For five years they’d tolerated the volatile blood-witch in their midst, flinging Ranka into battles, skirting her hungry outbursts. But if she was too weak to head south? Then she was deadweight. Useless. And there was no room for deadweight in the Skra.

Ongrum stepped forward.

“As many of you already know, three days ago Yeva and I went out to scout.” She closed her eyes. “We were ambushed by humans. We split ways, and she has not returned. I fear the worst—I fear she’s been taken.”

Ice crept through Ranka’s veins.

She’d already lost one sister. She couldn’t survive it again.

Everyone began shouting at once.

“We knew this would happen!”

“It’s the prince’s bounty hunters, it has to be! How many more are going to disappear?”

Ongrum raised a hand for silence, but the fervor kept swelling. And could Ranka blame them? When Ranka had declined to go south to marry the prince, a price had been put on her head. Now bounty hunters cut their way north every few weeks, kidnapping any girl even remotely similar to Ranka. Save for their height and their nails, Ranka and Yeva could have been twins.

“Enough,” Ongrum boomed. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re grieving. But a few missing witches proves nothing.” Ongrum spoke slowly, her raspy contralto carrying over the camp. “The men wore no province colors. For all we know, they could have been northerners, eager to act out their revenge on two stray witches.”

The pin dug into Ranka’s thigh.

“Besides,” Ongrum continued. “Say it was a bounty hunter. Say Yeva is being delivered to the palace as we speak. We have no recourse. Not without someone on the inside.”

“We had someone on the inside,” someone muttered.

The blood drained from Ranka’s face. Suddenly it was only a month ago, and she was just a nameless blood-witch handed the title of Bloodwinn, telling them she wouldn’t—couldn’t—go south and start a war that might kill them all. She’d expected her coven to support her, to understand that after so many years of fighting, she just wanted to rest.

Instead, they’d marked her a coward.

“They’ll kill her,” someone called. “When they realize she’s not who they want.”

Ongrum closed her eyes. “I can’t lead us into chaos on the chance the prince might be involved. Unless anyone else has information, we stand down.”

Yeva. The pin. The rotting witch.

Ranka swallowed. The Skra were her family. They’d raised her after the world rejected her for the witchery in her bones. They’d protected her, had sworn to die for her, and she for them.

Now a question seemed to rise from the sixty hearts beating around her.

Would she fail them—or would she fight?

I’m tired, she wanted to say. I’ve spent my whole life fighting. I’ve had enough.