I have everything I’ve ever wanted—and I’m miserable.

I achieved the Skra’s greatest dream—and I feel like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.

If she told Ongrum the truth, would she understand? Would she send her home at last? Back to the north—back where she belonged? Shadows wrapped around them, carrying the scent of smoke, of blood and death. Only hours before this palace had been blanketed in screams. Now the celebrations of witches broke the air. And Ongrum—still bloody, bearing the signs of battle flecked on her skin and matted in her hair—looked like a ghost come to haunt her.

Ongrum crouched in front of Ranka and draped her arms over her knees with a sigh. “Tafa told you, didn’t she? That we need to stay a little longer.”

“I don’t understand—”

Ongrum dragged her nail in the ashes, drawing one long spiral after another. “You were born with power, child. It erupted out of you. But I—and too many other witches—know what it is to have nothing. To be weak.” Her hands shook. “They burned my sisters. My friends. They’ve never stopped, never gotten anything more than a slap on the wrist. To be born a witch is to be born afraid. When we came here to kill the prince, I thought ending the treaty would be enough….”

Ranka swayed. Once, she’d have craved this admission from Ongrum, would have drunk in the private details of her life and been honored by the trust. Now she only wanted her to stop talking.

“Ongrum,” Ranka begged. “Send me home. Tonight. I don’t need to be here when Galen dies. I’ve done my part. We won. Send me back.”

“Send you home? Witchling, if anyone must stay, it’s you. We need you now more than ever.”

Dread crept through Ranka. “Why?”

Ongrum smiled. “Why don’t I show you?”

56

ONGRUM WOULDN’T TELL RANKA WHERE they were going.

The farther they walked, the fewer witches they saw, and soon the crashes of bottles breaking faded into the distance. The elaborate mosaics shifted to simple white tile as they moved to the older back end of the palace. Ongrum strode with purpose, as though she’d walked these halls a thousand times.

It wasn’t until they were nearly in sight of the infirmary that Ranka scented witches again. Except—something was wrong. A shadow moved ahead. Ongrum’s hand twitched to her hip, but it was just Sigrid. She strode forward, her face a careful, sober mask.

Ongrum eyed Sigrid. “How are they?”

Sigrid stared straight ahead, not meeting Ongrum’s eyes. “Stable enough.”

“Did you have any trouble bringing them in?”

“I didn’t. But Nadya—they got away from her, in the tunnels.”

“I warned her,” Ongrum snapped. “They were going to need special handling. That woman never listens. When I see her—”

“Nadya is dead.”