Ranka looked away. She couldn’t bear to look at Aramis, but she couldn’t look at the girl, either, because if she looked at the girl, she would see herself, her sister, her coven, and then she would have to do something. Bodies pressed around them, vibrating with anger, with eagerness to see someone, anyone, pay. Could she even blame them? They’d suffered too, cowering in their homes while blood-witches roamed their streets, starving while their prince was tucked away in a palace whose tables overflowed with food.

Humans came forward, hauling chair legs and scrap wood to toss onto the kindling pile. It was good lumber, old-growth cedar and oak. It had probably been culled by witches themselves, packaged and shipped south before the sap had even finished bleeding. A little boy tossed a small wooden soldier on the pile.

“The royals have failed us,” the man said. “The Hands have always been the true protectors of this country. This city is shrouded in darkness; we will burn it clean.”

From his pocket the man drew a match.

“The Hands of Solomei reject the Bloodwinn treaty.” The man’s face was red, flushed with rage or excitement, Ranka wasn’t sure. He ripped the pin from his shirt and held it aloft. The humans who had just donned them touched their own as if bespelled, their faces alight. “We will purge the sickness from this land. We reject the demons so the Goddess might bring the rains again. If the prince will not protect us from terror, we will protect ourselves.”

He lit the match.

“We are Solomei’s light. We are her Hand in the night.”

“Mama,” the little girl screamed. “Please.”

“And by her Hand—we burn.”

The match fell.

And the world caught fire.

Red, orange, and blue swirled up, building to an inferno in seconds. The girl howled as the flames spread to her cotton dress. Ranka jerked forward—and two strong arms locked around her waist, hauling her back.

“I’m sorry,” Percy whispered, his voice breaking. “But if you try to save her, they’ll know—and they’ll burn you, too.”

Ranka thrashed, but Percy held fast. He drew blood and she kept fighting, because by the Goddess, she’d been that girl and no one had helped and she wanted to be better. She’d not saved Yeva or Vivna, not saved so many others, and it felt like cowardice to be idle now. The crowd roared, and all Ranka could see were those little, dark-nailed hands curling in pain. The smell of burning wood shifted to charring flesh. The girl kept screaming. Ranka gagged. The scent was all around her, the scent was inside her, burrowing into the marrow of her bones. The twins backed away until they collided with Foldrey. He put a hand on each of their shoulders.

Galen turned away, but Aramis stood witness the entire time.