Bloodwinn. A title she didn’t deserve. A title that would no longer exist. She’d made certain of that. Maybe it was right that she had lost her blood-magic. She’d caused enough damage for one lifetime. Her fingers drifted self-consciously to her chest, where the kernel of locked-away power pulsed. She’d not yet told Ongrum she’d lost her magic. She’d learn soon enough.

“Witchling?”

Ranka swayed. She cleared her throat, cleared it again. How did Ongrum make this look so easy? So many eyes on her. So many waiting faces, ready for whatever left her lips. She hated all of them in that moment, and the realization made her ill. Sweat beaded her temples. “Thank you. I’m excited to go home.”

She sat back down.

A few half-hearted cheers rose, though most of the witches looked puzzled. Ongrum looked faintly annoyed, but she stepped forward and took control of the room once more.

“I want to thank you for fighting with me,” Ongrum said, her eyes sweeping over the crowd of witches before settling on the Murknen and the handful of Arlani who had sworn to their side. Not a single Oori was in sight. “For fighting with us. I know our histories have not been the most peaceful—but we have a common enemy now. One that goes beyond humans. By now all of you have learned of the Sunra-made disease they call winalin.”

A hiss went up from the crowd.

The hair on Ranka’s arms stood on end. The Star Isles had made winalin. Ongrum knew that.

“There’s little we know about winalin—but we know it was created to kill us. To wipe out witches entirely.”

Another lie.

“There is no cure—and if my sources are correct, the disease has begun to spread on its own.”

More panicked murmurs among the witches. What was Ongrum doing? They’d already won. Why rile the witches further?

The rest of Ongrum’s speech flowed over her like water. It was more familiar beats—the greatness of witches, how the covens had suffered, and what the path forward looked like. Yet strangely enough, at no point did she discuss returning home. And they would be returning home soon. In three days Galen would die. In three days there’d be nothing keeping them in Seaswept.

Right?

A commotion came at the back of the room. Someone shouted in the hallway outside, and two witches burst through the door.

“This one slipped free of his cell,” Tafa called. “Killed two witches before we stopped him.”

Stumbling between them, free of his rings and robes, bound like a stag to be roasted on a spit, was Percy Stone.

He’d been beaten, and badly. Blood dripped from his nose and ran from his ears. Bruises bloomed on his face, his neck, his arms. Ranka’s heart sank.

I thought he escaped.