Ranka’s mind spun. Aramis and Percy had come with their guard up, ready for things to turn nasty, but even with Aramis’s threat of exile lingering in the air, they were waiting for something.

“Your mother,” Ranka said. “You said she thought blood-magic could be controlled? That you had planned to help me?”

Aramis’s nostrils flared.

There it is.

“It was a theory,” Aramis said reluctantly. “My grandmother had hoped the same—blood-magic gets stronger every year. It’s harder on the body, more difficult to keep under control. Mother thought it might be… managed, the same way a long-term illness would.” Her voice softened. “Her hope was that if she could save herself, then she could save me, too.”

It was a hope Ranka had never dared to entertain. Blood-magic was a death sentence, a guarantee that any who inherited it were suddenly living their life on a shortened clock.

Ongrum had called it a blessing of the gods—and what if it truly could be? What if it could be a gift instead of a curse? A tool to be wielded at will, a power so unstoppable, so brilliant, that even a Skybreaker couldn’t stand against her. The Skra would be unstoppable.

And maybe—finally—they would think Ranka worthy. She could see the pride that would light Ongrum’s eyes, the shock of the Skra, and then the relief of knowing that at last they wouldn’t have to fear her. That she could protect them.

“Exiling me gets me nowhere,” Ranka said slowly. “Not when we could benefit each other.”

Aramis’s eyes narrowed.

“Train me,” Ranka breathed. “Carry on your mother’s work, and help me the way she would have helped you. In return I’ll give you whatever you need—no questions asked.” She didn’t say what she suspected—that somehow they needed her, and that was the only real reason she wasn’t already chained onto a ship and bound for some distant isle.

The temptation glimmering in Aramis’s eyes told her she was right.

They glared at each other—the northern warrior, a wall of muscle and scars, and the delicate southern princess who carried secrets in her ink-stained fingers.

Aramis stepped forward.

She closed the distance between them, tilting her head to meet Ranka’s eyes. Ranka could feel the heat of her skin and make out the individual lashes of her eyes. It took everything in her not to step back.