“You chose wrong,” Percy whispered. “It should have been us. It always should have been us.”

“Get him out of here,” Ongrum snapped.

The Skra jerked Percy back. He twisted and spat as far as he could in her direction.

Ranka sat there for a long time after they dragged him out, staring at the blood mixed with saliva on the tile, Percy’s words ringing in her ears.

I thought you were braver.

Every part of her ached.

“Pathetic,” Ongrum snorted. The older witch turned away, completely unperturbed by Percy’s outburst, either not noticing that Ranka sat frozen—or not caring.

The rest of the witches went back to their celebration, faces lit with gluttony and joy or so lost in a drunken stupor that they were blank entirely. Witches she’d never met came up to her to congratulate her, their breath hot and warm as they threw arms around her neck and kissed her cheeks.

Ranka drifted among them like a ghost. A witch toppled one of the great Council chairs and cackled as the marble cracked up the center. Ranka stared at it, struggling to remember the name of the Council member who had sat there. Why couldn’t she remember? Why did that bother her?

It should have been us.

It always should have been us.

This was meant to be her night. Her shining moment. A nameless witch from the north, gifted with a terrible magic, had infiltrated the most powerful monarchy on this side of the world and brought it down in a matter of weeks. She’d been born no one, to nothing, but now when they sang the stories of history, her name would be the chorus.

In three days’ time Galen would die, and a new world would be born.

So why, after everything she’d fought for—after everything she’d sacrificed—did it feel like she’d failed?

55

AFTER A FEW HOURS RANKA excused herself. Most of the witches were such a drunken mess, she could barely stand to be around them. She retreated from the Council room and was halfway to Galen’s room before she realized where she was going. Her steps slowed. The last time she was there had been with Aramis curled at her side. Everything had felt like the most fragile kind of hope then.

“Stop it,” Ranka hissed under her breath. “Pull. Yourself. Together.”

She was Skra. She was the Bloodwinn, the Butcher of Belren, the pride of Witchik, and the worst fear of every human. She’d come here to do a job and she had done it.

But this palace, these people, were addling her mind. She’d gone so deep into her deception that she’d fooled even herself. She should be back there, celebrating with her coven. Rejoicing over the fact that they’d won.

Instead she wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.