The witch slid down on wobbly legs, flinching as she dipped her hands into the bucket. The second guard held the stamp, pale fingers stained with red ink, his turnip-shaped head shining with sweat. “What’s your business in Seaswept?”

“Hey,” someone said. “Hey, girl. The line’s moved.”

The guard jerked the witch’s hands out of the water, and the world went quiet. Paint ran in rivulets down the witch’s palms and her brown wrists, dripping her own death sentence into the dust. The guards’ faces fell as they processed what they were seeing.

They’d burn her for trying to sneak into the royal city.

They’d burn her alive.

You won’t just save her. You’ll save them all.

Ranka watched the witch, and all she saw was Yeva, Vivna, Ongrum, and so many others, so many people born on the wrong side of the border. How many had burned? How many more, until the prince fell?

The guard raised his hand.

The witch flinched.

And Ranka broke into a run.

She shoved the person in front of her and barreled forward, beckoning with her free hand at the guards, black nails flashing in the sun. Their bewildered faces morphed to fury. The witch watched Ranka with her mouth hanging open.

“A witch! Lock the line down—stop her!”

Her feet slammed against the earth. The wall loomed closer. Ranka made it ten feet, twenty, thirty feet.

“Stop!” Behind her came six clicks, the acrid scent of oil igniting—and the creak of a bow being drawn. “Unless you want to burn.”

Ranka skidded to a halt, crinkling her stolen poster.

“Turn around, witch.”

Slowly Ranka turned. Six flaming arrows were pointed at her chest. The guards’ eyes flicked to her nails. Behind them, people stirred, watching Ranka with naked fear. A baby screamed somewhere down the line, its howls broken by Shh, shh, shh. Ranka looked past them to the anonymous witch, inching forward, fingers stretched for the wet stamp lying in the dust.

“You lot get more desperate every year, don’t you?”

We don’t have enough food, Ranka wanted to snap. You hoard it all. You shirk trade regulations and ruin our land. So yes, we’re desperate. Starving.

Stall. Ranka swung her attention back to the guards. “Shoot me, and you’ll regret it.”

“The more of you we burn,” Turnip Head said slowly, “the better.”

Ranka rocked back on her heels, watching the witch from her periphery. She was close to the stamp. Once she had her pass marked, she’d be in the clear. Free to live out her days in the city so long as she remained within the walls. Safe.

Ranka dove.

She shoved the cabbage merchant out of her way and vaulted over his cart. Six arrows flew. The produce went up in a whoosh of flame, spitting sparks into the air.