Aramis’s expression faltered, and for a beat, she looked genuinely disturbed.

Ranka lifted her wrist, the sun-bleached beads rattling, and Aramis blanched as she recognized them. “Your dead witch had Yeva’s bracelet. And she wasn’t the first I’ve seen. One attacked me in the Northlands, well into Skra territory, carrying one of those pins with her. She was in southern clothes, but she was in my lands, Princess. So put yourself in my boots. I turn myself in—travel all the way south, desperate to find my friend—and then I see her bracelet on the wrist of a witch with the disease I saw in the north.” Ranka licked her lips. “Why did I save you? Because letting you die meant losing my chance at getting her back.”

Percy and Aramis cast each other an uneasy glance.

“We’re not in the business of kidnapping girls,” Aramis said, her expression troubled. “Whoever took your friend—it was no one that serves my family. I can assure you of that.”

“If you didn’t,” Ranka said bitterly, “then who did?”

“I don’t know, witch girl. I’m sorry.”

And though Ranka loathed it—she believed her. An ache pulsed low in her. She was back at the beginning, then. Someone had wanted her here badly enough to steal Yeva. There were still answers in this city, she could feel it in her bones.

Aramis turned away and drummed her fingers against the windowsill, her voice sharp with anger. “You’ve put us in an impossible position here. I was ready to tolerate your wandering. Prepared to help you with your blood-magic, the way Mother was ready to help me. But after last night?” She shook her head. “You have meddled too far. You cannot remain in the palace.”

“Wait, what?” Ranka blurted. “But you need me. Without me, the treaty—”

“Continues, so long as you’re alive.” Aramis watched her through half-lidded eyes. “Do you really think you’d be the first difficult royal shipped off to some distant isle to live her days in private captivity? Do you think you’re the first Bloodwinn who’s come here with a prison cell waiting for her, should you prove to be too volatile? An appearance at the wedding, the occasional public visit once every few years… so long as you’re breathing, you serve your purpose.”

“You’re bluffing,” Ranka said.

“Try me.”

Panic thrummed through Ranka. She couldn’t be exiled, not when she’d finally found a clue. The memory of that sick witch lingered. Something bigger was happening in this city. Something deadly that would put every witch at risk, coup or no coup.

And if Aramis was telling the truth—if the palace truly hadn’t taken Yeva—then the sickness was now her only lead.