“Ranka. A strong name for a strong girl.” She’d offered her hatchet and laughed when it yanked Ranka’s hand to the ground. “Heavy? No matter. You’ll handle it in time.”

Ranka’s biological mother hadn’t even bothered to change her clothes. Didn’t even give her boots. She just gave up her daughters to the witches and shut the door. Ranka stood in her nightgown, braids fuzzy with sleep, shivering and barefoot in the snow as Vivna cried beside her.

Ongrum had picked Ranka up and carried her the whole way home.

Ranka blinked back tears. Ongrum closed the space between them now. She lifted a hand to cradle Ranka’s cheek in her palm. It was so hard not to lean toward her. Not to collapse into Ongrum’s familiar weight, her scent, the tenor of her voice.

“I never should have sent you here alone. Try as I may, I never hardened that soft heart of yours. You have always been so desperate to be loved.” Ongrum softened. “You must be so tired.”

Ranka blinked furiously, trying to will away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. Tired didn’t even begin to touch it. She was exhausted. This was all so beyond anything she’d ever trained for or wanted. She wasn’t smart enough for any of this. Wasn’t strong enough. That’s why she needed people like the twins, like Ongrum. People with answers and clear minds.

People to follow.

She didn’t hide it well, she knew that. Ongrum, Vivna, even Yeva, had seen that in her.

Who was to say the twins and Percy hadn’t either? They were the manipulators, trained to deceive. It would be so easy for them to trick her. To tug at her heartstrings and make her dance down whatever path they needed.

She’d thought herself smart. Had started to believe she could finally do good, instead of harm.

She’d thought they loved her.

“Fight with us, witchling. We can end this now. All of it—and then you can have your life back. The mountains, the Skra, the north. Isn’t that want you want?” Ongrum’s eyes never left hers. “Destroy the vaccine, child. Secure our victory. And all of this will finally be over.”

“But people will die,” Ranka protested weakly. “If winalin spreads, so many will get sick, and—”

“People always die,” Ongrum said. “But they’ll be dying for a better world. A new world.”

There’s never a new world, Ranka.

But what if Percy was wrong? What if there could be?

“Witchling,” Ongrum said, her voice gentle. “I am not these twins, who used you. I am not Vivna, who left you. Remember why you came here. Remember what you fought for—and finish this.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She never wanted to choose.

“Ranka,” Aramis whispered. “Please.”

Tears coursed down Ranka’s cheeks.

Witchik or Isodal.