The leader of the Skra was a wretched mess. Gone were most of her clothes and the hair on her head. Her entire body was a mess of blistering, bubbling sores, the result of taking a full injection of winalin instead of administering it slowly, like the rest of the witches. Her left hand was nothing but a bleeding, bulbous mass. Were it not for Ongrum’s eagerness to kill the twins, Ranka might have let her be. The disease was going to kill her on its own soon enough.

Ongrum barreled toward her.

The chaos sprawled to her right. To her left was nothing but the cliffs and the open, endless sea. There was no recognition in Ongrum’s gaze. There was no one left at all. Ranka knelt, scooping up a spear. It was slick with blood along the handle. She wiped it on her pant leg.

“You were wrong about one thing,” Ranka said softly. “I am a monster. I am wretched and twisted and cruel.”

With each word Ranka saw them—every person she’d become terrible for. Every person who made it worth it.

“But I am not the same as you.” Ranka met Ongrum’s eyes. “I am worse.”

Ongrum swung for her. Ranka knocked the sword from her hand with the ease of taking a toy from a child. She broke Ongrum’s arm with her bare hands and drove her leader to the ground, pinning her flat. Her blood-magic rose in a wave, and Ranka’s lungs expanded.

With this power, she could do anything.

With this power, she was inevitable.

Behind her, the Oori held their own. Only the Skra and the Murknen remained. The Arlani had abandoned the fight entirely, choosing to see where the cards fell instead of risking their lives. Percy was a whirlwind of fire, scales flashing along his neck, his wrists.

Ongrum writhed on the earth, panting like an animal, scratching at Ranka’s calf. Blood welled on her skin, but she felt no pain, not with her blood-magic raging in her veins.

Ranka stood above Ongrum.

And then the sores appeared.

She felt the shift happen—felt her blood-magic cower and retreat as winalin took hold at last. Her leg buckled. Her mind scattered, engulfed in momentary bloodlust, before Ranka was launched back to reality. No. It was too soon. She was so close. A sore burst open on her forearm, another on her chest.

I wanted to keep my promise.

Ranka swayed.

I wanted more time.

But she had done enough. Now there was only one matter left to resolve.

Ranka knelt.

“I am not weak because I loved you,” she whispered to Ongrum. “I am strong because I survived you. I am strong because after all the hurt, still I love. Still I trust. My strength is not owed to the wounds you gave me, but my willingness to let them scar.”