The witches held him by his biceps with iron grips, but from the way he sagged between them, it was plain they’d beaten him too severely for any proper escape.

Ongrum leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing with dull amusement before she shrugged. “We have no use for him. Get rid of him.”

“Wait,” Ranka blurted.

Every eye in the room turned to her.

Ongrum’s voice carried a warning note in it. “Yes, Bloodwinn?”

Sweat crawled down the back of Ranka’s neck. She could let him die. It’d be so easy to say nothing at all. If Percy died, he’d take any answers about winalin with him. It would no longer be her problem—her burden. Her tie to Aramis would be severed further.

How much easier it would be if he were just another stranger, another life that didn’t matter. But Percy had held her while another witch burned. Percy had been just as guilty as her, and he’d left it all behind—his home, his country, his people—to right the wrongs of his father. And what would he get for it now? An anonymous death in a cold cell. A miserable end to his short, brilliant life.

Ranka sank back in her seat and curled her fingers into fists. “He might have information we need.”

Ongrum rolled her neck. “Does it really matter at this point?”

“It matters when he’s the ambassador from the nation that created winalin.”

Several witches cried out and leapt to their feet.

Ongrum’s nostrils flared. Her gaze locked on Ranka, burning hotter than a forge.

What was she doing? Defying Ongrum—and for what? To gain some last bit of mercy for a boy who now rightfully hated her?

“An interesting theory,” Ongrum said, her voice clipped, though her attention lingered on Ranka in a way that made her skin crawl. “We’ll let him live—for now. Until he no longer proves useful.”

Percy said nothing. He stared at the ground, blood dripping in a slow, sluggish stream from his recently broken nose. The witches hauled him up, and then Percy bucked away from them, half jerking forward. He was free for only a moment, but it should have been enough for him to escape. He was faster than any witch in this room.

Instead he came to stop in front of Ranka. “I thought you were better than this, Ranka. I thought you were braver.”

Ranka didn’t need a mirror to know the blood had drained from her face.

The witches took him down, and Percy let them. His jaw cracked against the floor, and blood spattered out, gleaming like a dozen tiny red jewels on the pale tile. When they hauled him back up, Percy lifted his head a fraction and met her eyes.

A thousand fires burned there—hatred, betrayal, and disgust, but brighter than all was grief.

Percy looked at her as someone to be mourned.