As the coronation ticked closer, Ranka hoped for a moment of peace. Instead she found herself whisked into days of fittings, last-minute etiquette lessons, more fittings, and hours of exhausting, preball drudgery. Murmurs of another event began to swirl as servants measured her wide shoulders and tutted over the state of her hair. A wedding was inevitable, everyone knew it. But when palace officials asked probing, sly questions, Ranka pretended not to understand—and as far as she could tell, Galen and Aramis had given them the same treatment. They all knew what was coming—but they were united, it seemed, in trying to survive these next few days. All the coronation would require from Ranka was a pledge of loyalty to renew the treaty. She could manage that.

They’d worry about weddings after.

Yet Ranka found herself gripped not just by nerves—but by grief, too. The coronation would be a strange kind of homecoming. After nearly two months, she’d see her coven again. But there would be a face missing from their ranks. All the covens would come with ghosts trailing on their heels, bearing losses they didn’t quite understand. And Ranka couldn’t help but feel like she’d failed.

She had come here to save Yeva and buried her instead.

How could she ever face Asyil again?

Now Ranka hurried from the palace and into the waning moonlight. Palace workers sweated as they scrubbed the tiles clean, others sweeping the verandas clear of leaves. She studied their faces, the calluses on their hands. A young girl whose uniform was a size too big whistled as she weeded the gardens, her arms covered in soil. A boy who didn’t seem old enough to wear a uniform, let alone carry a weapon, picked at his collar as he stood guard over one of the entrances. A part of her was tempted to tell them to flee. Whatever the palace was paying them surely couldn’t outweigh the cost of their lives, should she fail.

Dread weighed Ranka down. Ongrum would listen to her. She had to. But even her support might not be enough. Should the Hands mount a larger attack—should the other covens not come to their side—

If her word wasn’t enough, they would die. Not just the twins and Percy, but witches and humans alike. If it came to a fight, she’d be a liability. A risk. She’d lost control far too many times, jeopardized their lives and nearly let Galen die because of the way her power stuttered in the face of winalin.

Fear made her heavy, but desperation pushed her forward.

Ranka stopped in front of the door she’d sought, raised her fist, and knocked.

It opened with a hiss of wood against tile. Aramis leaned against the doorframe, her hair undone, curls falling around her face, nightclothes creased with sleep. Concern brightened her eyes. “Ranka? What is it?”