“Galen told me about the attack. The witch had thrown him against a wall. He’d struck his head, and he was so out of it, he was too dizzy to flee.” Aramis’s throat bobbed. “You could have left him, but you didn’t. He said you tried to protect him—and when you couldn’t, you didn’t abandon him. He said you stayed, and you held his hand.”

She had taken Galen’s hand out of instinct and guilt, had been shocked by the way he gripped it back. But if Aramis thought she’d done it to comfort the prince, she was wrong. Ranka wasn’t that noble.

She had been just as terrified as Galen was—and too weak to fight back against a girl she loved.

“Galen told me something else.” Now Aramis had the grace to look away. “The witch that attacked you—the one they killed. He said you called her Yeva.”

All the air left Ranka’s lungs. Her eyes burned, and she gritted her teeth.

“I know it doesn’t mean much,” Aramis said softly. “But Ranka—I am sorry.”

Ranka’s eyes blurred. “Thank you.”

Aramis nodded. She didn’t push the subject further. This grief was Ranka’s alone, and the princess knew better than to wade into it.

Still, her attention wandered back to Ranka.

“I don’t trust you. And I don’t quite like you,” Aramis said, but she sounded unsure, as though she had trouble believing the words. “You lie, and you follow us. You reject the treaty—and then appear out of nowhere. But you cooperate with winalin. You try to help, even after Percy and I make your life unbearable. And then, when your moment comes, instead of killing my brother—you hold his hand.” Aramis’s eyes searched her face. “But you don’t love him. You don’t want to marry him at all.”

Ranka chose her words carefully. “I am… trying to do the right thing. But I’m less sure of what that is every day.” She hesitated. “I thought you would all be awful, truly. I came here prepared to hate everyone in this palace—but Galen is kind. Foldrey is honorable. Percy is… Percy. And you…”

You infuriate me. You impress me, and amaze me, and drive me utterly mad, and every day I hate you a little bit less, and it’s making all this far, far worse.

“You,” Ranka said finally, “are not what I expected.”

Aramis suddenly seemed very focused on the bandages she was cleaning. “You confuse me, witch girl.”

“Trust me, Princess. The feeling is mutual.”

A low warning hummed in the back of Ranka’s head. This was dangerous territory, and the rawness in her would become a bleeding wound if she prodded any further.