Sixty-seven witches poured through the gate, cloaked in Northlander furs despite the heat, bearing weapons and stone faces as they entered the palace. They looked small compared to the ranks of the Oori, but there was a ferocity to the northern war band that made Ranka’s heart ache to join them. She should have been down there, chin high and proud, instead of watching from the palace steps like a stranger.

At their lead, steady as always, was Ongrum. The sight of her made Ranka’s knees buckle. She needed to talk to Ongrum immediately, explain the new plan, make her see reason, before it was too late. With Ongrum as the twins’ ally, the Hands wouldn’t stand a chance.

Percy angled his head to the side, his silver-ringed fingers flashing in the morning light. “You know, my family loved me until their last breaths. I’d rather they’d despised me and lived.”

Ranka’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Percy gave her a long, sad look, until she was forced to turn away.

“Why help Isodal?” she asked, eager to talk about anything else. “Why come here and put yourself at risk? Why not just leave the continent to burn?”

“You know why. You more than anyone.” He frowned. “I have… so much to amend. Someday I’ll have to go home. Find a way to fix what my father helped break. But it starts here, with winalin. It always did.”

Ranka looked at him, at the way the sunlight cast his face into sharp, beautiful lines. Again she recalled the rumors she’d heard about the Star Isles, about the people who were tied to that land because of the impossible magic it lent them. The rumors that they’d never really been people at all.

“Besides,” Percy tacked on cheerfully, breaking the spell, “I really do hate Ilia. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to see her face when she realizes she’s lost.” He held up an imaginary glass, toasting only empty air. “To betrayal.”

Ranka patted his shoulder affectionately. “You are completely and utterly unhinged.”

“Entirely.” Percy shrugged. “It’s how I’ve survived.”

Where is she?

Navy tile gleamed across the western ballroom floor, a stain of ink against golden Sunra banners. A sound mage stood in the corner, fingers hooked as she wove gentle melodies from nothing. Visitors packed the room, nobles and wealthy merchants, travelers from kingdoms over, all of them nervously mingling with the Arlani, Murknen, Oori, and Skra.

Most of the Skra.

Ranka could not find Ongrum.