A few witches cheered. Ranka closed her eyes.

“Three generations of witches have suffered under the Bloodwinn treaty. Before that, centuries of witches suffered in their fight with Isodal. But no more. Tonight we celebrate. And in three days, we change the world.”

Bile climbed Ranka’s throat. In three days, it would be the seventieth anniversary of the first Bloodwinn treaty. Ongrum had decided it was a day as fitting as any for Galen to die.

More cheers. More wine bottles cracked open, the alcohol spilling onto the floor.

This was what she’d wanted—wasn’t it? What she’d dreamed of? This was why she’d headed south, axe in hand and a fire in her heart. To kill the prince. To end the treaty. To set Witchik free.

Except, Yeva’s voice whispered, you didn’t come here for Galen, really. You came here for me.

And she’d failed.

And now the prince wasn’t just a prince. He had a name. He was a boy who’d stood by her when a witch turned to kill them, and when he’d thought they were facing their last moments, he’d held her hand.

“Please. The real hero is the Bloodwinn.” Ongrum turned her dark eyes on Ranka. “Rise, witchling. Let them see the girl who defeated a dynasty.”

Every eye in the room landed on her. Slowly, Ranka stood, her ears ringing, and did everything in her power not to vomit.

Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? She stood before witches from all across Witchik, and they looked at her as though she were the hero. All her life she’d been ignored, feared, and blamed. Her own coven had scorned her. Now they beamed at her, these wild-hearted witches in their bloodstained clothes, their eyes glittering with reverence, hunger, even a hint of jealousy. They whooped and raised their bottles. Others pounded their fists on tables or cried out her name.

She’d earned all of this. She’d won.

So why did she feel so hollow?

Stop it. Ranka could have slapped herself. All of this—everything she’d done—was for the Skra. Once they left the palace behind, none of this would matter. She was just confused, like Ongrum had said. Tangled in the web of manipulation the twins had spun. Once she was back in the north, her head would clear. And eventually, the smirking boy from across the sea, the prince who called his wind to make music instead of storms, and the beautiful, brilliant, infuriating princess who was the bravest of the lot of them would be nothing but memories. In time, even those would fade.

She hoped.

Ongrum inclined her head toward Ranka. “Anything to say, Bloodwinn?”