Damp limestone stretched around them—not the beautiful, curated sheets of white rock that built the palace, but uncut, uncured stone carrying an almost orange hue, as if lit from within by fire. The dungeons smelled of death. Water puddled along the floor. Roaches skittered at her feet, shiny carapaces winking. How lucky the first Sunras must have thought themselves, to land on these shores and find a natural-made prison that had been built layer over patient layer within the cliffs.

How many had died here? How many had been witches like her, left to rot with no recourse?

Percy was silent. If he was having mixed feelings about agreeing to let Ranka help, he didn’t show it. His expression was focused as he followed close on her heels.

“Percy,” Ranka whispered at one point. “Thank you.”

He poked her in the back with the knife handle. “Quiet.”

A single word, loaded with so much.

I don’t trust you. I don’t forgive you. I am beyond angry with you.

But I do need your help.

That would have to be enough.

The scents of pain drew her like a moth to flame. And there, cutting through decades of ruin, was something familiar. A spark of new amid the old. Nerves swirled through Ranka. The twins were here. She’d help Percy get them out—and then she would face Ongrum.

Her stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought. What is wrong with me? Ongrum had betrayed her, the entire coven, and every witch in Witchik. Ongrum had shown herself to be a far worse monster than Ranka.

So why do I still want to save her?

“They’re here,” Ranka whispered, her heart beating harder. Tafa’s hatchet burned in her hand. It was too light for her, but it still felt like a piece of home. Behind her, Percy wielded the Murknen’s knife.

Ranka’s head spun. She wasn’t ready to face them yet. Wasn’t ready to meet their eyes and admit she had betrayed them when she needed them most, that she had been too weak to protect the ones who mattered yet again.

“Percy,” Ranka whispered. “A little light?”

He hesitated, and sighed. “Oh, all right. It’s not like anyone in possession of a single brain cell wouldn’t have caught on yet.”

The ambassador brought two fingers to his lips and blew.

A flame flared to life in the dark. It was no bigger than a robin’s egg, burning just as blue. Heat pulsed against Ranka’s skin. Percy watched her with narrowed eyes, as if daring her to comment, but she said nothing.

He could keep his secrets. Goddess knew she had plenty of her own.

With the flame at his fingers, Percy took the lead. He turned the corner, casting warm blue firelight all around them, and Ranka followed him with her heart in her throat.

“Oh no,” Percy whispered.

Two cells waited for them.