At first Ranka had worried that the twins would send her away, but they were simply too exhausted and busy to care. When enough of her strength returned to walk, she floated between humans and witches, helping out where she could, hauling away debris some days, and doing her best to ignore their stares. Every time the Skra tried to corner her, she avoided them. They were hers by rights now, and even if they had mixed feelings, none dared to go against a blood-witch—or whatever Ranka had become.

Ranka didn’t know how to tell them she wasn’t sure that she wanted the Skra. That now, after everything, she didn’t think she wanted the north, either.

The one thing she did want was impossible.

Three weeks after the coup, the Council called a meeting.

Because the Council room had been destroyed, they met instead in the ashes of the old gardens. No one summoned Ranka. The guards had been a mess ever since Foldrey was arrested and imprisoned, guarded not by humans, but by witches, to ensure he didn’t have access to any loyal men.

Now witches stood among humans, arms crossed in challenge as though they expected to be kicked out. Ursay was among them, silent as everyone made awkward space around one another. Only Percy seemed at ease, drifting between groups with a languid smile, thriving on the obvious discomfort.

When he saw Ranka, his face lit up. “There’s the witch of the hour.”

He slung an arm around her shoulder, and Ranka half-heartedly batted at him but didn’t move away. He’d worked alongside her several times in the past days when he wasn’t with Aramis, silently hauling away burned timber, breaking ruined tiles with hammers, and burying the dead. His hands, like hers, were callused and torn. There was a smudge of ash on his temple he’d missed when he’d bathed that morning. Ranka licked her thumb and wiped it away, and he rolled his eyes.

He had forgiven her, in his own way, these past few days.

Ranka looked at him sidelong. “How goes the cure?”

“Surprisingly well.” Percy scratched at his jaw. “Of course, our patients all want to eat us. But having live winalin witches to work with has been a gift. Aramis thinks we should have something in a few months and that we can keep the sick ones alive until then. If it works on these, we can take it wide.”

More reports had come in of winalin witches roaming the countryside, as far north as Skra territory and every stretch of Isodal between. It would take time to catch—and cure—them all. But it would happen.

There was a restless energy to Percy. Something told her that when winalin finally vanished, Percy would too.

Percy tilted his head to the side. “You know—we might use your help.”

Ranka hesitated. “Does she want my help?”