And they seemed to like her. Whispers wound through the city that this was the girl who had healed them in a tiny, underfunded clinic. Rumors spun of a princess sneaking through Seaswept’s streets to fight the Hands, braving winalin-witch-infested tunnels, putting herself in harm’s way to save the people who had long rejected her. Some spun tales that this queen was the same vigilante who had burned an inn known for torturing witches to the ground. Aramis smiled politely through all of it and confirmed nothing.

True to her word, the queen had reformed the Council. Its size had nearly doubled, with two seats added for each coven, and a formal one for the Bloodwinn. New seats were added for Isodal, too, for smaller, previously unrepresented provinces. There were nobles, but there were common folk like Ranka—a dockworker from Truvil, a midwife from Orvist, a fishmonger, two farmers, two healers, and even a blacksmith. Humans with worn hands and long, tired lives now sat in the land’s highest court, writing and passing laws, given their seats via local election instead of a family name. Aramis had stunned everyone by writing into law a check on royal power. No longer could a ruler declare war without the Council, condemn a village to die, raise taxes, or cease shipments of medicine. All now required a Council majority, including the buy-in of the witches now serving.

It still wasn’t perfect—but it was change, coming inch by inch.

Now the twins drew closer, their faces lighting up with love and sorrow at the sight of Ranka and Percy at the docks. Gulls whirled overhead, clutching a stray fish or a piece of bread. Ranka had never been more filled with dread.

Percy elbowed her. “What are you doing?”

Ranka stared at him. “What?”

“I know why I have to leave Isodal. But why do you?”

“I—” Ranka sputtered. “I don’t—”

“What, you and Aramis haven’t kissed and made up yet?”

“What?”

“That’s a no, then.” Percy rolled his eyes. “You useless lesbian. Oh, don’t glare at me like that—I’m just stating the obvious. Seems like a weird move, to leave your girlfriend here just because you have the communication skills of a dead fish.”

Ranka stared at him, speechless. There had been moments, of course—tender looks and quiet discussions, glances in meetings and stares that lingered far too long. But Aramis was queen now, and Ranka the Bloodwinn who’d betrayed her only months prior. Both girls had been launched overnight into positions of power whose influence rippled around the world.

Ranka could not blame Aramis for being cautious, for being hesitant to rebuild their friendship or… whatever had existed before.

It did not make her any less sad, though.

Maybe if I leave, she’d told herself. Maybe when I come back, she’ll be ready.