“War among the humans.” Ongrum smiled wryly. “There are no other male heirs. His sister was deemed unfit to rule. Kill the boy, and the humans turn on one another in their scramble for power. And Witchik will be free.”

A rumble of approval went through the coven. A second fire was lit, and then another. Someone broke a bottle of pine liquor with a whoop and sent a gout of blue-green flame roaring into the sky, and in the presence of so much flame, it was pride the Skra witches summoned, not fear. Now the entire camp was aglow. Now they were painted in burning light. The coven pressed closer, their faces alight, their eyes eager.

When was the last time she’d had their attention like this?

When was the last time she’d mattered at all?

Ranka could nearly see it—a boy in a crown crumpling to the floor, blood spilling down his chest, her stag-bone knife buried between the delicate gaps of his ribs. A lifetime of freedom as the humans ripped one another apart over the throne instead of ripping Witchik apart.

A treaty ended by the will of a girl.

A country freed with the stroke of a blade.

And Yeva—alive and well, bright eyed, rosy cheeked, and home.

Ranka waited for Ongrum to tell her it was the wrong choice. To remind her that her place was here, in the north, that she’d taken enough lives. It was another witch’s turn to bleed, another coven’s turn to suffer. Now it was Ranka’s turn to rest.

Instead, Ongrum looked at Ranka like she was the beginning of something.

“You could do it, child,” Ongrum said softly. “With you, we would win.”

The coven pressed closer. Hands brushed her shoulders, her back, her hair. She leaned into the weight of their palms, skin burning from the heat of their touch, drunk on the caress of their acceptance, lost in the pride shimmering in Ongrum’s eyes, bright as the days post-Belren. It’d been dimming for years. Now she could bring it back. She could make Ongrum proud forever.

And yet.

“I’m a fighter, not a spy,” Ranka whispered. “I haven’t trained for this—I haven’t—”

“Look at me, child. Weapon you may be,” Ongrum said. “But you are my daughter, by right if not blood. And no daughter of mine could fail.”

Behind her, the coven rumbled with approval. Ranka’s head spun, her leader’s words ringing in her ears, her blood humming with the collective hope of the witches who surrounded her.

She could still say no. She could live out her days safe but alone. Ignored but alive.

But if she said yes?

If she pulled this off?

“You really think it was him?” Ranka whispered, her voice far away. “The pin could just be a coincidence….”