Take a country, tear it in half, and see who is the first to burn.

Ranka’s blood-magic stirred, slipping the world into that tantalizing gray.

Them, it promised. It will always be them.

Ranka woke to the scent of smoke.

The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the window. She’d dozed off. The heat was too oppressive to train in, and Percy and Aramis had declared her free of both them and her lessons. Ranka blinked groggily. She could still feel the burn of winter on her cheek, feel Yeva’s hand shaking in hers. She could scent the blood in the veins of the men, whom she knew, even at fifteen, she could kill if she needed to.

But she was not fifteen anymore. She was far from home, and the smoke was real.

Her eyes flew open.

Ranka was out of bed and moving in a flash. There was no guard outside her door, and the hall was empty. Warm afternoon air hit her. Smoke curled in heavy swaths, clinging to the plants, slipping over the walls, hanging so thick it concealed the ponds of fat, lazy carp.

Rippling through the air, pulsing from the city like a sick heartbeat, was the putrid stench of anger.

What is going on? Where is everyone?

Ranka broke for the stables—but when she got there and stepped into the scent of hay, of horses and heat and sweat, something else greeted her: snakeskin.

“Going somewhere?” she called.

“You just love to meddle, don’t you?”

Percy Stone stepped out from one of the pens. Instead of his usually elaborate robes, he was dressed in shabby clothes. Every line of his body was tense.

Ranka met his eyes. “You’re headed into the city?”

Percy nodded.

“Take me with you.”

And to her surprise, Percy sighed and said, “Okay.”

Percy was fast, navigating Seaswept with the familiarity of someone who knew it well. The smoke grew thicker, itching her eyes, burning her lungs. But instead of heading toward the source, Percy took a sharp left, striding west. They dove into a side alley as a patrol of guards passed, waiting several long beats before continuing.

Something cracked to their left and Ranka spun, her hand flying to her hip. She’d brought her axe with her this time. Percy put a hand on her shoulder, his eyes gentle.

She flushed, embarrassed by her overreaction. “Sorry. I just—”

I’m smelling smoke. I’m thinking about what we’re walking toward.

“I know,” Percy said. They sidestepped a pool of vomit baking in the heat, and Percy shook his head, forcing a lightness into his tone to distract them both. “This city is disgusting.”

“Aren’t you also a city rat?”