Somehow Foldrey, like all of them, had become more.

“If you hear anything—”

Lanna’s eyes were warm and sad. “You’ll be the first to know.”

She turned away, moving toward Galen. Though she wasn’t much taller than Aramis, she lifted him with ease. Galen murmured something but didn’t wake as Lanna carried him across the room and settled him beside Percy. The bed creaked under his weight. And it bothered her, that she was comforted to have him within reach.

He’d been a marvel in that alley—all wind, strength, and sheer willpower. He had protected them and left Foldrey behind to save them. She’d underestimated him.

Maybe he could become someone strong enough to guide Isodal down the right path—or maybe she was wrong, and the throne would eat him alive.

The hours crept by. Lanna drifted in and out, checking their wounds, feeding them warm broth tasting of herbs and buckwheat honey. Ranka’s wounds kept her suspended between a state of uncomfortable wakefulness and half-drugged sleep. Percy slept still as death beside her, his skin pleasantly cool against Ranka’s own burning frame as he drooled. Night crept over Seaswept, easing the city into a lull, bathing the healer’s cottage in cool blue shadows.

Aramis jolted, her face contorting. “Foldrey.”

Lanna had stepped out only a few moments ago. They were alone. Aramis sobbed, lost in a nightmare, her fingers clawing and her face twisting as she fought demons only she could see.

“Hey,” Ranka whispered, wriggling herself upright. Percy’s chin slipped off her shoulder, and he landed facedown on the pillow with a grunt. Ranka eyed him to make sure he wasn’t going to suffocate before turning to Aramis. She hesitated—and then took her hand and squeezed. “We’re safe. I won’t leave you.”

Aramis stilled at the sound of her voice, the lines in her face easing. Only the low rumble of Ranka’s voice seemed to keep the princess at ease.

Even in the realm of her nightmares, Aramis trusted her.

She’d have to talk Aramis through the night—or at least until Lanna returned.

If Yeva were here, she’d be telling fairy tales, spinning stories about far-off kingdoms and benevolent kings who granted riches to village girls. But Ranka had stopped believing in happy endings a long time ago.

“All I ever wanted to be was a warrior,” Ranka whispered. “So even though it terrified me, my blood-magic felt like a calling. For the first time in my life, I was strong. I had purpose. I was inspiring instead of embarrassing. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t read, that I wasn’t beautiful. I mattered. But Vivna always wanted different. She said violence made me ugly, and witches were cursed.”

The crease between Aramis’s eyebrows eased. Percy remained still—too still, his breathing suddenly measured and careful as he listened, feigning sleep.

Ranka kept talking.