Ursay was the longest-ruling coven leader in recent history. They’d overtaken the Oori at only fifteen and had spent forty years swelling their ranks to nearly three hundred witches. Though the palace would never confirm it, rumor had it even the last Skybreaker king had been forced to bend to the Oori’s incredible power and had delegated funds off the books to bribe safe passage for Isodolian cargo ships that were desperate to ferry goods to the many nations waiting across the Broken Sea and the ocean beyond.

Tafa liked to say Ursay wasn’t a blood-witch because they were already too deadly. Any more magic would have tipped the balance too far.

Ranka regarded Ursay, and was inclined to agree.

“Would you like to dance,” Ursay purred, “or stare?”

They held out a dark-nailed hand, and Ranka took it. A shiver rolled through her. Ursay’s nails were the darkest she’d ever seen for a witch who didn’t carry blood-magic in their veins.

The Oori leader swept her into a spinning, twirling set of fast-paced steps with surprising grace and fixed Ranka with a humorless smile, as though she were a particularly cute child showing off a party trick rather than a girl about to lead a nation. “All right, give me the speech.”

Ranka stumbled. “My speech?”

“Your plea, your call to action. Come on, that adorable little princess already tried. Give it to me. Tell me about the good of the kingdom, the world witches deserve, yada yada yada.” A bored smile curled their lips. “I’m all ears, Bloodwinn.”

The room turned, and Ranka caught Percy gaping at her, white faced. They’d agreed Aramis alone would handle Ursay. The Oori had nothing to lose by leaving them all to rot, and everything to gain by staying to fight the Hands. This would be a negotiation that required the utmost care and decorum.

But now, spinning hand in hand, as Ursay watched her with a languid smile, anger spiked in Ranka. Ursay had agreed to dance only to mock her. They didn’t believe in Ranka or the treaty. This was a game to them, one they thought they were immune to, because they’d escaped winalin mostly unscathed.

Ursay wanted her to talk? She’d talk. Screw decorum. Screw every rule she’d learned from humans—this was a conversation between witches. And it was a conversation between killers.

“You’re confident,” Ranka observed. “Your reputation precedes you. Even the Sunras owe you their deference, which is something my coven has never received.”

“Flattery? That’s your route?”

“Your ships have been spending a lot of time in the north. Early fall is usually when you dock in the south, though, is it not?”

“We prefer the sea, and the cold is good for the lungs.” Ursay yawned. “You’re beginning to bore me, little witch.”