Five Skra witches dropped from the canopy, landing with muffled thuds. Ranka looked at them and saw herself—scarred bodies cloaked in Northlander furs, hardened by a wild life in Witchik’s far north. The only difference was their hands; on brown and pale fingers alike, their nails ranged from deep gray to the barest tint. None were coal dark like Ranka’s own. None carried blood-magic in their veins.

The witches recognized her and lowered their weapons. “Find anything?” one asked.

“Best if I report in first.” Just picturing the sickness made her heart stutter. Ranka spun her bracelet. “How is Yeva?”

The witch’s lips thinned. “Best if you report in first.”

Before Ranka could respond, they turned away, breath fogging in the air as they left her behind.

When she’d been named Bloodwinn—and the human prince’s future bride—a month ago, her coven had been thrilled. The Bloodwinn treaty had promised to protect Witchik from the pillaging of humans. Instead it had simply continued without the official blessing of the Crown. Witches were barred from retaliating, lest they be cut off from meager shipments of medicine funneled through the human-ruled south.

In only three generations a treaty meant to foster peace had come to promise death by suffocation.

Then Ranka had been named Bloodwinn. The Skra’s plan was simple: send her south under the guise of accepting the prince’s proposal—and kill him. End the line, break his kingdom from within, and destroy the Bloodwin treaty for good. It was perfect. It was all the Skra had ever dreamed of. It would set them free.

But Ranka refused.

No one dared accuse her of cowardice to her face, but she saw it in their eyes, in the turn of their mouths when their sick waited on shipments of antiseptics that would not come and more hunting lands were ripped apart by mines. The Skra looked at her and saw the future she’d denied them.

You were offered a new world, their stares accused. And you said no.

Ranka took in the century-old pines that towered high above, the coal-pit smoke coiling in the air. She pictured Yeva’s timid smile, Ongrum’s proud gaze, and thought, This is the only world I want.

Ranka tightened her grip on the fangwolf incisors and stepped into camp.

All around her, witches worked. The hunters were gone, tracking prey that grew scarcer every year, while middling witches felled trees for lumber exports or monitored the few humans granted access to the rich copper veins that snaked through Skra land. Weaker witches like Yeva remained at camp on farm duty, harvesting the garlic, kale, and potatoes planted in winter-proofed cabins. Others stoked low-burning beds of coals, carefully stacking wood so that the pits would stay lit without erupting into flames. A few witches leaned against cabin walls, plucking steaming venison from bowls with bare fingers, their laughter tinkling through the trees like Arlani sleigh bells.