Foldrey’s movements were those of a northerner through and through—brutish and quick, aiming for low, dirty jabs, instead of the rolling, graceful fighting style popular in the south. This wasn’t the dance of someone who had learned swordplay to show off for nobles at the ball; it was the style of a boy who had grown up fighting for his life in the snow-swept woods of the wild, endless north, where the only art to a weapon was how to swing it in a way that ensured it cut through bone. A witch dove for Foldrey, and he spun, driving a knee into her stomach, and then slammed the hilt of his sword into her temple.

She crumpled, and he kept moving. “Secure the prince!”

Ongrum’s eyes widened. “No.”

Another horn blew, and there, on the horizon, came sails.

They were stark white against an endless blue, and they were the most beautiful thing Ranka had ever seen. Seventeen ships in all, bearing the largest coven in the world. They cut forward with impossible speed, bows breaking against the waves as they barreled toward the shore.

Behind Ongrum, a princess crept toward her brother, kneeling on the dais.

Ranka kicked up with her injured leg and slammed her heel into Ongrum’s kneecap. A crunch sounded, followed by Ongrum howling. She staggered, sword slipping from her hand. Ranka turned sideways, twisting until she was on her knees.

Now Ranka fought with a new energy, a new urgency. She didn’t need to kill Ongrum, just subdue her. Ranka drove Ongrum back. Ongrum was beginning to falter. She was still stronger, still better than Ranka, but even Ongrum was not infallible, and panic made her sloppy. She swung at Ranka in a clumsy, slow arc, and Ranka parried. The blade flew from Ongrum’s hand. Victory pulsed through Ranka. She slashed at Ongrum, and the woman toppled backward.

Before she could rise, Ranka was upon her, one foot planted on her chest, sword aimed at her throat, a perfect reversal of the position they had been in only a moment before.

On the dais, Aramis cut Galen free.

Ranka looked down at Ongrum. “Yield.”

“No.”

Ranka pressed the blade until a droplet of ruby beaded on the edge of the metal. “Yield, Ongrum, and keep your life.”

“No.” Ongrum’s fingers scrabbled for purchase in the dust but found no weapon save for a few stray pebbles. She pushed herself into the earth as though she could sink away from Ranka’s sword, but in the end, she was just a woman on the wrong end of a blade. “I do not yield.”

Rot swirled in the air.

Ranka wouldn’t kill her. Couldn’t. But if she had to injure Ongrum or knock her out to keep the peace? She had the strength in her for that. Her leg ached, still bleeding into the dust from Ongrum’s earlier cut, and her arms trembled with exhaustion.