Ranka watched her quietly, listening to the murmur of the sleeping city around them. “And if we don’t, Princess?” she asked. “If it’s my life or your country—what then?”

Would you choose me, still?

Would you throw it all away, for a monster of a girl?

A muscle in Aramis’s jaw feathered as Aramis stared at her. Her gaze flicked from Ranka’s eyes to her lips and back again. The memory of the tavern returned—of what it had felt like to kiss her. To hold her. Suddenly the space between them was a palpable, workable thing. Suddenly Ranka wanted no space at all.

Overhead, a seabird cried. The spell broke, and they flinched, looking away from each other. Reality came crashing back in, colder than mountain water and just as clear.

There was a plague tearing through the country. Even if Ongrum listened to Ranka, she was meant to marry Galen. Maybe someday she could find someone who loved her, and they could hide it in private. But the princess?

She was not for Ranka, could never be for Ranka.

Things had been so much easier when they simply wanted each other dead.

Aramis pushed herself to her feet and wiped the snot from her nose with her sleeve. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted too much time.”

She turned away then, marching down the street without a light as though she’d walked this route a thousand times. Ranka watched her go and tried to ignore the question that lingered still. The knowledge that by not saying what she would choose—her country or Ranka’s life—Aramis had given her answer, and it was the wrong one.

They made their way back in silence, the weight of everything they’d learned stretched between them. It was plain Aramis had no intention of being honest with her brother, and could Ranka truly fault her? How many lies had she told the people she loved to shield them? How many lies was she still telling now?

In only a few days witches from every coven would pour into this city, and all Ranka had was a half-baked plan to appeal to Ongrum’s sensibility in a bid for peace. Her head pounded. If only Ongrum were here. She always had answers. If she’d been the one in Seaswept this entire time, she’d already have a full-blown strategy, with three backup plans in case the others failed. It would be a relief when Ongrum arrived—to pass the burden to someone smarter, someone who could make the hard, right choice. Ongrum would know how to save them. She always did.

Footsteps pounded toward them. Ranka braced herself for a fight—but it was only Percy, tearing around the corner.

“There you are,” he blurted. “I need you both now.”

“Percy, what happened?” Aramis drew back. “Where have you been? Wait—is that blood?”