She sprinted into the hallway right as one of the Hands crested the stairs. Aramis’s arms tightened around her neck. Ranka skidded to a halt in front of a window. Behind her, someone shouted.

Ranka kicked through the window. The glass shattered, and she swung them out into the cool air of Seaswept, leaving the Hands of Solomei behind to burn.

39

THEY SEARCHED FOR TWO HOURS, but they never found the Kerth. The trail of blood led them to the shore. Waves lapped against the rocks, black under the night sky, depths muddied from the downpour. Ranka searched everywhere, but the witch was gone. It was as though she’d walked right into the sea.

Now Ranka and Aramis headed back toward the palace in silence. Seaswept’s murky blue night stretched between them in all its languid warmth, deceptively peaceful in the face of the horrors they’d just witnessed.

“Ranka,” Aramis said finally, her voice breaking. “If they have winalin—if they mean to—”

“I know.”

“It’s too much,” Aramis whispered. She rubbed her temples and leaned against a wall, her legs wobbling, and slid down to bury her face in her hands. “All of this is too much. I convinced myself the Hands weren’t a threat. Our intelligence said the same. Even Foldrey believed it, and he was the most cautious of all of us. We were so sure they were just troublemaking zealots, pawing for what little power they could.” She balled her fists. “It was right under our noses. We’re so stupid.”

Ranka sat, ignoring the filth of the street, and for the first time dared to speak aloud what they both knew. “They mean to use the coronation to spread it. Aramis, if they perfect winalin—if they get it right—they’re going to kill us all.”

“We could warn the covens….” Aramis’s voice trailed off. If the Sunra heirs invited the covens in only to confess a man-made plague, the covens would kill them—and everyone in Seaswept—outright.

They were trapped.

It was so painfully, utterly clear. The Hands had put them in an impossible position. If they called off the coronation, they were caving to the narrative that witches were dangerous and the treaty was broken. They’d ensure what little public faith remained in the Sunras was now solidly on the side of the zealots who sought to unseat them. Rumors of famine stirred. Fields had burned in the drought, which meant grain shortages were inevitable, and entire herds of livestock had starved as Isodal’s heartland withered into a bowl of dust. Galen’s rains had brought them a reprieve, but the damage was already done. Even if the fall crops came in strong, Isodal’s food stores were dangerously low.