It clawed its way up from her stomach, burning her throat, her eyes, pounding headaches through her forehead and temples and the space where her jawbone hung below her ears. The world became blurred. And after came the pain—cramps in her stomach, weakness and fire in her limbs, as if her very cells were crying out in protest. The hunger for death became a part of her, as constant as the need for air, until it shifted from desperation to sheer pain. When it reached its crux, she’d do anything—hurt anyone—to make it go away. To feel whole again, if only for a moment.

It was in these moments she had been the object of Vivna’s disgust, and Ongrum’s pride.

Two voices broke the night.

“Tell me the truth, Percy. Are you certain you destroyed it?”

“I burned everything. And then I ran.”

Shit.

Ranka dove into one of the empty pens right as Aramis and Percy turned the corner. Instead of their palace finery, they wore drab cloaks. Their emotions spiked in the air—worry, fear, grief. And from Percy, guilt. Ranka recoiled.

Hunger throbbed in her head, her limbs, her bones. Her vision flickered gray. Percy and Aramis were alone. They’d be so easy to attack. Wouldn’t even see her coming. She’d hit them from behind, cut their delicate throats—

Ranka raised her hands to her cheeks and dug her fingernails in until it hurt.

Her eyes darted around the stable, tracing pockets of shadow and hay-dusted walls. She’d have to come back later. Find a way into the city, hunt something easy and small. A rat, a stray dog, or some lost drunk with bruised fists made bolder by whiskey. Anything to curb this endless, pulsing need.

“Have you considered,” Percy said slowly, “asking your brother for help?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You can’t lie to him forever.”

“What? You are here to help him train. He doesn’t need to know the rest.”

Ranka slunk toward the exit. The stable was a palette of gray, and hunger burned in her veins. Her sweat-slick hands trembled with the effort of keeping her magic at bay.

“Now, the witch—how long has she been dead?”

Ranka hesitated.

“A day, maybe two.” Percy sounded resigned. “Just like the others. Oh, good—right on time.”

Footsteps echoed, coupled with the rub of leather against cloth, the sharp scent of a well-oiled blade. The skin beneath Foldrey’s eyes was the color of a day-old bruise as he stepped into the warm light of the stable, his face lined with weary resignation. “The morgue is paid off. You have two hours.”

Ranka was going to be ill. One dead witch didn’t seem important enough to involve the captain of the palace guard—unless that witch was someone special. Someone they wanted to keep hidden.

Someone they’d kidnapped.