Yeva screamed and lurched, snapping her teeth at the hollow of Ranka’s neck and biting deep into her shoulder instead. Ranka howled as agony turned her shoulder into a crackling black void.

I can’t fight her.

“Yeva,” Ranka half sobbed, her body trembling. “Yeva, please, it’s me.”

I won’t.

Yeva slammed her shoulder into Ranka’s chest and took them both to the ground. Ranka’s blood-magic was a flood inside her, yanking desperately against the reins, but if she let it free, there’d be no controlling it. This was no battle or harmless Skra training. This was no sick witch in the forest.

This was Yeva. This was her coven. Her family.

And if Ranka fought her for real, she would die.

“Ranka!”

She jerked backward, trying to break free of Yeva’s grip, but her regular strength was nothing against that of a blood-witch—even a rotting mimicry of one. Yeva wrapped her hands around Ranka’s throat. She wheezed, thrashing, clawing at Yeva’s fingers, but Yeva just kept squeezing. Spots swam in the corner of Ranka’s vision.

I’m going to die.

The thought cut through her with blistering clarity. Ranka gasped, writhing on the ground, trying to pry Yeva’s fingers free.

Wind roared down the alley.

It slammed into them with the force of a hurricane. Yeva went flying with a howl, her mouth contorting as she let loose a guttural scream.

Galen slumped against the wall. He flung his hand forward, and another blast of wind ripped past Ranka, pinning Yeva against the stones. Galen swirled his tongue over his teeth and spat out a mouthful of blood. He shrank against the alley wall, and Ranka cowered beside him, dread forming a stone in her throat.

Yeva had protected her. Fed her, healed her, guided her when no one else had. Yeva had been a force of light and love and warmth when Ranka had thought she deserved none of it. Ranka had given up everything to save her and bring her home.

And Ranka had failed.

Galen trembled beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka said faintly. All her training, all her pain, and now she was useless. Frozen. Unable to strike back against someone she ought to, rooted in place by love—and fear. She’d come to kill him for Yeva—now Yeva would end them instead.

“Just….” Galen started, his voice faltering. “Just don’t leave me, okay?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t know what to do, so Ranka did the only thing she could—she took his hand, and she didn’t let go.

Galen locked his fingers around hers, trembling worse than before, and squeezed so hard it hurt.

Footsteps scraped ahead of them.

Ranka opened her eyes—but Yeva was gone.