Guests rushed past her to yank at the locked ballroom doors. They clawed at the wood with their fingernails, pounding on them, begging to be let out. The ballroom was a menagerie of chaos. Witches turned to one another, expecting to find allies, only to have their throats slit. Humans who had danced with one another only moments before now drove knives through the ribs of their partners.

The Hands of Solomei had arrived—but instead of fighting the Skra, they were fighting with them.

The Skra lied to me. The thought sliced through Ranka with blistering clarity. They knew this was going to happen, and they lied.

Behind her, Ursay fought in a whirlwind, their face a thing of cold rage as they wrestled an axe away from a hapless Murknen. They cut the witch down, pressed two bloody fingers to their lips, and let loose a piercing whistle. Every Oori in the room turned and lunged toward their leader, forming a wedge as they forced their way toward the door.

A familiar voice broke the air, and Ranka’s focus narrowed as she spun to see Galen Sunra cowering against the wall.

“Please,” he begged a Murknen witch approaching him with a bloody dagger. “Please, you’re making a mistake, I mean no harm—”

Ranka threw herself forward.

Bone crunched against bone. It stunned her, how weak she was without her blood-magic, how mortal. Her fingers knotted in the Murknen’s filthy hair, and Ranka jerked her backward, slamming her to the tiles. Ranka swallowed her guilt, spinning to face Galen. “Are you all right?”

“Ranka, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know. We have to get you out of here—”

“My sister—”

“Not here.”

“Percy?”

“Not sure.” A Murknen hurtled toward them. Ranka dropped, twisted, and punched her in the throat. The witch collapsed, clawing at her windpipe, tears leaking from her eyes. Ranka cringed. Violence felt more personal without her blood-magic’s giddy rush. Her knuckles throbbed with an unfamiliar ache.

Ranka angled herself in front of Galen. Now wasn’t the time for questions and confusion. All she knew was that until she spoke to Ongrum, protecting the twins was her priority. Ranka pointed to the second set of ballroom doors. “Take them out.”

“But there could be people on the other side—”

“Take them out!”

Galen flinched—and raised his hands.

A gale wind tore from his palms, roaring through the room, flinging witches and humans aside. The massive oak doors buckled, straining, and crashed into the hallway beyond. Someone screamed in the hall as they were crushed by the doors. Galen blanched. Ranka locked her fingers around his slender wrist and broke into a run.