This was it. Even if things went well, she would likely not see tomorrow’s sunrise. Ranka had spent her entire life preparing to die. To be born with blood-magic was to be born with a time bomb in your veins. She’d stopped fearing death long ago.

The question that lingered, then, was this: would she die righting the wrongs of her past or cementing them?

Together the three of them walked forward—the witch, the princess, the traitorous guard. It was ten minutes to sunset. The covens would be gathering now, eager to watch a prince die.

“This is where you leave us,” Foldrey said softly, his voice startling Ranka. He nodded to a corridor to the left. “That way will take you to the arena. Exit the stairs, turn left, and you’ll be there shortly.” He paused, his eyes flicking over her. “Good luck, Bloodwinn.”

She knew better than to think Foldrey wished for her health or safety. His work would be easier after this if she was dead. But a piece of her longed to ask if things might have been different—in another life, could he have been the mentor she’d thought she’d found in Ongrum?

Could he have loved her, the way he loved the twins?

A part of her thought he could. It changed nothing, but it hurt all the more.

Aramis nodded. “I’ll walk you there.”

Foldrey frowned. “I don’t think that’s—”

“I don’t care. I have some things to say to the Bloodwinn. I’ll be back shortly.”

Aramis started off down the hall then. Ranka followed, and they left Foldrey behind.

The dungeons were too narrow to walk side by side, so instead Aramis led, Ranka trailing behind her. It felt too familiar—walking in the dark, the two of them headed toward uncertainty. For a moment Ranka thought only of that morning, how warm Aramis had been, legs tangled with hers, her skin sweet with the scent of sleep, eyes cloudy with lingering dreams.

In another life, they might have had a chance. They might have even been happy.

“We’re here,” Aramis said softly. The staircase loomed ahead of them.

Ranka hesitated.

Suddenly every word felt inadequate. What was she supposed to do? Apologize again? Say goodbye? All of it felt too watery, too weak. What do you say to a girl you’d hated, loved, and betrayed?

What do you say when you love her still?

They stared at each other, witch and princess, warrior and healer, each victims of a different fate.

The sun sank lower.

“I’ll save him,” Ranka blurted.

“Your blood-magic,” Aramis said at the same time.

Ranka reeled back. “What?”

“You still don’t have it.” Panic fluttered in Aramis’s eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Ranka. You have no magic. You’re injured. You didn’t even bring a weapon with you.”