What she wouldn’t have given for the rush of her blood-magic, if only so it could eat away her fatigue and propel her through. It had been so long since she’d slept—since she’d rested at all. She wasn’t going to be able to make it much farther. Still, Ranka hauled them forward, carrying Aramis, half dragging Percy.

Finally the acrid scent of the city swirled around them as the watery light of dawn leaked into the tunnels.

And from ahead, came a snarl.

All of Ranka went cold.

No, please.

She was so tired. So weak.

And so she could only watch as a winalin witch stepped from the tunnel ahead, followed by another, and another.

They were so young. That was the cruelest piece of it all. They’d been children so recently, with dreams and hopes of their own, lured into this nightmare by a glittering lie.

The first winalin witch gurgled low in her throat. She limped forward, her ankle dragging awkwardly. Blood painted her lips, and bits of flesh were visible beneath her nails. They had killed recently, then.

Were these the witches who had killed Nadya? Or were they just a few of many, now loose in the mine, set free to terrorize a city unequipped to fight them?

“Please,” Ranka whispered. “Don’t.”

From the dark came a flash of gold.

She could not defend Aramis and Percy. She could hardly defend herself. After everything, it seemed she’d dragged them down here to die.

The first witch hissed.

Ranka braced herself—and then the tunnels were ablaze.

One moment they were alone. The next, the Hands of Solomei surrounded them, pouring into the tunnels, gold pins on their chests gleaming like beacons of hope as they waved torches at the winalin witches and drove them back.

“Secure the princess!” Was it Ranka’s addled mind, or was that the echo of a ghost? “Protect her, above all.”

The Hands were the enemy. She should flee. Should fight them off.

Instead, Ranka sank to her knees.

Someone struck her in the temple, and the world went dark.

Ranka awoke to gloom. She groaned, tilting forward from where she leaned against the wall. Despite her best efforts, she’d fallen asleep. Judging from the golden hue of the sunlight that crept in watery strands through a gap in the boards, it was late afternoon, nearly evening. They’d slept all day.

Where am I?

Memories came back in broken fragments—winalin witches, attacking them in the dark.

And the Hands, cutting through the mines with their fire and swords, fighting off the witches. Saving them—and then taking them prisoner.

In the corner, Percy and Aramis began to stir. They’d been settled on a narrow, single-person bed. Percy’s eyes fluttered open first. He blinked down at the bandages that now swathed his limbs. He looked around, plainly confused, and sagged backward.