“Just one question—who in the Hands dreamed this up?” Her heart pounded. “Who knew so much about me, about you, about coven politics, that they could orchestrate this so well?”

Ongrum looked faintly annoyed. “I haven’t a clue. It was a different messenger every time. Why?”

“No reason,” Ranka said numbly.

And then she drew the tranquilizer from her pocket and stabbed Ongrum in the throat.

Ongrum made a horrible gurgle as her hand flew to her neck. Her fingers scrambled uselessly against the vial of tranquilizer Ranka had palmed on her way out of the infirmary. The Hands hadn’t even noticed. She’d planned to use it on a winalin witch.

“You little bitch…” Ongrum stumbled. Ranka caught her, and it was then, finally, that the thing that had been building inside her broke, and she began to cry. “Traitor.”

“I’m sorry,” Ranka whispered. Tears streamed down her face as she lowered Ongrum to the floor. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Ongrum kept grunting and gurgling, her eyes saying every cruel threat that her lips could no longer form. Ranka’s vision burned, and snot dripped from her nose.

How had it come to this?

Ongrum’s face contorted as the drug took hold. The tranquilizer wouldn’t last long.

Ranka set her down gently. Ongrum twitched on the floor, shivering as the tranquilizer sank deeper and deeper, and Ranka turned her onto her side lest she choke on her own vomit. Every part of her threatened to break.

“I love you still, despite it all,” Ranka said softly. “And that’s why I can’t let you do this.”

Percy had spoken the truth. She’d chosen wrong.

This wasn’t who she was—not anymore.

There would be no redemption for her. She had betrayed the twins, and there would be no coming back from that. There would be no north after this. No Skra.

There would be no place for her at all.

After everything she’d done, it was what she deserved.

In a different world, in a different time, Ongrum might have chosen her. Might have been the mother Ranka craved. In another life, Ranka would have been the perfect daughter in turn. They’d been that once, when Ranka was a little girl, barefoot in the snow, and Ongrum was simply the witch who carried her home.

Both of those people were gone now. Ongrum had chosen her path, had tried to reforge Ranka to walk it with her, and Ranka had tried. Had been ready and willing after the flames of Belren took everything from her.

But that was before the south. That was before a boy with storms in his blood, a gold-eyed ambassador, and a brilliant girl who had upended everything Ranka thought she knew about what it meant to love and be loved.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka whispered. “Goodbye, Ongrum.”

Ranka turned and left her behind.