It was that same undercurrent of wrongness she’d noted in the Northlands, a stronger echo of what she’d sensed in the mines. Now it swirled around her as if sickness were stamped into the very cobblestones, slicing through the marrow and flesh of Seaswept, burrowing into its heart.

If the humans noticed, they didn’t care.

Foldrey strolled ahead, his posture relaxed. There were no scouts. The palace escort watched Galen, not the route. Barriers were erected on both sides, sealing off the alleys, yet the guards strolled at a languid pace, weapons sheathed.

But everything in Ranka pulsed with warning.

Beside her, Galen half dozed, waving lazily to the people they passed but not really seeing them. He’d barely spoken to her. And why would he? All he likely knew was what he’d heard from his sister, and with a height that easily cleared six feet, broad-shouldered and bulky with so many scars she’d long given up trying to count them, Ranka was hardly the friendliest-looking witch on this side of the border or the next. Yet she recalled the brightness in his eyes, that hint of something more behind the soft, shy prince. Had she Percy’s charm or Aramis’s sharp tongue, breaking through might have been easier. It wasn’t like she could brandish her axe at Galen and demand he open up to her.

So instead Ranka lowered her voice and said, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Galen jerked. “Pardon?”

“What I said about the drought. It was cruel.” She dug her nails into her palm. “I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Galen looked out at the street. A wrinkle appeared between his brows, and his fingers twirled. A breeze leapt to life, catching a few of the flower petals tossed their way, swirling them overhead before winding down an alley.

“All I’ve ever been able to summon is wind,” Galen said finally. “It’s no secret. You weren’t the first to poke at me about training. You won’t be the last.”

A little girl tossed a bouquet of lilies their way, and the carriage crushed them under the back wheel, filling the air with their sickly sweet scent.

“My father, my grandfather, all the Sunra men before me, they all mastered the Skybreaker magic—they could call rain to save parched fields, summon wind to launch ships dead in the water, redirect lightning and quell entire hurricanes.” He hesitated. “But that wasn’t all they did.”

Memory flashed behind Ranka’s eyes—scarred, scorched earth from a lightning strike Galen’s father had called against the Murknen. Ghostly remnants of a town whose leaders he’d drowned when the residents refused to pay their taxes.

“No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t.”