

Ranka counted fifteen, twenty Hands, surveying the scene before them with a kind of grim satisfaction. A few turned and darted down side streets, likely to spread word more were needed. One of the Hands stepped forward and pointed at Aramis. “It’s them,” she laughed, as though she’d been handed an unexpected gift. “The Sunra brats.”

“And the Bloodwinn,” another added, pale face twisted in a sneer. “Solomei smiles upon us after all.”

Galen held very, very still.

His hands were still braced on Foldrey. Save for the blood that soaked his stomach, the guard looked peaceful, as if he’d merely lain down in the road to rest. Galen stared at the Hands, who could have so easily stepped in to help, who could have carried him and his sister to safety, or tried to save the guard he loved from the gaping wound in his stomach. Who could have helped them try to cure witches and rein in winalin, instead of using it as an excuse to fill his city with fire.

Grief washed across Galen’s face. He knelt there, shoulders shaking, hands wet with Foldrey’s blood. The temperature dropped several degrees. The sky grew darker.

“Please,” Galen said, his voice hoarse. “Please just… leave.”

One of the Hands murmured a command.

Galen pressed his lips to Foldrey’s forehead, murmuring something for only him to hear. He remained there, hovering over the guard who had raised him, eyelashes fluttering as he fought back tears.

“Please,” he tried again, his voice eerily calm. “I am begging all of you… don’t do this. Turn around. Go home. I won’t ask again.”

Twenty humans reached for their knives.

And Galen raised his hands.

Wind roared through the alley, peeling cobblestones up from the road, crashing into the Hands who’d collected like vultures to feed on tragedy. Thunder clapped overhead. Galen’s wind kept coming, building in fury until cyclones broke away and ripped down side streets. Some of the Hands pushed forward, turning their shoulders into the wind, aiming not for Galen, but for Aramis, who lay unconscious behind Ranka.

Galen slammed his hands down, and the wind buckled out.

It exploded outward in one great ripple. Several Hands went flying, scattering like twigs, some of them slamming against walls with horrible thuds. The wind swirled, picking up speed and debris. Galen twisted his wrist, and a protective cyclone formed around the five of them, blocking off the Hands, building in strength as it tore down awnings and peeled shingles from roofs.