“I… don’t know,” Ranka admitted. “There are days I’m so desperate to be free of it. I think I’d like to be someone who would always say yes. But I—I don’t know who I am without this magic. I don’t know what I am if I’m not a blood-witch.” It sounded pathetic even to her. Her blood-magic had ruined her life, but it had also made her valuable. It’d made Ongrum believe in her, had given the Skra an edge. And it had helped her protect the twins, in the end.

“My mother felt the same.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“I never knew her the way Aramis did—the two of them were always a pair, always testing Mother’s magic, always studying. Mother was obsessed; Aramis inherited that obsession, even though she didn’t inherit the blood-magic.” A crinkle appeared between his brows. “Mother so desperately wanted to cure it, but I think it terrified her too. Being a blood-witch was all she was. It was why people loved her—and why they hated her. She didn’t know who she’d be outside of that power.”

It was comforting, in an odd, twisted way. “I wish I could have met her.”

“Me too.” He smiled. “She wouldn’t have liked you.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He nudged her. “Hey, who knows? Maybe we’ll both get what we want—I’ll escape the crown, and Aramis will somehow make your magic disappear. And if not? I’ll be the gentle king, and you’ll be the monster that keeps me from getting assassinated.”

Her heart ached. It was a beautiful world he was offering her—a world where someone like her, who’d done the things she had, had a place. A purpose. It didn’t sound possible.

But what if it could be?

Her heart began to pick up speed, beat by treacherous beat. Galen was still talking—about his father, who used to call rainstorms in the middle of the day because the rainbows would make Aramis squeal; about his mother, who always insisted on rescuing the stray cats that managed to slip beyond the palace walls. Ranka’s mind spun around his earlier words.

I’ll be the gentle king, and you’ll be the monster.

That was it.

All this time she’d been torn—the twins or the Skra, Isodal or Witchik. But what if she didn’t have to choose? What if she could have both? The entire coup was predicated on the idea that Galen Sunra was a cruel, selfish prince who sought to punish Witchik. But Foldrey had been right—Galen had a rare heart, a gentle heart, one that promised a future she’d never dared dream of.

What if there was another way?