Ranka sank into her coat, sweating in the unrelenting heat, and wished she were home.

Servants blanched at the sight of her, their whispers trailing like smoke as they fled to spread the news.

“The Bloodwinn. They’ve found her, at last.”

Their emotions swirled over her tongue—acrid fear, bitter loathing, the nectar sweetness of relief. The guard that had sneered and called her Butcher walked only a few paces back. She was a necessary evil to these people. Her body secured the treaty and the resources that allowed Isodal to triple its exports and thrive. Even the farthest reaches of the human kingdom felt the ripple effects of expanding wealth.

They would tolerate her, if they must. What was one witch for the prosperity of a kingdom?

More guards stepped around the corner. Like the others’, the neat pastels of their uniforms were broken by the black silk mourning bands on their arms.

Foldrey kept talking, but Ranka was too tired to listen. She heard the words prince and dinner and meeting. Someone darted forward with a wet rag and wiped her face and arms. Hands wove into her hair without permission to fix her braids.

Her skin crawled.

“Foldrey, do you want her in new clothes?” a maid asked, freckled nose wrinkling. “Or… a bath?”

I want to go home. The words rose to Ranka’s lips. I just want to find my friend and go home.

But what she wanted—who she was—didn’t matter anymore. Not here, not to these people who saw her only as a means to an end. Ranka remained silent and swallowed the bitter words back down.

Foldrey waved the maid away. “Later. He should meet her now.”

The scent of seafood, garlic, lemon, and some strange, sugary herb wafted forward as they turned a corner. Glass balls holding heatless white mage-fire flickered overhead in a gray-tiled veranda. Above them, wooden wind chimes swayed in a low, mournful harmony. Loaves of dark bread waited on the table, still steaming from the oven.

Ranka’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t eaten all day.

She reached for the bread—and a throat cleared.

“Traditionally,” a young voice said, “we wait for the ones who actually run the place before we inhale their food.”

Ranka froze.

A boy lounged at the end of the table. He was about her age, dark haired and dark eyed, dressed in purple nobleman’s silks that made his pale skin glow. The servants fanning along the walls tittered behind their hands.

“New here?” He looked her up and down and grinned. “New to civilization in general?”

Ranka curled her lip, breathing in for a retort, and froze.

His scent was all wrong. The boy looked human, but his scent was touched by old snakeskin.

Ranka narrowed her eyes. “Galen, I presume?”