The Murknen came first, dour and scowling, with moss woven through their wild hair. Ongrum had always said the Murknen hailed from a territory of swamps and little sunlight—and they had the personalities to match. The Arlani came second, flouncing through in their white robes, their haughty gazes carrying an air of superiority. Then the guards sent up a cry—except instead of pointing to the city, they pointed to the ocean.

There, across the reach of the Broken Sea, still little more than smudges against the waves, sails blossomed against the horizon.

The Oori.

Their ships drew closer. Individual witches could be made out, moving across the decks with effortless grace. There were hundreds of them, all linked by a single cause, a single name. It made the Skra look like they were only playacting at what it meant to be a coven. The Oori were the unknowns. The Murknen’s distaste for the Sunras was well known; the Arlani favored the treaty because both previous Bloodwinns had come from their camp. The Kerth had been broken entirely, thanks to the Hands. But these witches, made of salt and spray—which side did they favor?

And if it came to a fight—whom would they choose?

The four of them had done everything they could to prepare. Every guard was on duty, armed with tranquilizers and instant-click torches. Major roads in and out of the city were closed to delay movement, and Aramis’s workshop had been outfitted with rations in the event the twins needed to shelter in place. They could also flee through the mines—though troubling reports of strange, bloody attacks had increased further. Galen had promoted a temporary captain—Damon, a young, nervous man who’d been Foldrey’s second—who’d seized the role with surprising efficiency and handpicked a small unit of several soldiers to brief about the Hands.

Aramis, Galen, and Percy would spend tonight swaying powerful nobles to their side, while Ranka tried to ensure the commitment of the covens to following her as Bloodwinn. The morning of the coronation, the palace would be so heavily guarded, the Hands would have to be suicidal to attempt anything.

And if it still went south, two rowboats had been anchored within a cove beyond the cliffs. Just in case a pair of royals had to abandon their home in a hurry.

“We won’t need them,” Percy assured. “We’re so close to a cure. The humans want to support the twins, and the witches will too, once we make winalin a temporary nuisance instead of a world-ending threat. We can win this.”

It was a good plan, a solid plan, and yet Ranka was still afraid. Because what they didn’t know—what she couldn’t tell them—was that it wasn’t just a coup from the Hands they had to fear.

A whistle cut through the air, and finally, the Skra arrived.