Her mouth open and closed. There were a thousand things she could have told him—that he was right, for starters. That she realized he’d been trying to warn her all along because he had made the same mistake as her once and was trying to spare her the horror of fighting for the wrong side. That she would fix everything or die trying because her entire life had been a series of terrible mistakes and she was done being a tool, a pawn, a monster on a leash for someone else.

That she loved them—him, Aramis, Galen—and it terrified her, because she’d already lost them.

But instead Ranka whispered, “She’s making them, Percy. The winalin witches.”

The color drained from Percy’s face. “You’re certain?”

She told him, quickly, of what Ongrum had been so proud of—the witches who had turned themselves over to become monsters and the ones taken against their will. Of Yeva, Asyil, Talis, and so many others who had been used as pawns in some terrible game by a woman who couldn’t even handle the weight of the power she craved. Of the Hands, manipulating Ongrum—and the missing piece she still couldn’t figure out, because how had a bunch of ragtag, witch-hating rebels been directed so well?

The witches drew closer. Percy had a choice to make. If he rejected her, Ranka would accept it. She would understand.

“I know better than to ask you for trust or forgiveness. I’m—”

“Save the poetics for your girlfriend. I’m too pretty to die.” Percy cast a nervous glance over his shoulder and pointed the knife at her again. “One slipup, Ranka, and I won’t hesitate. This doesn’t mean we want you back—that she’ll want you back.”

“I know,” Ranka said all too quickly. “I just want to help. Please, Percy.”

Another whistle cut through the air. On the floor to their left, the Murknen witch moaned and brought a hand to her bloody ear.

Percy looked down at Ranka and then rolled his eyes.

“Oh, all right.” He held out a hand. “Try not to screw us all over a second time, will you?”

When Ranka first started working with Aramis and Percy on winalin, she’d wondered why they opted for the old salt mines instead of the palace dungeons. Surely, dungeons were more secure. She’d chalked it up to anonymity at the time. It’d be easier to lie, to pretend they had nothing to do with it, if a workshop were discovered.

Now, as the dungeons unfolded around her, she understood why.