It was a such a waste. There would be no victory here today, not with the carnage on each side and the earth painted red.

Monster, the dust seemed to whisper, swirling at her feet. Butcher.

Yes, she was a monster.

She had done horrible, terrible things. Ranka would never be a hero—that shining title was for people like Galen and Aramis, the royal leaders, the golden twins. And so Ranka would be the shield, the knife, the thing in the shadows. Their secret weapon, and silent protector.

I am the monster.

She would stain her soul to keep theirs clean.

I am the shield.

And that would be enough.

I am the knife in the dark.

Ranka closed her eyes. She found the magic she’d never wanted. It had made her, earned her the title of Butcher, monster, pride of the Skra.

Ranka reached—and power ripped through her.

She staggered under the weight of it. The pain from her injuries faded. She was losing blood, but she could no longer feel her body dying. She would merely fight until her heart stopped. If she was lucky, she’d bleed out before the winalin took hold. Claws winked back at her from her hands, blacker than night and sharpened to fine, deadly points.

The world burned gray.

And finally, the Bloodwinn rose.

77

EVERY COLOR VANISHED, REPLACED BY the wash of monotone that had haunted Ranka for five years.

Ranka looked down and flexed her hands. Instead of some lethal, starving force, this power felt like a friend, an ally, a weapon she could wield at will.

And wield it she would.

Ranka took a breath. She had only a few minutes before the winalin took hold. Foldrey would stay true to his word. The guard would take her out, even if she hadn’t finished her duty.

Ranka began to walk.

A winalin witch hurtled toward her. Ranka could feel the vibration of the witch’s footsteps, could hear the thrum of her breath. The witch leapt, and Ranka twisted, impossibly fast, and struck.

Ranka kept walking.

In the entire history of Witchik, only two blood-witches were rumored to have ever conquered their magic, eons before the first Sunra landed on Isodal’s shores. The women had cemented themselves into legend, idolized as creatures that transcended the plane of mortals and stepped into the roles of gods. No one had ever rivaled them again. No one had come close, and the concept of conquering blood-magic had been chalked up to myth.

Now Ranka understood why.

“Ongrum,” Ranka said, her voice quiet.

Ongrum turned.