“You are.” Ranka pushed the knife in, just hard enough to break skin, until blood welled on the moon-bright blade. The boy whimpered, and Ranka kept talking. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you want him to live, you’re going to tell me the truth. Who are you? And what did you do to that witch?”

The Yaris woman glared. Ranka stood there with her hostage, her breath coming quickly, her body still, a barrier of muscle and starved blood-magic. Somehow these people were connected to the first witch’s death. To Yeva’s disappearance. Logic demanded restraint, but the power in her veins wanted something far darker.

“Tala,” one of the others said softly. “We were told not to hurt the girl—”

Anger flashed in the Yaris woman’s eyes. “Accidents happen.”

Time slowed. Ranka’s blood-magic rose, pinpointing the way the woman’s hands flew upward, sensing the charge building at her fingers, predicting the bolt of sheer power about to light up the room.

Ranka drove the knife home.

It’d been so long since she’d killed a person. She’d forgotten how easy it was—like putting out a candle with a pinch of damp fingers. The boy sagged, and her blood-magic roared in triumph as his eighteen years unfolded before her.

This is what she saw:

A blue sky broken by a red kite and a brother’s laugh.

A mother’s feverish eyes, shot through with yellow. You must look after each other.

A brother, facedown in a pool of blood, a blood-witch panting over him.

And finally, them.

They were a sea of threadbare clothes and gold pins and eyes that burst with righteous purpose, a throng of humans who claimed to have the blessing of a sun goddess. Sweet child, they said. Our world is plagued, but you can be the cure. A pale woman streaked oil over his cheeks and dipped him in the ocean as sunrise lit the water on fire. The strangers gave the boy a knife, and he named it revenge.

And then he was gone.

Ranka staggered. Her blood-magic swelled, latching on to the rest of the lives in the room. In that moment there was no corpse, no meddling royals or missing witches. There was only blood, the fragile thrum of heartbeats, and the power in her veins demanding more. She teetered on the edge of it, barely aware of the way her nails were sharpening, her muscles swelling, every part of her hardening, expanding, morphing from girl to predator.

A monster, Vivna had accused her once. You are a monster dressed as a girl, and it’s all you’ll ever be.

“Princess,” Ranka whispered. “Run.”

And then Ranka gave in.