The memory of their kiss returned to Ranka, the way Aramis had melted against her, the flush to her cheeks and the heavy want in her eyes. For a wild, foolish second, all Ranka wanted to do was take Aramis’s face in her hands and forget the reason she’d come here.

Instead, she cleared her throat. “It’s my risk to face. Not yours.”

“What?”

“You said you could never live with yourself if the final step hurt me. But that’s my choice, Princess. Not yours. The coronation is only a few days away. The Hands are planning something, and we need to be ready. I can’t protect you and Galen if I’m out of control.” Ranka took an unsteady breath. “I want to finish my training. I want—I want to clear the block. But I can’t do it by myself. I need you with me. When I go back to that place. I need to know that if I fail, you’ll end it, before…”

Before the power rips me apart piece by piece, and you have to put an arrow through me, same as your father.

Ranka looked away. Pleading and begging and speaking of death was not how she wanted to spend their final days together. A memory pricked at her, of a different day, a different promise, when she had been less sure of where she stood and whom to fight for. The words left her before she could stop them.

“I am not good for much,” Ranka said softly. “But fighting—fighting I’m good at. Violence I know. And while I hope it won’t come to that, I want to be able to protect you. So let me be your shield. Your knife in the dark.”

Tell me, Bloodwinn—do you know what the role of a guard is?

“I am a weapon, Aramis. Let me be yours.”

Grief shadowed Aramis’s eyes. Foldrey’s loss was still an open wound in her and Galen alike. He had been willing to give everything for them, to die for them.

It startled Ranka to think she might be willing, too.

Aramis’s fingers tapped out a nervous beat against the side of her thigh, deep lines of worry settling on her face. She was beautiful, even now, even when she was exhausted and afraid. And a part of Ranka resented that this was the life they were both caught in. Somehow, they’d become allies. Friends.

A selfish part of Ranka wondered if in another life, in a better world, they could have been more.

Aramis’s fingers drifted to her heart, flitted through a quick prayer sign, and fell. She closed her eyes. “All right, Ranka. All right.”

Aramis led her to the gardens.