Ranka stepped past Percy and examined the lock. It was simple iron craft, worn from centuries of use. If she’d had her blood-magic, she might have been able to break the lock. But without it, she was mortal. Just another witch who’d made too many mistakes. “Percy, could you melt this?”

“What am I, a walking torch?”

Ranka fixed him with a hard look.

Still he hesitated. Only a day ago she had been on his side. Now they were on uneven footing again, the weight of Ranka’s betrayal hanging heavy between them.

“Why?” Percy looked exhausted. “Why not run? The Skra are against you, we’re against you. You are alone, Ranka. You have no allies, no friends. Why are you still helping us? Why are you still here?”

It was a fair question. A smarter witch would have betrayed Ongrum and run. “I wish I could tell you it was just about winalin—that I couldn’t live with myself if I let it burn through the country. But the truth is that I am not that noble and I am not that brave. I’m still here not because of winalin.” The next words felt like they might choke her. “I’m still here because of her.”

In her cell, Aramis Sunra did not stir. A small blessing.

“You love her,” said Percy. It wasn’t a question.

Was a handful of months even long enough to go from hating a girl to loving her? Was she even old enough—healed enough—to know what love was?

Ranka didn’t know. It would never matter. Girls like her didn’t get happy endings.

But she could still make it right.

“I am tired of fighting for the wrong person,” Ranka said finally. “Let me do this one thing, Percy. Let me help you save her. And then if she wants to be rid of me—if you both want me to leave this city and never return—I won’t protest. I’ll go.”

The lantern light bobbed closer.

“I have nothing left,” Ranka said quietly. “No friends, no family, no coven. But I am still a weapon. I am still a girl groomed for a cause. Let me have this one.”