“Don’t you see she wants you weak? For all you know, the past Bloodwinn mastered her power, and her daughter is desperate to prevent you or anyone else from achieving the same thing.”

A year ago, Ranka would have believed her readily. But Ranka had seen the pain in Aramis’s eyes when she spoke of her mother, the fear as she recounted what blood-magic had done to every witch who inherited it. And hadn’t Ranka’s magic grown more volatile every year? Hadn’t it demanded more death, stolen more of her life, stolen more of her, swelling in breadth the same way a disease overwhelmed its host?

Ongrum’s lip curled. She lifted a hand as if to strike her—and then her expression smoothed out.

“Let me worry about the details. I know this is a lot, but you can do this, Ranka. You are so, so strong. And so brilliant. These witches believe in you. They see your power. They trust you to lead them.”

Ranka’s mind stuttered to a halt. It felt like she was in a long, unending nightmare. Why did it always happen like this? Ongrum would be so angry, so cruel, and then it was like something flipped in her and a different person emerged. A witch who was gentle, who looked at her like she was someone who mattered. A witch who loved her.

It felt so genuine.

And yet.

Percy’s voice was there, digging at the back of her mind like a thorn.

You chose wrong.

Percy, who looked at her with a quiet pity and called her a fool when she spoke of Ongrum’s love. Percy, who had been through this before.

Ranka’s stomach roiled. All her life she’d chased Ongrum’s love. Starved for her approval. She’d thought herself inadequate, a failure, someone who just needed to work harder, faster, longer, to be worthy of Ongrum’s praise.

There was still a piece she was missing. A piece she didn’t understand. Why would the Hands know who Ongrum was to begin with? Why would someone from the palace know to go to her of all people?

“Ongrum,” Ranka asked quietly, “what happened to Yeva?”

“Oh, her?” Ongrum snorted. “She probably just moved to a human village when they set her loose.”

Ranka could hardly breathe. “When who set her loose?”

“How else was I going to get you south?” Ongrum flapped her hand, though she looked faintly troubled. “She looked so similar to you—I knew it’d be enough to fool them, at least temporarily. But once you turned yourself in, she never did come home. She probably defected to some ugly little town.”

Ranka swayed. She could see it unfurling: Ongrum, thinking herself clever, towing Yeva south and turning her over to humans who were desperate to collect the Bloodwinn bounty, assuming they’d simply let Yeva go.