Every time she closed her eyes, she saw them—Aramis, Percy, Galen. How odd everything had been when they’d met, how quickly they’d aligned with a common goal. How easily she’d fit in among them, once she’d found her place. How quickly they’d become her family. She had liked them, and later, all too easily, thought she loved them.

No. They were just using her.

Except Percy had noticed that blood made her uneasy, had seen through her shield and recognized a part of himself. And Galen had noticed her discomfort from day one and extended kindness, even when he had no reason to at all.

And Aramis… Aramis had done everything she could and more. She’d seen every ugly part of Ranka, more clearly than anyone else, and she hadn’t turned away. She’d looked right into her terrible soul and demanded she be better. Aramis had taunted her, threatened her, kissed her, trusted her, taught her, and protected her.

Aramis had started to feel like home.

Ranka was going to lose her mind.

Once she was back in Witchik, none of this would matter. Ranka pictured the north, the ancient pines, the forests wrapped in cool shadow, the mountains permanently capped with snow. The Skra would be safe. All the covens would. No humans would dare press north for decades. And once they did—once history had smoothed away the stain of the violence left here—she would be long gone. Let another witch stand and fight. She was done.

And Ongrum was finally proud of her. For the first time in Ranka’s life, she’d done something right. Had made all of Ongrum’s patience and training worth it. Ongrum wasn’t perfect, no one was, but she always put the Skra first.

Except for Yeva, whom she barely mourned.

Except for Asyil, whose disappearance hardly seemed to concern her at all.

Ranka stopped walking. She sank to her knees and put a hand to her chest. It was getting harder to breathe. Dots swam in front of her eyes, and she forced herself to be calm, even as her head spun.

She needed to stop this. Needed to get her act together.

She would talk to Ongrum tomorrow. Even if Ongrum wanted to leave some Skra in place to watch over the capital, surely she could leave? With a good horse, and a few sleepless nights, she could be home in two weeks. One and a half if the weather held.

“Witchling?”

Ranka looked up.

Ongrum stood over her. Her lips were stained with wine, but her eyes were clear. She looked out of place here. Ongrum belonged in the north like Ranka, cloaked in furs, outlined against the shadows of pines. Seeing her like this, in southern robes and leather sandals, was disconcerting.

She looked far too comfortable.

“What are you doing?”

Ranka looked up at her. The truth burned on her tongue.

I’m confused.