They were the villains. We were the less-than-perfect heroes, but heroes nonetheless.

They were the killers. We were the monsters strong enough to stop them.

In the far corner a young witch howled and lurched forward. They’d penned her against the wall by twisting the metal legs of an old bed into a cage, but from the way she rattled the bars, they clearly wouldn’t hold her for long. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side, dislocated from throwing herself against the bars, but she was too far gone to register any proper pain. At this stage, she felt only hunger.

The room spun.

This was what Nadya and Sigrid had been transporting. This was what had killed Nadya in the tunnels. Which meant there were more winalin witches loose beneath the city, likely hunting humans at this exact moment. All along the Hands had sown stories of monsters lurking beneath their city, snatching their pets and children, feasting on their corpses in the night.

Now Ongrum had ensured it would be a reality.

How many of these witches had been promised glory, power, or freedom, only to be rewarded with disease instead? Treated as failed experiments, cast aside in search of a weapon that would stick.

Ongrum had crossed lines before. They all had. But that had been in the heat of battle. It had been necessary. This was anything but.

To their left, a newly sickened witch moaned, her body convulsing as new sores appeared on her skin.

“We all own this,” Asyil said dully. “We watched her mold you. I suppose it’s easier, to let the bad thing happen than stand against it. But she’s a poison, Ranka. She always has been. If I could go back—Goddess, Ranka. If I could go back, I would have shot her through the heart. I would have gotten you and Yeva the hell out of there and never looked back.”

It could have been the fever making Asyil speak gibberish, but something told Ranka that, at least right now, the witch’s mind was clear.

“You should go.”

“I can’t leave you—”

“I’m dying,” Asyil said bluntly. “And there is nothing you can do.” She took a ragged breath. Sweat crawled a trail down her temple. “Do you remember what Ongrum said to you, the day you decided to go after Yeva?”

It felt like a lifetime ago, yet still she could see it. The coal-pits burning low, the Skra pressed close, and all the attention in the world on her as Ranka faced a decision that would change everything.

Is there a chance that I can save her?

Oh, witchling. You’ll save them all.

“Ask Ongrum about the sick witches,” Asyil whispered. “About the first ones that got sick. Ask her how they got them.”