It was normally Percy who unhooked Ranka, but now Aramis leaned over her, hand braced against Ranka’s bicep. Her fingers were warm, softer than Ranka expected, gentle yet firm. A stray curl hung across her forehead, damp with the sweat. This close, Ranka could smell the ink clinging to her skin, mingled with the mint oil Aramis dotted across her wrists to mask any whisper of winalin.

It was strange, to see Aramis like this—focused but at peace. There was a lightness to her that was never there within the palace walls.

“Hold still,” Aramis murmured. She pulled the needle free and pressed a wad of cotton in its place. Blood welled up through the cloth, cherry bright. Aramis wrapped Ranka’s arm with the quick confidence of someone who’d bound a thousand wounds.

“You’re good at that,” Ranka said, and then her cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. You’re good at that? What was wrong with her?

Aramis’s eyes flicked to Ranka’s, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

A strange flutter rushed through Ranka. She actually felt faintly dizzy. Aramis must have taken more blood than usual. When had the mines become so warm?

Percy turned back to Ranka, his eyes bright. “I know Aramis says you’re not supposed to exercise on blood-giving days—”

“For good reason,” Aramis said dryly.

“—but I’m going to train by the cliffs later, so when Aramis is done tormenting you, do you want to join me?”

“I don’t torment Ranka.”

Percy patted the top of Aramis’s head. “Just being around you is torment.”

“You know I can have you executed, right?”

Percy fanned himself. “Don’t tease me, Princess.”

They carried on, sniping at each other even as they returned to their work, Aramis using syringes to carefully drip Ranka’s blood into a dozen and a half tiny, flat dishes, Percy chattering in her ear as he recorded measurements on the chalkboards lining the room. A stone formed in Ranka’s throat. Aramis drove her absolutely nuts, and Percy was entirely unhinged, yet in moments like these, she almost liked them. More than she’d ever expected to.

And in a matter of weeks she would betray them.

It’s war, she reminded herself. They’d do the same to me. It’s not personal.

So why was it starting to feel that way?

20

“BLOODWINN?”

Ranka sat in the palace gardens, dozing beneath the greenery and the lullaby of afternoon birdsong. The Basics of Witchery sat open on her lap. The letters before her were still largely a confused jumble that took forever to understand—but some were beginning to make sense.

A guard approached, sweat already beading on his upper lip in the early day heat. “Bloodwinn? Captain Wolfe would like to see you.”

“Am I in trouble?” Ranka joked.