Memory rushed in—the Hands of Solomei with their golden pins, the corpse, the sick witch, and Aramis. Knocking her out, handling a blood-witch with expertise, not a glimmer of fear in those dark eyes as she whispered that her mother had sought a way to control her blood-magic and nearly found it.

This was it. They’d come to punish her for stepping out of line. Ranka braced herself, rallying a thousand excuses, pleas, and even threats. She would do whatever it took to stay in the palace, even if it meant groveling—

Aramis tilted her head to the side. “Who is Yeva?”

Ranka’s mind blanked. “What?”

Aramis spun a syringe of tranquilizer between her fingers, the glass flashing each time it made a circle around her thumb, her expression unreadable. “You snoop, you lie, you follow us—and then you save us, even though you knew we’d find out you’d been spying.” The syringe stopped. “When you killed that woman, you asked her about someone named Yeva. Foldrey said you asked him about someone by the same name, your first day here. Said you thought we kidnapped her. Who is she?”

Another memory stirred—of Yeva, only a few weeks after Ranka had taken that axe from Ongrum, stopping her outside of camp as Ranka returned from training.

Yeva, staring at Ranka in horror, taking in the blood that coated her hands, her hair, her face. It wasn’t human blood—not yet—but Yeva had known the path Ranka would walk down. Had known what she’d become.

She’d tried to save her anyway.

“Look at me,” Yeva had demanded, shaking her bracelet in Ranka’s face. “You’re not alone, okay? Not if you have me. And not because you owe me, or because we share a coven name, but because you’re my friend, and I love you because I choose to. Because you’re worth it. And I’m not going anywhere. Let that be enough, Ranka. Walk away from this, before it’s too late. I’m begging you.”

Ranka’s eyes burned, and she looked away. The weight of Aramis’s stare pressed down on her. She was on fragile ground here. If the palace had taken Yeva, it wasn’t likely Aramis would suddenly admit to it in an act of goodwill. Ranka was a warrior, trained to kill, to head straight for a problem and fight until it wasn’t a threat anymore—but Aramis was raised to rule. She had no weapons, no combat training, only a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. This girl would see through Ranka’s lies before she could finish them. In a game of deceit, Ranka would lose every time.

So instead, she told the truth.

“Yeva was Skra,” she said finally, her voice catching, rough. “She was family. The humans kidnapped her. I suppose I have your wanted posters to thank for that.”