Ranka looked at her hands. She had no lands, no people, no country. Neither Witchik nor Isodal would welcome her, and unlike Percy, she did not have a heroic cause to pull her abroad, nor did she want one.

“Ongrum will not be easy to beat, especially without blood-magic,” Ranka said softly. “I do not expect there to be an after for me.”

Finally, the truth she’d been carrying all this time, spoken aloud. It lifted a weight off her. Ranka’s ending had never been destined for anything but a knife in the heart.

They knew it, and so did she.

Was it Ranka’s imagination, or did grief flash briefly in Aramis’s eyes?

“Well,” Aramis said, still trying to sound snappish but less certain than before. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“Taking a cue from Percy. Trying to keep it interesting.”

“Take better cues,” Percy muttered.

Ranka said nothing. She watched the space Foldrey had occupied long after he’d left, turning the names of the ones she’d lost over in her mind and the faces of the ones she’d never learned the names of.

Ally or not, former friend or not—Foldrey Wolfe would pay for his hand in winalin.

Ranka would make certain of it.

64

DUSK CREPT UPON THEM. FOLDREY returned a few hours later bearing food and left again. It was simple fare—salted fish, dry cheese, waterskins, and berries gone soft and warm from sitting too long in the sun. It wasn’t until the food was gone and silence flooded the room that the reality of their situation seemed to settle in the air. They were trapped here for the next two days, holding out thin hope Foldrey would keep his word.

Ranka pressed herself into a corner. Finally, when Aramis and Percy had looked at her before glancing away for what felt like the hundredth time, she blurted, “Foldrey’s going to be gone all night. Probably not wise for the three of us to hang out in here like sitting fowl. I’ll take first watch.”

Ranka pulled the door closed behind her and stepped into the hall.

The floorboards creaked pitifully. The home was tiny, little more than a front room offering a small table and a paltry kitchen. The table stood alone, its chairs propped against the front door to slow anyone trying to break in. A few toys were scattered across the floor, which was covered in a thin coat of dust. Ranka lifted a portrait from the wall. Foldrey stared back at her, his face younger and less heavy, his arm around a small, brunette woman who held a red-haired baby.