“You will not take this from me.” Ongrum’s face changed. Instead of the frantic rage that had lit it before, peace softened her features. “I would have given you an easy death, witchling. But if this is how you want this to end—so be it.”

“Enough, Ongrum. You lost.”

“No,” Ongrum said, shaking her head, digging Ranka’s blade farther into her skin. “I’ve only just begun.”

Her eyes darted past Ranka, locking on to someone beyond her—and then Ongrum bellowed: “Let them out.”

Ranka turned.

Sigrid stood frozen, disbelief clouding her face as she stared at Ongrum. Blood slicked down the Skra warrior’s front.

“Let them all out.”

Sigrid shook herself as though Ongrum had slapped her. She cast her eyes to the sky—and then drew a prayer sigil on her chest. The woman ran for the guard barracks.

“Traitor,” Ongrum snarled, drawing Ranka’s attention back to her. Her chest heaved. “It’s like I’ve always said, child. You were never strong enough to wield true power. But I am.”

Ongrum twisted suddenly, but instead of reaching for a weapon, she shoved her fist into her pocket, hand shaking but mouth set. She looked up and met Ranka’s eyes. The scent of rot spiked.

Ranka realized what Ongrum intended a moment too late.

She lunged—but she was too slow. Her injured leg buckled. Ranka crashed to her knees, and she could only watch as Ongrum drove a full syringe of winalin into her own thigh and pressed the plunger home.

70

NO.

The arena vanished, and with it the Hands, the witches, even the boy on the dais and the girl who had just cut him free. There was only Ranka, the woman in front of her, and the plunger in her thigh, emptying all too fast. A horrible scream split the air—not the cry of the enraged or the howl of a warrior plunging into battle, but the plea of a child, of a scared little girl caught in a nightmare—and it wasn’t until Ranka’s throat burned that she realized the scream was coming from her.

Ongrum stumbled, and Ranka rushed forward to catch her. “What have you done? Ongrum, what have you done?”

“Don’t touch me—get off me.” Ongrum shoved her away. She fell to her knees.

All around Ranka, people were dying—humans cut into witches, and witches cut into humans and one another. The Arlani were beginning to set down their weapons, uncertainty clouding their faces as blood speckled their pristine white robes, but it was too late. It wasn’t enough. The Skra and the Murknen were still fighting, and Ongrum—Ongrum had injected herself. Ongrum was going to die.

Tears slid down Ranka’s cheeks. “You horrible fool.”