Ranka took an unsteady breath. She reached for her blood-magic and felt nothing. She called for it, whispered to it, even begged, but nothing happened. The kernel in her chest pulsed, sending spikes of pain through her. It swelled with the burning of a fever blister gathering pus, and it did not respond.

The next time her blood-magic surfaced, it would kill her.

45

FOR A FULL DAY RANKA hid in her room. She did not eat or sleep. Her blood-magic was gone, replaced by a useless, cold kernel nestled behind her heart. Belren filled her nightmares and crept into her daydreams. Twice a familiar scent of ink and mint came to her door, lingering outside. On the second visit, Aramis slipped a note under the door and left Ranka to her misery.

Ranka half expected an angry letter or a note rebuking her for her cowardice.

Instead, the note was just two words, written in Aramis’s careful, neat script:

I’m sorry.

Somehow that was worse than anger, because in those two words was forgiveness and acknowledgment all in one—and a promise that when Ranka was ready, Aramis would help her again, if she wanted it. Ranka stared at the note for a long time, tears welling, and then carefully, delicately, folded it into a tiny square and tucked it into her pocket. Apologies were not built into the lexicon of the Skra. Ranka had thought them a weakness once—but then again, so much of what she’d thought had been upturned by this palace, this city, that girl.

She’d go back to Aramis. Apologize and admit the princess had been right, that she wasn’t ready to face Belren, and maybe it was for the best that her blood-magic was temporarily removed from the equation. Maybe they could face it on a different night, in a different time, when they weren’t on the brink of war.

But they were two days away from Galen’s coronation—and two days away from the coup. Tomorrow witches would fill the palace, and everything would change.

She had a wound to deal with before then.

So when evening fell, Ranka slipped from her room and headed for the sea.

It drew her forward, an endless expanse of churning blue, and when she settled herself on the cliffs, she found herself shaking. The brief break in winalin-witch-induced horrors had allowed grief to open a yawning pit inside her chest. Her fingers skimmed her bracelet. So much in the Belren memories confused her. It wasn’t just Yeva she’d failed; Vivna had needed Ranka to be better, smarter, and stronger.

Ranka had burned their lives down around them instead.

A shadow fell over her. “Enjoying the view, or brooding?”

“I’d like to be alone.”

“Brooding, then.” Percy flopped down beside her. Secretly, she was grateful. Not that she’d ever tell him that. He tilted his face into the breeze, black hair undone and flowing.