ONGRUM LOOKED WELL. THERE WAS a light to her eyes, a fullness to her cheeks, and an electric energy that seemed to ripple from her very pores. Even the silver in her hair seemed to shine brighter than usual. She looked out of place in the workshop, her skin streaked with ash, her clothes spattered with blood. Had she earned new scars since Ranka had last seen her? Ranka couldn’t tell. It was strange, the space that existed between them now. Save for Belren, Ranka had never gone more than a few weeks without seeing her.

Ranka’s legs turned to water.

Ongrum had come here to kill a kingdom. Now Ranka had to convince her to save it instead.

There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to know if Ongrum had worried for her in the months she’d been away. If she was surprised Ranka was still standing here, alive and well in a nest of vipers. If she was proud of her.

She wanted to know if Ongrum had missed her at all.

In the end, all Ranka could do was swallow nervously and say, “Hi, Ongrum.”

Ongrum lifted a brow. “Hello, witchling.” She paused, her calculating gaze taking in the room at a glance. “What’s going on?”

Ranka’s throat bobbed. Her hand was still on Aramis’s shoulder. The princess was hardly breathing, every line of her body held rigid, her eyes darting frantically between Ranka and the rest of the Skra.

“I looked for you everywhere, and I couldn’t find you, and they followed me here and…” Ranka’s voice trailed away. Ongrum looked calm, too calm, for someone whose plans of a coup had just been upended. “You changed the plans without telling me.”

Ongrum took a long look around the workshop. Her eyes went to Ranka’s hand, still clasped protectively on Aramis’s shoulder. “Yes. But you can still play your part, witchling.”

“Your part?” Aramis echoed.

Shame wriggled deep in Ranka’s core. She’d planned everything so carefully—every word she’d say to Ongrum, every reason to spare and side with the twins. She’d spent months waiting for a chance to talk to Ongrum. Dreaming of the day she’d be able to pass this burden to her.

Praying Ongrum would see reason and take their side.

“Ongrum,” Ranka said dizzily. “Please just… listen to me, for one second. I don’t know what the Hands told you, but they’re the true enemy here.”

She summarized, as quickly as she could, what she’d learned in Seaswept: the false blood-magic the Star Isles had developed, the way the Hands sought to use it, and the twins’ role in trying to cure it. All the while the Skra watched her with neutral expressions, and Aramis with an increasingly devastated one.

The betrayal rippling off her threatened to cleave Ranka in two.

“You lied to me,” Aramis whispered. “About all of it.”