Aramis pulled away. She cleared her throat and leveled her gaze at Ranka. Only the quiver of her lips betrayed her. Even here, cloaked in the shadow of the dungeons, she wielded her calm like a weapon.

“Aramis,” Ranka said, her voice soft. “For what it’s worth—I am sorry. I will always be sorry.”

Aramis closed her eyes. “I know.”

Ranka climbed the stairs, and she did not look back.

68

LIGHT HIT HER FACE. THE dying sun cast deep, bruised shadows across the palace grounds, rendering burned buildings into ghastly husks. Even if they won today, it’d take years to rebuild the Sunra estate, to erase the stain of violence her people had left here. Even then, the ghosts would linger. The air swirled with death. There would be more before she was done.

The witches were amassed at the cliffs—the same cliffs where Ranka had trained with Percy, had fought Galen. Now the Sunra prince knelt with his hands bound behind his back. Ongrum stood with her back to the sea, and she had a knife in her hand.

No one turned as Ranka trekked through the dust. All eyes were on the blade gleaming against Galen’s skin and the witch who nearly had the throne.

Light glinted off Ongrum’s knife, reflecting the scared eyes of a boy who should have never been given a crown. The crowd of witches seemed to inhale as one, their hunger crouched behind their teeth, coiling in their clenched fists. A new world was within their grasp. One cut of a slender throat was all it would take.

A falcon screamed, its wide, pale wings slicing through the endless blue that sprawled above them.

Ongrum raised her hand.

Galen closed his eyes.

And Ranka roared, “Wait.”

Every eye in the arena turned to her.

I am the shield.

She had been silent after Belren. Passive when Ongrum burned and looted, complacent when the witches she loved crossed too many lines.

I am the monster.

She would not be silent now.

I am the knife in the dark.

“I am Ranka Volst. Butcher of Belren, and Bloodwinn named.” Ranka raised her voice. “And I challenge Ongrum to trial by combat, for the right to lead the Skra.”

Noise exploded from the crowd. Skra and Murknen leapt up, jeering and shouting. The Arlani stood off to the side, faces carefully blank, their eyes bright with interest. The Oori were nowhere to be seen. Below, Aramis and Foldrey would be at work freeing the imprisoned humans from their cells.

Ongrum paused, lowering the blade at Galen’s throat, and cocked her head to the side in the movement reminiscent of an owl studying a mouse. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Every instinct screamed for Ranka to run. She didn’t stand a chance against Ongrum. She couldn’t fight her. This woman had raised her, had made her.

Quietly, Ranka said, “Making the right choice.”