“I was just a girl,” Ranka told Ongrum with more feeling than she expected. Words that were thirteen years building rushed out of her. “A child. You put the weapons in my hands, Ongrum, and ordered me to kill.”

“You want the truth?” Ongrum stepped closer, her eyes bright with cruelty. “That monstrosity was already there. You have always been hateful, Ranka, and you have always been cruel. And then you wasted it!”

Ongrum sliced at Ranka, and this time her blade met its mark. Pain exploded across Ranka’s thigh.

No.

Ranka’s leg buckled. She sank to one knee, and Ongrum kicked her in the face. Ranka tipped backward. The world spun around her.

I’m going to die.

A foot connected with her ribs. Blood bubbled from her lips.

Everything burned.

Ongrum stood over her. Blood gleamed against the white expanse of her chest, and Ongrum dug the point of her sword into Ranka’s throat.

“You disappoint me,” Ongrum said softly. “You’ve always done nothing but disappoint me.”

Where was Percy? Where were the Hands?

Time slowed. Dust caked Ranka’s wounds, coated her lips. She was so tired—and she had lost. Behind Ongrum, the setting sun painted the sky in broad strokes of fire. And between Ranka’s ribs, settled behind her heart, her blood-magic sat, cold and as unreachable as ever. Even on the brink of death, it did not want her, and Ranka was not strong enough to pull it free.

Ranka opened her eyes and met Ongrum’s own.

“Just tell me this,” she rasped. Sweat beaded on her lip. “Did you ever love me? Even a little?”

Ongrum’s face contorted, and Ranka saw her for who she was—not just a woman hell-bent on raising a new world from the ashes of this one, but someone who had been a sister, a daughter, a mother by choice if not by blood. A woman who’d looked into the scared eyes of a four-year-old witch and carried her home.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ongrum.

“It does.” Ranka’s voice cracked. “You loved me. I know you did. This wasn’t always about power. You were better than that. You cared. You called me your daughter once—and for a while I think you meant it.”

“I should have left you in that village,” Ongrum whispered. “I should have let the fires burn you alive.”

Ranka braced herself. She reached for her blood-magic one last time, but it did not reach back. Her mind spun. There was nowhere else for her to run. At least she had bought them time.

Ongrum’s grip tightened on the sword.

Ranka closed her eyes.

A horn blared.

Cries filled the air, sharpening to outrage, confusion, alarm, and then—pain. The coppery scent of blood spiked. The vibration of boots on packed dust rolled through the ground.

Ranka twisted.

The Hands of Solomei had arrived.