What the humans did with their wretched country in the meantime was no concern of hers.

Foldrey turned to one of the guards walking alongside him and murmured something in his ear. The man paled and flashed a signal at his hip—two fingers, then three.

The carriage sped up.

“Ranka?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to be your husband,” Galen said. “But… I wouldn’t mind being your friend.”

His face was so open, so earnest, it actually hurt. And for the first time, Ranka saw Galen for who he was—not the Sunra prince or the powerful Skybreaker heir.

Just a boy, in over his head. And a terribly lonely one at that.

She ought to have turned her back on him. Snap back, make it easy for him to dislike her, because soon she’d drive a knife through his heart, and it felt cruel, to entertain his kindness.

Instead, the lonely light in Galen’s eyes made an old hurt ache in her, too.

Ranka looked at her hands. “I am not a very good friend.”

“Well, I don’t have any, so this is better than nothing.” He paused, that painful earnestness brightening further as he looked at her bracelet. “That’s beautiful. Who made it for you?”

A girl in the snow, hands fluttering like nervous birds as she bundled Ranka’s coat and aggressively thumbed away her tears. Rattling her twin bracelet in Ranka’s face, speaking of love and choices as if Ranka were someone who had ever had an abundance of either.

That same girl, staying. Always.

“Yeva,” Ranka said finally, her voice soft. “Her name is Yeva.”

The breeze shifted—and the scent of rot hit her in full.

Suddenly it was everywhere, crawling over her skin, burning the back of her throat. It was identical to the reek that had plagued the corpses of those dead witches. Gray pulsed across her vision. Galen said something, but she couldn’t hear him. She twisted, half expecting to see guards with swords drawn—but they continued on, eerily calm. As if they knew trouble wasn’t even an option. They were moving faster, certainly, trying to get back to the palace quicker than planned, but whatever trouble the city guard had warned Foldrey of did not lie ahead of them.

There’d been blood on that man’s coat—she was certain. So why wasn’t Foldrey sending in reinforcements? Why did none of the palace guards care?

The carriage turned a corner. The scent weakened; they were leaving it behind.

And finally, it hit her.

“Galen—have you been down this route before?”

Galen scratched his head, eyeing the pastel homes and fragrant flower shops. “I usually sleep through these, if I’m being honest.”

“Have you ever left the palace without an escort?”

“Why would I?”