Percy swung directly at Ranka’s head, and she threw herself to the ground to avoid the blow. Her hands curled into fists. Percy’s eyes locked on hers, blazing that strange, ethereal gold as he skipped backward, his torso gleaming with sweat, and raised his sword at Ranka. “Catch me if you can, witch.”

Ranka rose—and gave in.

The colors faded. Ranka could feel the thrum of Percy’s major arteries, could hear the creak in his left ankle that had broken years ago and never healed quite right. Her power expanded, filling her up, testing its limits. She’d spent her life trying to keep this power, this part of her, tamped down and locked away. Trapped, lest she leave another scar on this world. But here, sparring atop cliffs beside the sea, a boy made of fire before her and a princess carved of ice at her back, for the first time in a long time, Ranka almost felt… free.

Percy flew at her again. He swung both practice swords for her head in a brilliant arc—and this time, she caught them.

“Um,” said Percy.

Ranka sank her nails into the swords and ripped them free of his grasp, flinging them to either side. Her thoughts were gone. Her pain was gone. All that mattered was this moment, this boy, this life.

All that mattered was winning.

“All right, Aramis. I think she’s gone murder-happy again. Take her out.”

Percy leapt away, his heel dragging by a tenth of a second—and she lunged.

She slammed into him, and the world tipped sideways as Ranka locked her arm around Percy’s throat. Now instead of a river flowing through her, her blood-magic roared upward, blocking out the world, erasing everything except the life beneath her hands, the life that was hers for taking. Pain and fear swirled off Percy.

Ranka drank it in, and squeezed.

Percy’s hands scrabbled against Ranka’s, his fingers forge hot. “Aramis! Aramis!”

Why was she here? She didn’t remember. Ranka tightened her grip, her blood-magic swelling her muscles, lending an impossible strength to her hands. She would break his neck with a twist and be done with it, relish in the way death rendered him limp, and then—

A tiny starburst of pain broke through the fog.

Ranka turned, eyed the syringe quivering in her calf—and collapsed.

A pleasant numbness swept through her, turning her limbs to water. After two weeks of sparring, she’d come to expect it. Her blood-magic faded, retreating behind the glass wall the tranquilizer created as the colors leaked back in. Beneath her, Percy lay gasping, rubbing the skin around his neck where her fingers had left red marks. He gently maneuvered Ranka off him, and Ranka tried to say sorry but all that came out was a garbled aaghh and some drool.