“We’re close,” Percy said, as if he couldn’t believe the words. His eyes were bright with tears. “Extremely close. Ranka, do you have any blood to spare?”

They’d stopped taking samples after the latest witch attack to give her time to recover. She loathed blood days, dreaded the fatigue that followed her after, the overwhelming nausea and dizziness that occurred during. They would respect her wishes if she told them no.

“Of course,” Ranka said, already rolling up her sleeve. “Where do you want me to—”

“Sit on the table for now, if you don’t mind.” Percy prepared the needle, his mind clearly half a world away. “Aramis, make sure you record the Kerth’s vitals—”

The princess looked up from where she was already frantically filling the pages of yet another notebook. “One step ahead of you.”

The two of them kept talking, passing numbers back and forth, and Ranka reclined on the table, only an arm’s reach from the Kerth, whose life now relied on the cure they were hoping to synthesize from Ranka’s blood. Now that her face was no longer twisted with feral rage, the witch looked vulnerable, almost childlike. She had Yeva’s high cheekbones, Vivna’s full lips. So much of her held an echo of the ones Ranka so desperately missed. The Kerth breathed so slow, her chest barely moved, unconscious and lost to the world—and lost to how much of it now relied on her.

So many had died—and so many more would. But if they could save this girl, they might save others. Ranka would have living, breathing proof for Ongrum why the Sunra twins were on their side. Why they could build a new world with them, instead of atop Galen’s grave. With the Skra firmly behind the Sunras, the rest of the covens would follow. They’d be a unified front against the Hands and the Star Isles alike.

They would be saved.

As the morning sun rose, a new feeling swept through Ranka, so unfamiliar it stung. It was a thing she hadn’t felt properly in five years.

It was hope.

41

AS WAR APPROACHED, THE PALACE prepared for a party.

Gold banners edged in navy fluttered at every corner; sugar and yeast seemed baked into the air as the kitchens worked overnight. Workers cleaned ponds, pruned gardens, and scrubbed already-gleaming tiles until the mosaics refracted rays of morning sun so sharply it hurt. Even the guard uniforms looked smarter—linens pressed, buttons polished, boots cleaned.

Soon, Isodal would watch a new king rise.