Ranka willed the floor to open and swallow her whole. Instead the doors swung open and a servant stepped through, bearing trays that sagged under the weight of food.

“Oh, thank the sun,” Galen breathed.

Ranka agreed.

In seconds the table was covered—bowls overflowed with mixed greens, and trays sagged under mounds of garlic roasted potatoes, green beans, carrots, and buttered snapper. Acid climbed in her throat. Three months ago Isodal had raised the tariffs on their agriculture and medicine exports to Witchik, claiming a shortage of food in the face of the drought. Yet this table alone could have fed her entire coven for a week.

It wasn’t like Witchik had other options. The Kithraki mountain range cradled Witchik’s far north in a crown of frozen rock, but past that was nothing but miles of barren sea ice. Anyone who wanted to trade with Witchik needed access to Isodal’s ports. If the covens wanted anything from the outside world, it had to go through the south first.

“Still,” some witches said. “It’s better than before, when we got nothing at all.”

Ranka took in the surplus of food and wasn’t so sure.

The hour crept by in silence, everyone picking at their plates, the sound of chewing broken only by murmured conversations between Aramis and the noble boy that often ended in laughter Ranka was certain was directed at her.

Finally, whether out of desperation or pity, Galen swiveled toward her. “Did you have a long journey, Bloodwinn?”

“Ranka, please. Just—call me Ranka.” She cringed. “Two weeks. Not bad, really. I’ve taken longer patrols, scouting out Murknen lands.”

The blank look on his face told her that meant nothing to him.

This was going incredibly well.

“Two weeks,” Aramis said. She twirled her fork in a slow, lazy circle. “And yet you were named Bloodwinn a month and a half ago. Where were you, exactly?”

Hiding from you. “It took me… time to come to terms with my duty.”

“Yes, it certainly did, didn’t it?”

Galen made a pained noise in his throat. “Aramis.”

“Galen,” she mimicked.

He glared at her, and she stuck her tongue out at him. They were definitely siblings.

A stone-faced servant bearing a pitcher of wine approached Ranka. She shook her head, stomach turning. Six years ago her sister had gotten roaring drunk on blackberry wine she’d flirted away from a merchant. Ranka remembered the sickly sweet smell on her breath, the way her head had lolled as though her neck had been snapped. Ranka had carried her home. Right before they’d stepped back into camp, Vivna had looked up at Ranka with cloudy eyes and slurred, “You ruined my life by being born.”

The memory made nausea roll through her. Ranka shoved it away, a cold sweat breaking across her skin.

She’s gone. She left you. Focus on the ones who stayed. Focus on the ones you need to save.