They led her underground, back into the tunnels she’d first followed Aramis through, where the air was so damp with seawater, it stung. A door closed behind them, followed by the hiss of a seal locking in place. Someone bound her wrists, tight enough to keep her captive but not enough to hurt, and left. Voices from the hallway beyond pitched higher and higher; Ranka could hear Foldrey shouting that Galen could have been killed, Galen shouting back that he had no right to keep secrets, shouting that Foldrey was his guard, not his father, and that by hiding the truth, he’d put everyone in danger.

You’re lucky, she wanted to tell Galen, to have someone love you the way he does.

The door clicked open, and cool fingers slipped her blindfold free.

“You just can’t mind your own business, can you?”

Gone was Percy Stone’s arrogant smile. Walls of salt glowed behind him, illuminated by the white light of mage lamps. Clean bandages and vials of distilled alcohol stood on a tray in the corner. They were in a chamber with a single, curious door—heavy oak, sporting multiple locks, the frame lined with rubber seals. Chalkboards covered in hundreds of numbers filled the far wall.

“The others will be here soon.” Percy tilted Ranka’s chin up. “We need to come to an agreement before they arrive.”

Pain throbbed through her.

Yeva.

“No more agreements,” she mumbled. “No more deals.”

His eyes snapped to her shoulder, ruined by the blunt edges of Yeva’s teeth. He picked up a scalpel. She flinched—but all he did was peel her ruined skin away from the wound, angle the scalpel, and slice away some of her masticated flesh. He poured a cleaning agent over the wound that hissed and foamed white on her shoulder.

“The witch,” Percy said. “You knew her?”

“She was family.”

The scalpel slipped a hair.

“I’m sorry.” He kept cutting. “Let me ask you this—after what you’ve seen, are you afraid?”

Her voice was small. “Yes.”

“Good. Because in two minutes Aramis and Galen are going to walk in and exile you. You need to convince them to let you stay.”

His words flowed over her like water. None of that mattered anymore.

Percy’s fingers found her chin. They were cool and firm, rough at the pads. Working hands, not the pampered touch of a noble boy. He tilted Ranka’s face back up to his.

“Look at me, Ranka. The disease that killed your friend is no accident. It’s just getting started—and it’s coming for every single coven. You want to honor your friend? Don’t let her death be meaningless. Don’t let what happened become the fate of every witch on the continent.”

“Why do you care? What stake does an ambassador from the Star Isles have in a disease killing witches?”