Ranka rose, her legs shaking so badly, she had to put a hand out for balance. She wished she could have offered Asyil more—a cure, a grain of hope, a promise that this would end in something besides a painful, wretched death.

But Asyil was out of time, and they both knew it.

“Ranka,” Asyil whispered. “Send me home.”

Tears flooded Ranka’s eyes. Asyil didn’t mean the north. It had never been her home, not truly. Her home had only ever been wherever Yeva was. The sisters were what Ranka had dreamed of for herself and Vivna, a dream Ranka was slowly beginning to suspect she never could have had.

Ranka pressed a kiss to Asyil’s sweat-slick, burning forehead and ripped the tubing from the bag. A sigh of relief slipped out. Without the concoction of drugs feeding into her, she’d be gone in minutes. Free of the experiment they’d turned her into.

She looked down at Asyil, frail and gray, her skin covered in painful sores—but even now Asyil’s feverish eyes were fierce.

“Tell Yeva I’m sorry,” Ranka whispered, though she wasn’t sure Asyil could hear her anymore. “Tell her I love her and I’m finally going to make it right.”

Was it her imagination, or when the light left Asyil’s eyes, did her mouth curve in a smile?

Ranka didn’t know how long she stood there. Something in her was breaking open. She was lost, but Asyil’s words were an anchor. An order. Something to fight for.

And Ranka had always been so very good at fighting.

58

RANKA BARELY REGISTERED THE CLICK of the infirmary door as it closed. All she could see were the witches in that room. All she could hear was Asyil’s voice winding around her. All she could remember were the faces of the ones she had lost.

It still didn’t make sense. Ongrum wasn’t smart enough for this. She was a conqueror, a warrior, not a biological-warfare-waging mastermind. Why would the Hands just give her winalin when she was what they hated most?

Ongrum leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. She stirred when Ranka approached.

When she looked at Ranka, it was as though Ranka were some prized calf. Not a girl she’d called a daughter.

Ranka approached, fighting the urge to vomit. Ongrum was distracted right now, too lost in the fantasy of her own conquest to curate information like she normally would. Ranka needed to play this right, to glean whatever answers she could.

But all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and scrub at her skin until the stench of those rotting witches was nothing more than a distant memory.

“So you’re making them,” Ranka said flatly. “You have winalin. Now what?”

Ongrum smirked. “Now is where you come in.”

Ranka struggled to keep her voice even. “Oh?”