This close, Ranka could see the fine scars on Aramis’s hands, the faint rivulets of sweat that glazed her temple. The ink stains on her fingers. Her eyes—a deep, rich brown—drank up all the color in the room. The princess tilted her face up to Ranka’s.

She really was beautiful.

Aramis tilted her head to the side. “My mother was like you, at the end of her life—completely at her blood-magic’s mercy. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Ranka swayed. She knew she ought to lie. But here was this girl, looking at her like she was a person instead of a monster, touching her without a shred of disgust—and so the truth slipped free. “Yes.”

“Good.” A shadow flitted across Aramis’s face. “That makes you easier to control.”

Metal flashed. Pain pricked Ranka’s neck, and she lurched back, fingers flying to her throat, watching as Aramis tossed a syringe aside.

The princess folded her arms and waited.

Numbness crashed over Ranka in a muddy wave, spiraling from her neck to her chest, her arms, her legs. She reached, but it was as if a wall of glass had descended between her and her power. She staggered, no longer in control of her legs, and Aramis caught her, lowering her to the floor.

“What—” Ranka wheezed.

“Shhh.” Aramis shifted Ranka’s head into her lap. “You’re fine. It’s a tranquilizer my mother developed for blood-witches. For herself, actually. Works wonderfully, doesn’t it?”

I should have let her die. The thought cut through the haze with blistering clarity.

Another syringe poked into Ranka’s neck, and her thoughts turned liquid.

“Do you think we’re stupid? Do you think we didn’t know you left your room at night, that you’ve been poking around, following us?”

Aramis bent down so that her lips brushed the shell of Ranka’s ear, featherlight, her curls forming a curtain around the two of them. To someone passing by, they might have been lovers, embracing in the quiet hours of night.

Aramis trailed her knife over Ranka’s throat.

“We never would have been friends, but we might have been allies. I would have helped you with your blood-magic, if only to keep you from endangering Galen—but if this is how you want to spend your time here? So be it. I don’t care if you’re the Bloodwinn. I don’t care if you’re the most powerful blood-witch on the goddess-damned continent. I will not let you hurt Galen. And I will not let you get in my way.”

Ranka could no longer feel Aramis’s hands. Could barely register her voice.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She’d come so close, had found Yeva’s bracelet, the sickness, the pins. This princess was the key. Ranka needed her. And now Aramis hated her.