As the first girl ever born to a Bloodwinn marriage, Princess Aramis was famous long before her wind-wielding brother. She’d been groomed for power, trained in matters of state and war, poised to be the first woman ever to take the Sunra throne. The first true witch queen.

But her witchery never rose. Galen developed his father’s devastating wind magic, and when the twins entered puberty, it became clear Aramis didn’t have a grain of magic—no internal witchery, nor a shred of external human magic. The Sunras had kept an iron grip on Isodal thanks to the power that flowed through their veins. Without it, Aramis could never be allowed to make a legitimate bid for the throne.

Her parents took her crown, and then a year ago death took her parents. The public story said fever. But staring at this girl, at the bright fire in her eyes and the way she regarded the world with cool indifference, Ranka wondered if the rumors of poison might hold weight.

Aramis locked eyes with Ranka and tilted her head to the side. “She’s so… underwhelming.”

“Aramis,” Galen said, his voice clipped. “Be nice.”

The princess lifted a brow. “This is me being nice.”

She plopped down beside the noble boy, crossed one petite leg over the other, and the two exchanged a meaningful smirk.

The room lapsed into an uneasy silence. There were only three other guests—palace officials, by their dress. They stared at their empty plates and didn’t say a word. Aramis fished a piece of bread from the bowl and tore it into smaller and smaller pieces, eyeing everyone with a challenge in her eyes. Galen sat immobile, looking for all the world like he wanted to disappear. The noble boy watched it all with an ill-concealed grin.

Ranka waited for someone to speak to her. The minutes ticked by. She stared at her empty plate. Did they… not want her here? That couldn’t be right. Why would Yeva have been kidnapped, then? Why the posters?

What was going on?

After another beat of silence, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“It’s hot,” she blurted.

Everyone lifted their heads to stare at her. Heat crept to her cheeks. Perhaps silence had been better.

“The weather,” she clarified lamely. “It’s, um, warm. Warm-er. We still have snow in parts of the Northlands. In the mountains. Although I suppose the mountain snow never really melts….”

More stares.

“Do you have mountains here?” she chattered. “I didn’t see any—you have cliffs, but obviously those aren’t very high, and, um.” Good Goddess, strike me with lightning, make me stop talking. “Your clothes are different, you don’t even wear boots, you’ve got those funny strappy things on your feet—”

“Yes,” the noble boy said slowly, “because it’s hot.”