It should have been enough. Tafa was Skra, after all. She and Ranka had grown up together, fought alongside each other, spent evenings whispering their dreams of the victories they’d win.

“Move,” Tafa whispered. “Please.”

But this felt wrong. And the memory of the Hands donning their pins—the way the Skra had cut down witches from the other covens, as if they were animals instead of their own—

“Galen Sunra is under my protection,” Ranka said quietly. “No harm will come to him until I talk to Ongrum.”

Tafa closed her eyes. For an agonizing moment Ranka thought she might see reason—that whatever had changed in her and the Skra in the months Ranka had been away wouldn’t be enough to sour her so deeply.

Then Tafa nodded at the witch holding a bow to her far left. Ranka’s stomach lurched. It was Yursi, who Ranka had taught to make rabbit snares just a year ago. She was only fourteen.

“Shoot the boy,” Tafa said. “And if the Bloodwinn interferes, shoot her, too.”

Yursi nocked an arrow, training the point at Galen’s heart.

Please, Ranka begged the useless kernel lodged behind her heart.

It pulsed and did not open.

Ranka braced herself for the impact.

And fire lit up the world.

Galen threw his hands up. Wind spiraled, protecting them from the inferno. Another blast of flame came, and then another, burning hotter as Percy Stone stepped forward.

“You Skra and your lack of manners,” Percy said, “are really beginning to get on my nerves.”

Percy had never looked less human. His eyes shone gold, and though flames danced across his skin, they did not burn him. His robes crumbled to ash, leaving only tatters where finery had been before. A sheen of pale scales flickered beneath his skin, shifting with his movements.

Percy spread his hands, looking more like a carnival barker than a boy carrying a forest fire inside him. “Now, now. Surely, even northern barbarians can be reasoned with. Can’t we talk this out? Split a bottle of wine, eat some cheese, and whine at each other instead of resorting to this silly violence?”

“Shoot them!”

“Oh, fine,” Percy sighed. “Violence it is.”

The witch aimed her arrow—and Percy opened his mouth.

Fire roared from his parted lips, engulfing the nearest two witches. They collapsed, screaming, beating at their blackening skin. Percy didn’t stop. The fire kept coming, an endless wall of roaring heat. Ranka cringed away. Even Galen looked horrified, but Percy’s eyes were empty, his face serene, as if this inferno had spent months building under his skin and it was a relief to finally set it free.

Tafa screamed, ordering the Skra to move forward, to get to the prince. Percy kept his eyes on the witches and dropped his voice low. “Ranka, there are Skra in the tunnels.”

Her legs buckled.

No.