“It would be close. But with fresh soldiers and weapons, we would be able to secure the city, so that even if…” His voice caught.

Even if we fail.

Even if Ongrum murders Galen for the whole world to see.

“Even if we have to establish control in a less neat manner,” Foldrey finished tightly, “then at least we’ll have the weapons and soldiers.”

Soldiers who would follow every command Foldrey gave them when he finished the coup Ongrum had started, and seized control in the name of preserving Isodal and the lives of the twins he’d deemed unfit to rule it.

Dread rose in Ranka. It was too easy, and too neat.

“I don’t like it,” Ranka said. “I’m sorry, but—a bunch of humans showing up to the palace to fight Ongrum? It only compels the witches further to her side.”

“And what do you suggest?” Aramis fired back. “Since you started the coup, I suppose you might be the one to ask.”

Ranka hesitated. This part wasn’t her specialty. She was a soldier made to follow orders, not a leader trained to give them. Did she even have a right to question Aramis and Foldrey, after what she’d done?

“Never mind,” Ranka said softly. “Just let me know how I can help.”

They turned away from her, and that was answer enough.

On the other side of the wall, a dog barked in the street, followed by the shriek of a child and a mother’s hurried shhh. Panic seeped from every pore of this city—the Hands, and then the Skra, had made certain of that.

The shadows in the room lengthened. All of them were exhausted, whittled out. It was a blessing, oddly enough, that the anniversary was two days away. It gave them time to recover and plan.

“Very well, then,” Foldrey said. “I’ll send messengers out and bring news in the morning.”

It was be a relief when Foldrey left. It was too confusing with him here, too painful to see his face and recall he’d been plotting against them from the beginning. The faces of the winalin witches flashed through Ranka’s memory. How many had he let die?

How many had he injected personally, knowing he was dooming them to torture?

“Aramis,” Percy murmured. “I won’t let him ship you both off. You know that, right? Even if we have to run—I wouldn’t abandon you two. Not now, not ever.”

Aramis blinked several times and squeezed his hand. “I know.”

An awkward beat passed between them as they seemed to remember Ranka was there.

Aramis glanced at Ranka, her eyes cold. “And what about you? You’ve been awfully quiet. Where will you go after?”