In her place was a girl who could have been Ranka’s twin save for her dark, curled hair. She was older, leaner, with watery blue eyes, a bitter mouth, and slender fingers covered in a patchwork of old scars. Smoke writhed around her ankles.

Behind her, Belren burned.

“Vivna,” Ranka whispered.

She was just a little girl again, bleeding in the snow, and the one meant to protect her looked at her with contempt.

Vivna looked down at her. “You ruined my life. You ruin everything.”

Maybe Ranka was dying—maybe she was already dead. But after five years, this—even under the circumstances—was a gift.

“Where are you?” Ranka whispered. “Where did you go?”

Are you alive? Do you miss me? Do you regret it—any of it, at all? Even a little?

“You loved me once—right?”

Vivna’s lips peeled back. She locked her eyes on Ranka—and a spear flashed in the dark.

“Cut her down!”

Reality crashed back in. Vivna vanished—and red bloomed across the front of Yeva’s chest as a spearhead impaled her from behind.

Blood bubbled from her lips, and she sagged. A second punctured her thigh, pinning her to the ground.

“No!”

Yeva moaned, twisting against the spears to face the newcomers.

A fifth guard entered the alley and Yeva went still.

Hatred warped her face. She jerked, a strangled noise leaving her—and then a blade sliced the air, arcing faster than Ranka’s eye could follow. A line of red appeared across Yeva’s throat. She collapsed, and distantly Ranka realized someone was screaming, that the scream was coming from her. She didn’t care. She closed the distance between them and caught her, pulled the bleeding, broken witch she loved into her lap. The guards rushed past, hurrying toward their prince. No one cast a backward glance at the witch in the alley, cradling the sister she’d failed. Tears dripped from Ranka’s cheeks, mixing with the blood coating Yeva’s.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka sobbed. “I was too late, and I love you, and I am so sorry.”

The fifth guard stepped forward, a wild light to his eyes, red hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his sword dripping blood from that fatal blow.

“Hi, Foldrey,” Galen said weakly. “Thanks for coming.”

Foldrey scowled. “You two are in so much trouble.”

18

THE GUARDS BLINDFOLDED RANKA.

The others broke off, leaving only Foldrey to guide her. Anger crackled off him, brittle and burning in the early evening air as he steered her forward with a rough grip, but Ranka was too numb to care.

Yeva.

She hadn’t said goodbye.

Yeva.

She hadn’t even gotten the chance to close her eyes.

Ranka had given up everything—and she’d failed.