Heat rushed to Ranka’s face. Why was she always saying the stupidest things to this girl?

Aramis cleared her throat several times and jerked her head to the empty room. “We can torture each other some more later. Let’s go.”

More? Later? Ranka tried to ignore the way her knees went weak, and followed her.

They cut through the second floor quickly. Ranka tried to focus on the task at hand instead of the wobbly feeling in her limbs. They’d spy on the Hands, she’d take Aramis home immediately after, and then she would plunge herself directly into the freezing sea. She chanted the plan in her head over and over again, and tried not to think about the softness of Aramis’s lips, the pleasant burn of her fingernails digging into Ranka’s shoulders.

How eager Aramis had been to kiss her. As though she meant it.

As though she’d been waiting for a chance.

“Door’s locked,” Aramis muttered. She dropped to her knees, pulled a pin from her hair, and twisted it into the handle with practiced ease. After a few seconds, a faint click came from the lock, and the door swung open.

“Since when do princesses pick locks?”

“Galen and I were dreadful children.” She locked the door behind them. It was a cramped room, consisting of little more than a straw bed and a side table—but the boards below it glowed with light. Aramis dropped to her knees and pressed an eye to a gap in the floorboards. When she raised her head, her face was haggard.

“What?” Ranka whispered. “What is it?”

The princess gestured wordlessly, and Ranka stretched out on her stomach beside her.

The back room was below them. It was small, lit only by a fireplace and a few stray mage-lights. Twelve humans stood in the room, all armed with short swords and instant-click torches.

There was a single table, and on it lay five syringes, all of them filled with a dull gray substance. The warmth drained from Ranka’s body. Even from the second floor she could smell it. It’d been in Seaswept since she first entered, had followed her into her nightmares, had lived in the veins of Yeva, Talis, and so many others.

Ranka didn’t realize she was trembling until Aramis put a hand over hers.

The Hands were in possession of winalin.

How had they even acquired it? Before, winalin had been a curse from the Star Isles they chased through the dark, a runaway plague popping up without rhyme or reason. It had been why the Hands were growing so volatile.

But if the Hands had it…

“All right,” one of the women said. The excitement in her voice made Ranka sick. “This strain is stronger, thanks to the latest samples from our friend. We should be ready for mass distribution soon.”