She’d heard stories, of course. But remembering it—feeling it—was different.

It was worse.

“Ranka, please—”

“I said leave me alone!” Ranka cried. She scrambled backward, even as Aramis reached for her, cringing away as if the princess’s hands carried blades. A dozen emotions warred through her, and she latched on to anger, because anger was sharp, bright, slicing like a knife. “You were right, okay? This was a bad idea. I quit. I’m done.”

“I said you weren’t ready. And you demanded we do this anyway. You can’t stop halfway. Please, Ranka, listen to me, let me help y—”

“Help me?” Her voice climbed higher, higher, edging into hysterics. “You never wanted to help me. You never cared about me. You wanted to crack the case of the broken blood-witch, solve the thing your mother never could. That’s what I am, right? That’s what the winalin witches are. Just another science experiment for the bored princess. Just another witch.”

Was that even fair? Ranka didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

When had the lines between enemies become so blurred?

“You were never just another witch.” Aramis’s voice was quiet, her face a mask, and that was how Ranka knew she’d truly hurt her. “Even when I wanted you to be. I did everything I could to hate you, to think of you as nothing, to think of you as the enemy—and I failed. I think you know that. I think you feel the same.” Aramis looked away, her mouth trembling, and Ranka was reminded of the day in the training arena, when Aramis had had every reason to lash out with cruelty, and held back instead. “Be angry with me all you want. But I was never the one who saw you as a weapon. I have always seen you as you are, Ranka.”

Ranka lurched to her feet. She left before Aramis could tell her to stay, her steps unsteady. Her legs carried her across the grounds, through the gates. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she wanted to get away.

So much in those memories didn’t make sense. She had worshipped Vivna her entire life, had thought her the epitome of love and patience.

But in her memories of Belren, Vivna had not been loving and kind.

She’d been cruel.

Pain lashed through Ranka. What a pathetic fool she was, to think herself strong enough, brave enough, to dive back into Belren. To think she could conquer the blood-magic that had taken everything from her, to think she might prove to Ongrum that the princess who helped her do so was someone worth sparing, that she might be able to save anyone at all.