“You think you’re so noble,” said Aramis. “The poor Skra witch, forced to head south and become the Bloodwinn. You can feign innocence all you want, but I saw you in that morgue. You’re a killer, Ranka. You are a murderer and a monster, with blood on your hands and death in your heart. Think what you will of me—but I am trying to save lives, not end them.”

Ranka stared after Aramis long after she’d left. She’d grown so used to people not looking her in the eye that she found it far worse when they seemed to peer right into her soul. Only Vivna had ever been able to see her so clearly.

Hurt threatened to bloom in the cracks Aramis’s words had opened.

Ranka latched on to anger instead.

Who was this spoiled, privileged girl, who’d grown up behind gilded walls, to lecture her? Who was Aramis to judge Ranka, when her very existence was only possible because of everything Witchik had lost?

If training Ranka was about honoring Aramis’s mother, then why hadn’t it started the day Ranka stepped foot in the palace? Why had it taken her stumbling upon the sick witch—and revealing to Aramis and Percy she’d met one before?

Aramis and Percy were lying to her. She would never find Yeva at this rate. She’d never find answers about the sickness. And she’d have nothing to offer the Skra.

Aramis didn’t want to involve her? Fine.

Ranka would simply force her hand.

14

THE NEXT MORNING RANKA SLIPPED from her room and dragged the scents of the palace over her tongue, seeking a familiar signature. Percy and Aramis were never going to be honest. But perhaps someone close to the twins could give her what she wanted.

Ranka followed the signature she sought to a tall oak door engraved with sweeps of intricate gold along the frame. Voices rumbled on the other side. Ranka raised her hand to knock, hesitated, and shoved the door open instead.

Foldrey Wolfe stood against the far wall. His hair was wet, slicked back against his skull. Instead of his regular uniform, he was in polished military dress, completed by the ornamental sword at his hip.

At the center of the room, his narrow chest bare, was Galen.

Maids flurried around him like birds, folding him into a sleeveless, flowing tunic, polishing the circlet he typically wore. The prince looked bored to tears, and more vulnerable than she was used to—like he was just a doll, a toy to be dressed up and trotted around. He caught Ranka’s eyes, surprise flickering over his features, and held up a hand.

Everyone turned to stare.

Foldrey frowned at her, a wariness in his eyes. Gone was the warmth he’d greeted her with before. No doubt Aramis had told him of what had happened in the morgue. “Good morning, Bloodwinn.”

“It’s Ranka,” she corrected.