A woman stood over her, cradling a small dog that dripped red onto the cobblestones.

“Please,” the girl begged. “Mama, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” Her fingernails were already beginning to blacken.

She was a blood-witch. A real one.

Ranka’s eyes blurred. How many years had she followed Ongrum through northern forests, tracking the scent of a new witch, hoping against hope it was someone like her? How many years had she prayed to meet someone with this power, this curse, so Ranka might take their hands and help them to survive it? Vivna had never understood her magic, Yeva and Asyil had tolerated it as kindly as they could.

But to be seen by another blood-witch, to be mentored and known, instead of feared…

Percy finally caught up with her. The blood drained from his face. “Ranka—”

“I know,” she said, her voice low. “I see him.”

Ranka cut through the crowd. What was Foldrey doing here? And out of his palace uniform, no less? She wove her way toward him, Percy on her heels, fingers curled into her palms to conceal her nails.

She’d prayed in Belren for someone, anyone, to save her. Had vowed she’d never be a bystander.

What a pathetic liar she was.

Ranka touched Foldrey’s shoulder, and he spun, eyes widening as he recognized her. “Oh, thank the light. You’re here.”

“What are you doing—”

“Shhh.” Foldrey wrapped a hand around her bicep, pulling her to the side, and beckoned for Percy to step closer. “Listen to me very carefully, both of you. We found one—a winalin witch, alive. And we caught her.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “How—”

“A message arrived about an hour ago. They’re holding her in the iron district. I looked for you in the palace, but you were already gone. I assumed you’d seen the smoke and came here as quickly as I could.” He turned to Ranka. “I see you haven’t taken me up on the opportunity I offered you—well, here’s a better one. Find her, Bloodwinn. And help us save her.”

Behind him, the girl continued to weep. A man darted forward and threw oil on her. The crowd roared in approval and the girl sobbed harder, her bony shoulders trembling. The mother clutched their dead dog and stood terribly still.

Treacherous, fragile hope took root in Ranka’s chest. With a live winalin witch, they could gather samples. They could treat her, and maybe even find a cure.

They could be saved.