“There was a memory Sorya couldn’t face, some trauma from when her magic erupted. And when we trained, it crept back. She couldn’t face it—and that denial let her power take control.”

Her sister’s scream, pitching higher and higher.

What have you done, Ranka? What have you done?

Panic closed around Ranka’s throat. “What happened to her?”

“Ranka, please—”

“What happened?”

“She tried to face the block,” Aramis whispered. “And she died.”

Numbness swept over Ranka in a cold, dark wave. Aramis’s voice wrapped around her, but it was as if the princess were speaking through a long, distant tunnel.

“She tried to go back, and she couldn’t handle it. But she dove too deep, and it—it broke something in that girl. Her power just switched off. Balled up inside her, dormant. She said she could feel it, but it wouldn’t respond. And we thought… I don’t know. We thought maybe we’d done it. Maybe facing that trauma had just erased the power. Set her free.” A horrible, ugly sob escaped Aramis. “Then one morning, we heard the screams.”

Ranka put her forehead on her knees. Her heart beat harder, pounding until her whole body was shaking, as Aramis recounted in a distraught whisper what happened the morning Sorya’s power woke back up. They’d feared it would turn her into a monster—set her loose in the palace, slaughtering everyone in her path. Instead, the magic simply erupted and ripped her apart from within. They found her writhing in her bed, veins rupturing as the magic burst free. The first time blood-magic awoke, it took the life of whatever was near the host.

The second time, it took the host instead.

“It took her so long to die. In the end, Father shot her,” Aramis whispered. “Put her down with an arrow like a sick dog instead of a girl who’d lived under our roof, shared our meals, and played with my dolls as if she were my own sister.”

Aramis fell silent, and the weight of what she’d said settled between them. Ranka didn’t know if she was terrified, furious, or both. Aramis had known this the entire time and kept it from her. Had strung Ranka’s hopes along, let her believe her power might be managed someday, while the memory of a girl ripped in half for attempting the same haunted her.

Yet watching her now—seeing the agony on Aramis’s face, the guilt and terror in her eyes—Ranka couldn’t feel anger. Only exhaustion.

“My answer is no,” Aramis said flatly. She refused to look at Ranka. “You may have your death wish, but I refuse to be the one who indulges it. We’ll find another way.”