It was there in every moment. That—that thing that had woken in Belren, lurking in her veins, painting her dreams with blood. Some days Ranka wished she could cut herself open and pry it loose, rip free whatever demon had spawned inside her amid the flames. She’d hoped it would fade. Instead it seemed only to settle, to sink deeper inside of her, until Ranka didn’t know where the hunger began and she ended.

Ongrum watched her with an odd look on her face. She cast her eyes skyward, scanning the old cedar ceiling. Kneeling there, face concealed in shadow, the burn scars warping Ongrum’s body had never been more pronounced.

The older witches often whispered stories about her over the coal-pits. They said Ongrum had been born among humans, but they’d tried to burn her. She’d lost three sisters and her mother to the flames and barely escaped with her life. The Skra had found her half-dead in the snow and had taken her in. Six years later, at twenty-two, she killed their leader, assumed control, and spent the next three decades transforming them from a coven on the brink of extinction into a force. She’d raised an entire generation of warriors. She’d made them conquerors.

And now—now she was looking at Ranka like there was something she could make of her, too.

“Stand up, child,” Ongrum said abruptly. “You’ve rested long enough. You will walk.”

And though Ranka’s body ached, though her burn wounds cracked and bled from the movement, though every part of her screamed out in pain, she swung her feet from the bed. She’d not made it more than a few steps since Belren, but Ongrum’s words were not a suggestion.

And so she rose.

Step by painful step, Ongrum guided Ranka from the cabin, propelling her out into the bright winter light. Her eyes watered. The witches working in the camp stopped to stare openly. She’d not bathed since Belren. Her lips swelled with cold sores, and her still-healing burns formed a warped patchwork of peeling skin and bruises across her body.

But it was not disgust the other Skra regarded her with.

It was fear.

She’d heard them at night, when they thought she slept. Most of them had visited Belren. They whispered about what she’d done there, about what she’d become, what she might yet be. Ranka couldn’t recall what had happened, not really—but the looks on their faces told her whatever she’d done was bad enough.

From the edge of the camp, Yeva watched Ranka with a strained expression, her arms folded tightly in front of her. Asyil glared at the ground, spinning the bracelet on her wrist.

You have to let her go.