The scent grew stronger, a rot like winalin, but not quite the same. This rot was newer, fresher, like a wound that’d just begun to turn.

“This, witchling. This is our future. And this is why we’ll be untouchable.”

Ongrum opened the door.

Filling the room, secured in makeshift cages, chained to the walls and tied to the infirmary beds, were dozens upon dozens of winalin witches.

57

THEY WERE ALL CHILDREN.

Some were close to Ranka’s age, but some were far younger, all cycling through various states of decay as the disease coursed through their veins. Most were beyond saving—they slumped on the floor, secured by manacles and chains, snarling at the sight of Ranka, drool running down their chins. But a few weren’t yet lost. Witches lounged on infirmary beds, hooked up to tubes similar to the ones Aramis had used to pull blood from Ranka’s veins, watching as disease slid into their bodies. Hands of Solomei moved between the beds, checking their vitals, patiently administering more of the disease to the ones who were still lucid. Others sprawled unconscious, their wrists and ankles secured to the posts with leather straps while vomit crusted their chins, and sore after sore erupted on their skin.

Blue vials of tranquilizer sat on neat shelves against the wall. When one of the witches rose from her bed with a snarl, the nearest Hand injected her without blinking. She slumped back onto the sheets, unconscious before her head hit the filthy, sweat-stained pillow.

Close to Ranka, a witch who couldn’t have been older than twelve sat down on a bed, her chin lifted stubbornly in the gesture of someone borrowing courage. A Skra held her unmarked, healthy arm up to the light, pulled a syringe of winalin down from the shelf, and pressed the plunger home.

“Stop!” Ranka blurted, surging forward. “What are you doing? You’re going to die! Stop!”

A hand clamped around her wrist. Ongrum yanked her backward with an iron grip and spun her around. She slammed Ranka against the wall with ease, her eyes flashing. Only the fully corrupted witches paid them any mind, snarling at the noise.

“Be calm, witchling. We just got them settled.”

Ranka’s vision dimmed. There was one witch in the room who had caught her attention—and try as she might, Ranka couldn’t tear her eyes away from her. She needed to understand what was happening here. And to do that, she needed Ongrum to leave.

Ranka took several panicked breaths, willing her frantic heart to slow, and pictured Aramis’s steel calm.

When she spoke, it felt as though she were floating outside her body.

“This is impressive,” she said hollowly. “I… never could have imagined something like this. Can you give me a moment to take it in? I’ll rejoin you in the hall. I think I just need… to collect myself. And understand.”