Aramis’s lips thinned. She balled her hands into fists and looked away, the veins of her neck pulsing as she tried to contain herself. Ranka could still scent her rage and her grief, but above all—though she did her best to keep her face blank and breathe evenly—Aramis Sunra reeked of sheer, undiluted terror.

A faint hope flickered to life inside her. If Aramis listened to her, the twins could prepare for the possible Skra coup without even realizing it. Ranka could have a backup plan, just in case it took too long for Ongrum to see reason—or in case one of the other covens arrived on their doorstep with similar designs.

Ranka put a hand on Aramis’s knee. “I know you’re terrified. But this goes beyond court politics, Princess. We’re talking about war. We have to be ready. And we have to have every weapon in our arsenal.”

“By ‘every weapon,’ ” Aramis said softly, still not looking at her, “do you mean your blood-magic?”

Ranka stilled. She’d hit a wall in her training, and they all knew it. It took longer for her power to overtake her, but it still did in the end. If they were facing a fight for their lives, Ranka needed to be a weapon the twins could rely on, not a liability.

“I still don’t have control,” Ranka said softly. “I want to know why.”

A vein pulsed in Aramis’s throat. “No.”

“Princess—”

“I said no, Ranka.”

“It’s not your place to say no, not when this thing has controlled me my entire life—”

“And if you face it, you’ll lose it!”

Ranka stared at her, every nerve in her body suddenly alive and tuned in to the panic emanating off of Aramis. “What?”

Aramis’s eyelashes fluttered. She stared at the wall, agony deepening the shadows on her face. “There were others, before you. Blood-witches Mother found that she thought she could train. Save.” Aramis fisted her hands in her lap. “Two of them just weren’t strong enough. The power took hold, and Mother ended them as mercifully as she could. But the third girl—Sorya…”

Darkness crept into the corners of Ranka’s vision.

“She had a mental block,” Aramis whispered. “She came to us when I was eleven. Mother was so sure she’d be named Bloodwinn. She was so strong, Ranka. But something was holding her back.” She took a shuddering breath. “We figured it out then—blood-magic is anchored to the blood, but it’s triggered by emotion. Every blood-witch manifests from death, but so few remember the events that broke their magic to the surface. It’s a defense mechanism. They lock the memory away. The mind protects itself, even as that power rages. Even Mother had no recollection of the events that triggered her power. Just flashes of nightmares.”

Fire, swirling everywhere. Blood on the snow.