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“Mother, please stop fidgeting,” demanded Tanwen from where they stood in line outside the Recruitment Office. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Good,” said Aisling as she continued to play with the buttons on her shirt, her gaze incessantly darting to every passing citizen. “You should be nervous,” she went on. “This is a mistake.”

“Yes,” huffed Tanwen. “You’ve been saying that since we left our den.”

It had taken them a full day to travel to Ordyn, and despite the early hours, the Recruitment Office was busy. It appeared Tanwen wasn’t the only one looking for passage to Galia. A group of people, some older and others barely past puberty, waited for their interviews.

“Because it remains true,” said her mother. “We should be heading north.”

“It is too late for that,” reasoned Tanwen, more than tired of their cyclical argument. “We agreed that heading north held no plan except hiding, again . Besides, it’s not as though I can back out of what’s been agreed upon with a god.”

“ Hush ,” admonished her mother, gaze bouncing to those beside them in line.

None paid them mind, too absorbed in their own whispered conversations with loved ones or standing alone wearing hollow stares. Their thoughts were clearly preoccupied with their own reasons for being here.

Still, Tanwen lowered her voice. “Well?” she questioned. “Do you think we can back out?”

Her mother exhaled her frustration. “We could have changed course if you did not accept the offer.”

And here they were again.

It wasn’t as if Tanwen wanted to be indebted to a Low God or to be signing up to be a lifelong servant to the Volari, but with each day’s fading light, she knew whatever fate her father and brother faced only grew closer. With every moment they waited, mourned, questioned, Tanwen feared the possibility of their family ever being reunited grew slimmer, more impossible. The vision of Thol and her father receding into the sky haunted her.

She could not let them fade further from her memory.

She could not wait.

She could not hide.

Not this time.

If only because she knew Thol wouldn’t hide either. He’d do whatever it took to get her back.

As for her parents, how could either of them remain motionless when their mate and child were taken?

The thought sent a rush of fire to Tanwen’s lungs.

“As I see it,” began Tanwen, tone sharp, “you should be thanking me. I’m stepping up to save our family. Or do you not want to get Father and Thol back?”

Aisling’s gaze swung to meet hers, wide and furious. “You are being unfair and cruel,” she snapped. “I want more than my own life for my husband and son to be safely returned, but nothing done right is done in haste.”

Tanwen’s cheeks flushed with her shame. “I apologize,” she said, not enjoying how erratic her emotions were becoming. How quickly she wanted to scream before pulling her mother into a hug. It was as if she was reliving her adolescent years. “Of course I know you want to save them,” she reassured. “It’s just—we can’t afford to wait. Bosyg came to us. She suggested this route. Promised her protection for you while I’m gone, and as it appears”—Tanwen nodded to the passing citizens, none of whom glanced their way—“she spoke true about no one knowing what transpired yesterday.”

“For now,” countered Aisling.

“Mother.” Tanwen placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, wanting to erase the worried crease in her mother’s brow. “You have the promise of safety from a Low God. The relief of not needing to explain Father’s and Thol’s absence to anyone. What more reassurance do you need?”

“That you will be safe,” said Aisling, covering Tanwen’s hand with her own, her grip tightening. “I ... have already lost a husband and son. I cannot also lose you.”

Anguish pooled inside Tanwen’s chest.

“Father and Thol are not lost,” Tanwen reasoned, though as she spoke, she felt the uncertainty of her words. But she could not go down that road of thought. They had to be capable of being saved. “And I will send you letters as often as I can,” she reassured.

Her mother shook her head. “All notes from Süra are read before they are sent from Galia. It won’t be safe.”

“I do not intend to send my letters by way of regular post.” She eyed her mother meaningfully.

Volari weren’t the only ones with wings in Cādra. Tanwen had requested favors from birds before. Nothing a bit of sweet bread couldn’t bribe.

“No, Tanwen,” urged her mother. “You can’t risk—”

“Next six in line,” interrupted a gruff voice.

Tanwen looked up, realizing they had moved to the front of the office. The burly guard at the entrance waved the next group forward.

“I’ll be right back,” Tanwen said to her mother, trying to ignore the panic in her gaze, which only worsened her own rising anxiety.

What am I about to do?

As Tanwen was funneled in with the next group, she eyed the two painted posters that hung on either side of the entryway. Each depicted a Süra smiling as sunrays warmed their cheeks, standing in front of parted clouds and a blue sky.

Serve their children, and you will serve the High Gods , one of them read.

Live higher. Soar with purpose. Prosper as if you had wings , read another.

Neither helped ease Tanwen’s disquiet as she was guided through a brightly lit hall and into a circular room filled with desks and chairs arranged along a curved wall.

Despite its clean appearance, the air still hung stale: the breath of too many people mixed. Tanwen wrinkled her nose as she was directed to a stall.

As she sat, she was met by an older man sitting across from her, desk between them. The tip of one of his horns was chipped, and his mess of dark hair alluded to his lack of a hairbrush. The only orderly part of him was the shiny silver wings pinned to his shirt, a symbol of a high-ranked employee for Galia.

He didn’t care to look up at Tanwen as he readied new papers and refilled his ink holder.

“Name?” he asked, tone revealing he cared little for what her name might be.

“Tanwen Cos—ters,” she corrected quickly, realizing in a panic it would likely be best not to use a surname associated with her family.

“Tanwen Costers,” the Recruitment officer repeated, scribbling her answer onto a form.

“Age?”

“Two and twenty.”

“Your trade?”

“Meddyg.”

“Mmm, Volari don’t use Süra healers,” he grunted. “And we have enough meddygs for the staff on Galia.”

Tanwen’s hands tightened on her thighs, nerves spiking, though she had been prepared for this.

“I can make docüra,” she explained.

The recruitment officer finally looked up at her, eyes narrowing. “Can you now?”

“Yes, and I have brought some as proof.” Tanwen unclasped her side purse to pull out a small vial. The docüra churned a midnight galaxy as she handed it to him.

The man gave it a swirl, brows pinched before he uncorked it and sniffed. His eyes shot wide as he looked back at her with new interest. “If you did make this,” he began while pocketing her sample, “you’ll do well in Galia. They prefer those who already know how to make docüra over needing to teach the craft. I’ll recommend that you be stationed at Sumora. They only take the pretty ones, anyway.”

Tanwen frowned. “What is Sumora?”

“A docüra den,” he explained. “One of the best in Galia, actually. You are lucky I am feeling so generous this morning to suggest you be stationed there. The clientele are usually all court members.”

When Tanwen didn’t react to such intel, the man huffed at her ignorance.

“This means you’ll be making a higher compensation than most, muffin,” he clarified. “Eight gem a week is what I hear it starts for green recruits.”

“Eight gem ... a week ?” Tanwen breathed out her shock.

“Mmm,” grunted the man, finally satisfied with her reaction. “And if you prove worthy, your tips could outmatch that. So you’re welcome,” he added gruffly while feeling over where he had pocketed her docüra.

By the twin moons, thought Tanwen, no wonder people seek work on Galia. She had never made such a weekly sum.

This Sumora must really be one of the best dens to offer such compensation, which had Tanwen wondering ...

“Is Sumora near the palace?” she asked.

The recruiter’s gaze lifted, a pinch between his brows. “It is in Fioré, the town below. Why?”

“I ... just have friends who work in the palace,” Tanwen quickly explained, heartbeat tumbling, to remove his suspicion. “I didn’t know if I’d be able to see them.”

“I would not waste prayers to the High Gods about it,” he huffed, returning to completing her form. “Do you have anyone in Zomyad you’d like to send a percentage of your monthly earnings?”

Tanwen shifted, not prepared for such a question. Wariness filled her gut. Her mother could certainly benefit from the money she would make now that she’d be alone, but Tanwen was unsure of the risk of mentioning the exact location of their den or Aisling by name.

“No,” she said. “There is no one.”

The recruiter recorded her answer before continuing with a litany of other questions. The interview felt simultaneously excessive and too short before a stack of papers was swiveled her way. “Sign here, here, here, and here.” He indicated.

After Tanwen scratched her name onto the various parchments, the rest of the process went by with a blur. Soon the recruiter was handing her a copy of her file along with a leather bifold wallet. Inside was a small card with her details: her name, new surname, worker number, and place of employment all stamped with a winged seal.

She was officially recruited into serving the Volari in Galia.

Indefinitely.

Oh gods, what have I done?

Tanwen swallowed down the bile rising in her throat as she gripped her papers, her hands beginning to shake.

This is a mistake. The voice of her mother rose, worried and regretful, in her mind.

No, thought Tanwen. No. It wasn’t a mistake. At least not yet.

“Do not lose that card,” the recruiter advised, snapping Tanwen’s attention back to where he pointed to her bifold. “That is your entrance paper to Galia. You will not be able to get in or out without it.”

Tanwen nodded, hugging the document closer.

“Even with your mark, you’ll need your papers.”

“My mark?” questioned Tanwen.

“Yes, let me see your wrist.”

“Why?” She held her arm rigidly against her chest, brows furrowing.

“Give it here, girl,” huffed the recruiter impatiently, holding out his hand. As he did, Tanwen noticed a faded scar on his wrist peeking out from his shirtsleeve. “It is the smallest discomfort, and then you will be an official recruit. Unless you want to revoke your application and stay here?”

Tanwen rubbed her lips together, uncertainty swirling as she glanced around. No one seemed to be screaming, and a few Süra who had entered with her were already taking their leave, approved papers in hand.

Another had been denied and was pleading for the officer to reconsider as he was dragged out of the room.

Tanwen hesitantly offered up her wrist.

With quick work, the recruiter cleaned her skin with a blot of alcohol, picked up a stamp that rested in a shallow bowl of clear liquid, and emphatically pressed it to her wrist.

Tanwen hissed, the burning instant, but then it was but a tingle as the man lifted the stamp to reveal a red marking of a pair of wings now on the inside of her right wrist. The same symbol that was pinned to the man’s shirt and peeking out from his sleeve.

“You stamped me with acid,” said Tanwen, already noting her skin blistering. She hadn’t noticed this mark before on others who worked on Galia. But then again, she wasn’t usually around many other people.

“A mild mixture,” the recruiter explained. “By tomorrow it will be a light scar. It is a symbol to be proud of,” he reasoned.

More like a branding to regret, thought Tanwen morosely.

“Congratulations,” said the recruiter. “You are welcomed onto Galia. Go through that door.” He pointed to an exit on the other side of the room. “You’ll wait for the next convoy there. One should be leaving before midmeal. May the gods bless your journey.” He placed a hand over his silver pin. “And the children of the High thank you for your service.”

Tanwen stood on shaky legs, mind in a fog before she realized exactly what was about to happen. What already had happened. “Wait,” she said, pulse hurrying as she turned back to the recruiter. “I need to say goodbye to someone outside. She also has another of my satchels.”

“Make it quick.” He waved her off. “A guard will accompany you back to where you need to be.”

With a whooshing filling her head, Tanwen felt unsteady as she met her mother outside.

Aisling instantly pulled her into a hug.

Tanwen fought the tears wrestling to be free as she soaked in her mother’s warmth. If she cried, it would only make this parting worse. Would only put more fear into her mother’s heart and mind. Aisling had been a rock most of Tanwen’s life, her stoic guide. Tanwen needed to be that now for her mother.

“I’ve been accepted to work in one of the docüra dens, called Sumora,” explained Tanwen, stepping from her mother’s embrace. “They said it is one of the best in Fioré.”

Aisling’s attention was momentarily pulled to the winged red mark on Tanwen’s inner wrist. A shadow passed across her features, but then it was gone as she met Tanwen’s gaze.

“Yes,” said her mother. “Sumora is one of the best.” A swallow in her throat. “Wen,” she began, brows furrowing. “Now that we know where you’ll be stationed, there’s something else I need to tell you.” There was a pause, as if her mother was gathering the words but loathed to speak them. It did not instill confidence in Tanwen. “While you have administered docüra during Süra ceremonies,” said her mother, “and have seen its effects and learned the purpose for its use here on Cādra, you must know that what has been said about the Volari is true. They use docüra very differently. It’s their blood,” she explained. “The magic it holds, I suppose. It makes them react differently to the drug than Süra. Because of this, they use docüra for pleasure and parties. It is but a form to help with their entertainment, like wine.”

“That is a very expensive glass of wine,” said Tanwen.

“Yes,” agreed her mother. “One they can afford. But there is something else you must understand about this. The docüra dens in Galia are not like the dens in Zomyad.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are more like ... taverns.”

“Taverns?” questioned Tanwen, confused by such a comparison. Where in a tavern were the meditation rooms and altars to the gods one wished to commune with? Where were the alcoves where a meddyg could help a patient heal from a hardship?

To administer docüra in a tavern felt sacrilegious.

“Yes,” assured her mother. “Like I said, Volari react differently. While I’m sure they could still use it as Süra do, they do not seek that experience. After all, why fall into a trance to speak with a god when they are often visited by them in Galia?”

Tanwen took in this information with unease, as well as its implications.

“I tell you this so you can prepare yourself for what you will find at Sumora,” reasoned her mother. “You are skilled in your craft, yes, but at Sumora you will be seen as if a barmaid. A pretty and entertaining companion to their patrons.”

Tanwen shot up her brows, a creeping of disquiet icing through her veins. “I fear that is not all you wish to tell me.”

“It is not.” Aisling shook her head. “While it is forbidden for Süra and Volari to marry and reproduce,” she continued, her voice lowering to a mere whisper, “that does not keep many from ... taking liberties. Especially with servants. Do you understand? You must be careful, Wen, and not for the usual reasons.”

Tanwen blinked, that whooshing filling her head once more, the numbness returning to her legs.

They only take the pretty ones, anyway.

Regret was a chill working up Tanwen’s spine, one she quickly forced away. She could not regret this.

She could not!

Her mother was warning her of the possibilities, not the predictions.

Besides, Tanwen had learned how to extricate herself from many undesirable situations. Had taught herself how to be invisible in a crowded room. She could do this. She would do this.

Because she had no other choice.

“I understand,” said Tanwen, the words coming out heavy on her tongue.

Aisling nodded but appeared no less appeased. “Just remember to administer the docüra fast. Once under the drug, they will not be a threat. They will be sluggish, and you should easily be able to remove yourself.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, forcing a tone of confidence, but her mother must have seen through it, must have still caught the waver of fear in her gaze, for she placed steadying hands onto Tanwen’s shoulders, her stoic self returned.

“You are not merely my wyrthia, Tanwen,” said her mother, expression earnest. “You are also Thol’s and your father’s. I am so proud of you. For who you are right now, in this moment. You are strong and intelligent and brave. You are special. Which is why you must come home to me—do you understand?” Her mother’s grip tightened, her eyes glossing with unshed tears. “If ever there was a time to listen to me, it’s now. You must come home.”

Tanwen only nodded, scared to speak lest she sob.

“Oy, girl,” called a gruff voice, turning their attention to the guard who had guided her out. He stood waiting by the Recruitment Office’s door. “You said you’d be quick.”

“She’s coming,” answered her mother before pulling Tanwen back to face her. “The last thing I need to tell you is this.” She reached into her pocket to draw out a small glass jar filled with fine gray dust. She pushed it into Tanwen’s hands. “It’s Volari feathers,” she whispered.

“What?” Tanwen frowned, glancing at the small bottle.

“That is the secret spice,” explained her mother. “What it is that I add. What makes my docüra a more potent mixture.”

“Volari feathers?” breathed Tanwen in awe, pulse skipping quickly as she studied the small dark grains more intently. “But ... how did you get—”

“Your father,” interrupted her mother, furtively glancing behind Tanwen to the waiting guard. She urged Tanwen to put the vial into her pack. “Before they were taken from him.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” asked Tanwen, clipping her bag back in place.

“Because now it’s necessary,” she explained. “I did not know where you’d be stationed, but I suspected it could be in a den if you shared your abilities with the recruiter. You will be tested there, Tanwen, made to prove that you are an asset. One that can bring in money. This can help with that”—she nodded at what was now hidden in Tanwen’s bag—“but you must remember, only use it when you must. When it will mean something. And only a pinch. You mustn’t let anyone know what makes your mixture different. Let them think it is special because you made it. Because you administered it. If you want to get into the palace, you’ll want to rise above the others, but not by too much,” she added quickly. “The beautiful roses are the ones who get cut and brought inside. The ones who grow too tall get pruned.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Tanwen. “About the dens in Galia.”

“You forget who I am married to.” Aisling’s smile was soft, pained. “And that I worked the Dryfs Mine. Much of what transpired in Galia flowed through those tunnels. Gossip was more filling than the served stale bread. But you must go now. That guard looks as though he’s ready to stomp over here and drag you back inside.”

Tanwen glanced behind her, noting that her mother was right. The man eyed her impatiently as he waved rather dramatically for her to return.

This was it.

She was about to leave, alone.

“I love you.” Tanwen fell back into her mother’s arms. She breathed deep her scent of gardenia, attempting to hold it forever in her heart’s memory.

“I love you,” replied Aisling, grip squeezing before she let her go and handed Tanwen her other pack.

As Tanwen shouldered both of them, the heaviness of her task and the need for her to succeed suddenly pressed down on her like the weight of the surrounding trees. Crushing.

“I’ll see you soon,” said her mother.

Tanwen nodded, her voice held hostage by the pain slicing across her heart.

She then turned and walked away from the only family she might have left.