Every ache and pain of the past two weeks melted away. This was her family. They’d forgive her, in time. They’d understand why she could never give them up.

The camp fell quiet. A few witches glanced toward Ranka, frowned, and looked away.

Her heart twinged.

They have to.

She spied Asyil, Yeva’s sister, and Ranka’s fingers flew to her pocket. Asyil hadn’t inherited her sister’s gentle heart, but unlike the other Skra, she’d never judged Ranka for rejecting her role as the Bloodwinn. That alone was a gift. Ranka waved—but instead of acknowledging her, Asyil went rigid and looked away.

“Witchling,” someone said. “Welcome back.”

Ranka turned toward that voice like a flower to the rising sun.

The woman approaching was pale and stocky, with a harsh mouth and a body honed by fifty years of hardship. When Ranka had first met Ongrum, the Skra leader’s hair had been a deep, rich brown. Now it was mostly gray, threaded with silver, contrasting the wicked burn scars that warped her neck and arms, mirroring Ranka’s own.

Ongrum clapped a hand to Ranka’s shoulder and frowned. “You lost your gloves.”

Ranka leaned into her touch. Thirteen years Ranka had been a Skra, yet in Ongrum’s presence she still felt like the weeping four-year-old Ongrum had carried through the snow.

Behind Ongrum, Asyil finally turned. Even from across the camp Ranka could see that her eyes were full of tears.

Finally Ranka realized what—and who—was missing. Every part of her went cold. “Ongrum, where’s Yeva?”

“Right.” Ongrum’s hand dropped. “We need to talk.”

3

WHEN ONGRUM CALLED THE SKRA together, the coal-pits remained cold.

Typically, coven meetings had a celebratory air, filled with food, liquor, and laughter. They were a meeting of family bonded deeper than blood, thriving in spite of a world that hated them. But tonight there were no embers wrapping the camp in an orange, smoky haze, no slow-roasting venison that dripped sizzling fat into tiny, carefully controlled flames. There was only darkness, and a chill to the air despite the late summer night.

Ongrum had called the coven together in this manner only three times in Ranka’s life—the first was when several of their own had been slaughtered in a raid. The second was when they’d been called south to aid the Kerth coven in a fight against some human poachers.

The third time was five years ago, after Ranka’s blood-magic had woken in Belren.

Now Ongrum stood in front of the sixty-odd witches that made up the Skra, her face a mask of stone. Ranka stood to her immediate right. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground. Not a single witch met her eye. For most of Ranka’s life, they’d treated her with a cautious distance, but ever since she rejected the Bloodwinn treaty, that caution had morphed into resentment.