Ongrum was about to lead the entire Skra coven into a trap. If Ranka didn’t find a way to protect them against winalin, the coup wouldn’t matter. The Skra could be wiped out entirely.

Ranka glared at Percy, trying to swallow the nausea roiling in her. “Why should I trust you?”

Percy inclined his head to the side. “What other choice do you have?”

The door swung open.

Foldrey entered. Galen followed, looking sullen and thoroughly chewed out. He wouldn’t meet Ranka’s eyes. Aramis slammed the door behind them.

The princess had traded her palace finery for formfitting commoner’s clothes, her curls pulled away from her beautiful, naked face. She carried a single, delicate knife, and she glared at Ranka like she wanted nothing more than to jam the blade into the hollow space of Ranka’s throat.

“I’m done,” Aramis snarled. “I warned you. You didn’t listen to me—and nearly got my brother killed. You leave on a ship first thing tomorrow.”

Her words swirled around Ranka. Something about a well-guarded royal estate half a world away.

They meant to exile her for real this time.

The sickness, winalin, was poised to wipe out every witch on the continent. And if Ranka was exiled—if she was sent away for being too reckless, too sloppy—Ongrum would never forgive her.

And Yeva was dead. Yeva, who had been her only reason for coming here, had been murdered by that sickness, the same one Aramis was investigating.

Ranka struggled to keep her voice steady. “You can’t just ship me off.”

“I can, and I will.”

“Do you think I wanted us to get attacked?” Ranka demanded. “I caught a strange scent, so I followed it, because no one has told me a damned thing about a disease killing my people. This never would have happened if you’d just involved me from the beginning.”

Percy made a pained noise and covered his face with his hands. Aramis’s eye twitched.

“Galen,” Ranka appealed, twisting to look at him instead. “You were there. I protected you. I defended you—”

“You’re a stranger,” Galen said. “I like you, Ranka, but I don’t know you. I’m sorry.”

He looked away. The others stared at her, tight lipped and angry. And a part of her understood. She would have done the same in their position. She was a risk, a liability, and it was easier to get rid of her.

Percy looked at Aramis, an appeal in his eyes. “Can we speak in private?”

Galen glared at him. “Oh, no. You two have done enough damage on your own—”

“You’re not my prince,” Percy said coolly. “I don’t answer to you.”

“Watch your tongue,” Foldrey warned. “He’s not your prince, but this is his city.”

Percy smiled. “Try me, ginger dad.”