Frustration mounted in Ranka. Ever since she’d arrived, not a word had been breathed of what they all knew—that the Bloodwinn treaty had to be sealed with marriage. Once Galen was eighteen and held the crown, they would wed, as the two Bloodwinns before her had. At first Ranka’d thought they’d avoided the subject to ease her into the idea.

Now she was beginning to suspect it was because Galen was dreading it, too.

It made this all the more confusing. Were they not her enemies? The powerful Sunra children, the precious, privileged heirs who had never wanted for food, water, or shelter. They’d never known hunger. Not the way she had.

And yet. They were prisoners in a way—to their name, their status—the same way Ranka was to the power in her veins, the title she’d been handed. What would it be like to be raised by the most powerful storm mage and blood-witch in the world? To know your hopes, your dreams, your fears, mattered so little with a country at your feet, and only a fragile treaty preventing an age-old war from starting once more?

Aramis and Galen had been raised to be political tools, but they were still children, orphaned in a world content to devour them. It was almost a shame they were her enemies. In another life they might have understood each other. They might have even been friends.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka said quietly. “I know he doesn’t want to marry me. I don’t want to marry him, either. I never wanted any of this.”

After a long pause Aramis said, “What is it you want, then?”

A dozen truths rose to Ranka’s lips: I want to find Yeva. I want to go home. I want control of my blood-magic. I want it to go away completely. I want Ongrum to be proud of me. I want Vivna to come home, though I know she never will.

But now, staring at the princess, framed in the golden light as the sea crashed around them, all Ranka could see were the sores that had ruined that witch’s body—and the bracelet on her wrist.

“I want to help.”

Aramis rolled her eyes. “We’ve been over this. You are helping. Percy and I have the rest handled.”

“Do you?” Ranka pressed.

“You are beginning to wear on my patience, witch girl. I don’t want your help because I don’t trust you. I don’t even particularly like you.”

“Trust me, Princess. The feeling is mutual.”

They were so determined to keep her at bay, yet it was clear Percy and Aramis had linked her to the sickness somehow. Aramis was always taking Ranka’s pulse, analyzing the way her power rose, questioning Percy on its ebbs and flows. Once, Ranka had returned to find Percy in her bedroom, plucking a strand of her hair from the pillow.