The palace was not her home. Could never be her home.

So why was it starting to feel like it?

The days passed in a blur. Galen was well enough to walk by the time they returned, and Percy—unfortunately—had recovered enough to chatter constantly from his sickbed until Aramis took to whipping pillows at his head. By their second day in the infirmary, they were doing well enough to irritate the healers and were finally released.

Ranka tried for word of Foldrey—but all the guards would say was that the search was ongoing.

She found Galen at the cliffs.

He stood with his arms limp, staring out at the sea. The sky was a muted gray, the first overcast day since Ranka had entered Isodal. Three guards were posted several feet away. Even from afar she could scent the misery rolling off Galen. In the Skra camp, it was often Ranka tasked with speaking to battle-shocked witches after their first fight. She understood the way violence stained, the blood-soaked nightmares that followed.

But grief—grief she’d never been good at.

“Galen?”

The prince didn’t move.

“Can I talk to you? Alone?”

Galen raised a hand. The guards moved away, their sword buckles squeaking. Galen remained immobile, head tilted toward the sky, eyes open but unseeing.

“They haven’t found him,” he said finally. “They’ve looked everywhere. Nothing.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Galen, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to—”

“But you don’t,” Galen snapped. “He’s not just—he’s not just staff, Ranka. He’s family, okay? And we left him behind. I left him behind. And now he—” His voice hitched. “Now he’s gone.”

She didn’t say what they both knew—that if Foldrey was dead, it was a blessing. The Hands would torture him for information before they slit his throat. Had Foldrey been a noble, they might have ransomed him. But a guard was only as valuable as the secrets he carried.

Ranka inched forward, careful to keep her steps light, her heart pounding harder. She wanted nothing more than to give Galen space and time—but time was something they didn’t have. “I’m sorry for your loss, Galen.”

Silence.

“I know you love him,” Ranka said gently. “I know you’re terrified.”

Galen’s fingers curled into fists.

“But Foldrey wouldn’t want us sitting here. Not with winalin tearing the city apart and the Hands growing bolder.”

The prince’s nostrils flared. “You don’t know what he would want. You don’t know him. You don’t know any of us.”

“I know soldiers. I know he wouldn’t want you to dwell.”

“Ranka, could you please just—”

“So if you won’t talk…” Ranka inched closer. Her heart began to pound. “You’ll train.”

Galen twisted to look at her. “Pardon?”

This was either going to work or end very, very poorly.