Ranka stiffened. Nadya was dead? She had seen her only hours ago. The witch had been alive and well, healthy enough to launch a coup and bold enough to threaten Ranka’s life. She couldn’t be dead.

Ongrum closed her eyes and exhaled. There was no grief on her face—only irritation. It was unlike her not to grieve the death of a Skra. Ongrum had lived alongside Nadya for twenty years.

Ranka couldn’t help herself. “What happened to her?”

Sigrid’s eyes flew to her, but only for a second. And Ranka saw it: fear.

“Be more careful next time,” Ongrum said slowly. “We still have more to bring in.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Your job isn’t to think, witchling.” Ongrum waved a hand. “Find someone else and sober them up. Tafa, maybe? Get it done by tomorrow.”

Sigrid’s face twitched at being called a witchling at thirty-seven, but she nodded and said, her voice cool, “Yes, Ongrum.”

Sigrid turned away then, her back a rigid line, careful not to meet Ranka’s gaze. Right before she turned the corner, Sigrid stumbled and retched. She made a horrible choking noise, as if she was torn between sobbing and puking, and then she was gone.

Ongrum turned to Ranka, her eyes strangely alight. “Once you see what we’ve accomplished, you’ll understand—”

“We don’t belong here,” Ranka burst out.

The smile slipped from Ongrum’s face.

“What is the point of this? Of any of this? We should be going home, Ongrum. We should be packing. Nadya should be alive, not transporting political prisoners.”

Ongrum snorted, as if Ranka had said something funny.

“We won. We can go back to the north and have this all be done with!”

“It’ll never be done with.” Ongrum’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you see, child? We’re vulnerable. If some far-off island nation could make something so dangerous, who’s to say something else won’t land on our shores in a few years?”

“Ships can’t land in Witchik,” Ranka said numbly. “Our shores are safe. We have to go home. And even if you succeed—what will the world look like when you’re done?” Ranka pressed, her heart pounding. “If everything goes perfectly—what do you want, Ongrum? What’s your goal?”

Ongrum’s mouth opened and closed again, her face open and raw. Ranka held her breath. Maybe she would realize how futile this was—how wildly unmatched for it they were. Maybe she would ask for help. Maybe there was hope.

And then Ongrum’s face hardened. “The world will look however we build it to look.”