Weeks turned to months, and Ranka began to hate every inch of Belren. Vivna thrived. She was the perfect one, the smiling, doting daughter Hans and Ursa had always dreamed of. Ranka was like the feral cat that had slunk in and refused to leave.

One night Ranka overheard her father suggest that perhaps Ranka was not fit to live in Belren. Maybe one of the Solomei temples in the south would suit their wilder daughter better, where warm air would ease her temper, and the acolytes could shape her into a well-adjusted young woman. His rolling baritone whispered that he worried Ranka had been too corrupted by the Skra. Her mother agreed.

Ranka lay awake the whole night, buried beneath the scratchy wool blanket for comfort even as she sweated through her clothes. She would deal with the dyes, the pain, the pressure under her skin. She would not let them separate her from Vivna.

Vivna’s cheeks grew rosy and full. She was somewhat of a star there, the beautiful eldest daughter who had been taken by witches and valiantly escaped.

Once a month Vivna woke Ranka before dawn, a glint in her eyes and a vial in hand. “Come on. It’s time.”

Ranka cringed back into the layers of scratchy wool. Her nails ached just at the idea of it. “They still look human.”

“If they find out you’re a witch, they’ll make us leave. Do you want that?”

Yes, Ranka thought. I want to leave so badly. But not without Vivna.

Never without Vivna.

“The dyes hurt.”

“Sometimes love hurts. And you love me, don’t you, Ranka?”

“Of course,” Ranka whispered. “You’re the only person I love.”

Vivna pressed her lips into a line. “Prove it.”

Sweat covered Ranka’s body. She pitched out the memory, her entire body shaking. She had forgotten—how had she forgotten? She held up her hands, eyeing the dozens of puckered scars on her fingers, echoes of trying to burn away any hint of being a witch. So much of Belren was a fog to her. But those corks of acid. The insistence in Vivna’s voice.

“Ranka?” Aramis whispered. “Are you all right?”

Ranka looked up at her, her words lodged in her throat. She didn’t want this—couldn’t live with this. In a world of things that were broken and bad and wrong, Vivna had been her light. Vivna had been synonymous with everything good.

But Vivna had fed the monster inside her.

She’d been the first.

The change started with looks. Instead of calling out and smiling, townspeople now looked at Ranka and Vivna with tight eyes, their fingers flashing the Solomei sigil on their chest. Mothers stepped in front of their children when Ranka passed. The schoolchildren were no longer allowed to play with her. Her teacher suddenly no longer had time for tutoring.

“Vivna,” Ranka whispered, her heart thumping beneath the wool blankets.

“Hmm?”