Ranka’s line moved at a crawl. In the line to her left were more strangers, most of them single travelers, a few parents with children—but to her right was the merchant line, travelers with wagons and carts, tugging along produce and pricey raw exports from Witchik’s north.

To her right, poised atop a wagon, was a witch.

At first glance she was just another a farmer’s daughter, a gangly girl with dirty clothes and tired eyes, sitting awkwardly astride an old mare whose better years were behind her. Ranka had sniffed her out immediately. Her witchery was weak, a pulse that was barely there, and had she been closer, Ranka wagered her nails would have been like Yeva’s or Asyil’s, holding only the barest tint of gray.

Ranka’s own sister had possessed nails like that—so barely tinted, one might wonder if the label of “witch” was a mistake. Had Ranka not been sniffed out by a Skra patrol, her sister might have lived out her days among humans, never knowing of the weak thread of witchery pulsing within. Maybe that’s where Vivna was now, eking out a life in some tiny Isodal town, happy as a lark away from the witches who had raised her. From the little sister who was willing to die for her.

Stop it.

Vivna was gone. Dead or alive, she was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

But Yeva—Yeva still had a chance.

“Clear,” the guard said. An old man dressed in green ambled forward, tugging along a tiny cart of cabbages, and dutifully plunged his hands into the water.

Ranka swallowed, her eyes on the lone witch. How many had tried to sneak through, nails carefully painted, only to end up ablaze? It seemed foolish to risk being burned alive, all to enter a city.

But what a city it was. The heartbeat of a country, a chance to start anew, big enough for a lesser witch to get lost among the crowds and make a life. The Sunra palace was a distant glimmer atop the cliffs, poised over the city like a silent guardian. From here it looked fragile, as if the smallest gust of wind could send the entire thing careening into the waves. Ranka’s eyes tracked the city walls, the buildings that stretched east and west and curved around the bay in both directions. Three hundred thousand, Ongrum had estimated. Three hundred thousand lives within those walls.

If you’re in there, Yeva, I’ll find you. And I’ll bring you home.

“Clear,” the guard said, waving the cabbage merchant through.

It was the witch’s turn. She hesitated, hands shaking on the reins of what must have been a stolen horse.

Not my coven. Ranka set her jaw. Not my problem.

And yet.

“I said clear,” the guard snapped.

Ranka’s legs tensed. The poster nearly slipped from her hands.