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Despite the silk of her dress and the soft leather of her sandals, Tanwen was severely uncomfortable.

But she supposed her clothes were less to blame than the Volari who was slowly running a finger down her exposed arm.

“If you keep that up, my lord,” she said with a teasing grin—because she now had teasing grins—“I will miss where I drop your docüra.”

“Why are you all so soft?” mused Lord Caseer, ignoring her words. Her client sat in repose along one of the many lounge beds within the main courtyard of Sumora. A great heap of wings and muscle illuminated by torchlight and the squinting eyes of Maja and Parvi. “Does Madam Kyva make you scrub each other nightly?” he asked.

Though Tanwen’s gaze was lowered—as she had been trained—she could feel his hooded stare, taste his lurid thoughts.

She desperately pushed away the shiver that accompanied her flash of fear, doing her best to disregard the forced laughter echoing through the courtyard, emanating from the other atentés—the servants hired to administer docüra—and the occasional moans from their patrons.

A wash of unease slipped down Tanwen’s spine. Cold, foreboding.

This session needed to move faster.

“My madam does not,” replied Tanwen, honey sweet despite her nerves. “But it is a suggestion I will gladly pass along. In the meantime,” she continued, “I am honored to aid you in what you have come here for this evening.” Tanwen raised the delicate glass of docüra. The dark, star-filled liquid churned with anticipation. “The jadüri in tonight’s mixture was harvested when the royal wisteria trees were in full bloom.” She repeated her script as she filled her dropper. “And the docüra made that very night beneath Maja’s and Parvi’s gaze, ensuring your experience will be extra sweet.”

“I am with the most beautiful new atenté,” replied Lord Caseer, finger haphazardly grazing the side of Tanwen’s breast. “My night is already sweet.”

Tanwen remained rigid, though her pulse kicked into a sprint. Despite her long peplos, she might as well have been naked, given its sheer material. Her mind tumbled through her next moves as she eyed Lord Caseer’s other hand.

Frustration mixed with her disquiet.

His meaty paw rested in his lap—a small sanitized knife forgotten in his grip. Cut yourself, she silently begged. Make the nick so I can end this.

Tanwen had been at Sumora two weeks, but already in that time she had been a quick study to an atenté’s role: their required mannerisms and rote replies. It was not so different from following the orders of her mother when accompanying her on meddyg visits. Be helpful but not intrusive. Speak only when spoken to. Make our clients feel comfortable.

Of course, her clients in Zomyad could not have been more different compared to those at Sumora.

The only reason she was able to suffer through the lewd stares and inappropriate gropes was because of the promise her highborn patrons held: that they might let slip something useful regarding events in the palace. Specifically, around the return of the king’s traitorous inventor.

Tonight, however, was proving disobliging. Lord Caseer might be part of the Sun Court, but his interest appeared focused more on her bosom than on gossip.

Tanwen’s only goal now was to finish this session, and quick.

“You are too kind, Lord Caseer,” said Tanwen, doing her best to ignore his ever-roaming touch. “Which is why I know you will help me impress my madam with successfully assisting you with your docüra this evening.”

His grip on her wrist was sudden. Hard as he tugged her closer. “Make the cut with me.” His whisper was hot on her cheek, soured wine.

Panic shot through Tanwen, and for a moment she forgot herself. “No—I mean ... I cannot, my lord. It is against house rules.”

Though so was never deny our patrons .

But Lord Caseer’s request broke a more important Galia law: no Süra was to take a blade to a Volari.

“I am not asking.” He pulled her hand to cover the hilt of the knife. The leather was smooth, warm, tempting.

Think, Tanwen! she silently demanded of herself, heartbeat pounding. Think.

But she could recall no training that extricated an atenté from a wanting client. They were told only to obey. Accept.

Tanwen had done both those actions enough in her life. She had not come to Galia to continue similar behavior. She had come here to save her family and, Low Gods willing, never be touched again by another winged man.

“First show me how you prefer your cut, my lord,” she reasoned gently, attempting as much composure as she could muster. “Then the next time you visit, I will know precisely how best to assist you.”

She could see the displeasure in his furrowing brows, the twitching of his wings, and the tightening of his grip. Renewed fear leaped across Tanwen’s skin. Was her madam watching? Was the entire courtyard?

“I only wish to please you, my lord,” she went on quickly, another grin flashing. “To make sure I do it properly, I must first observe. I am new, after all. And what better teacher to what you enjoy than yourself?”

This logic seemed to placate him, for he relaxed into his settee, loosening his hold.

Tanwen’s entire body wanted to collapse with her relief.

“You are lucky Leza has been so kind to you,” he said, “that I would wish to look upon you again. Now”—he took up his blade—“watch what I do carefully, my little goat.”

Tanwen ignored his use of a Süra slur, merely grateful to find his knife poised on the underside of his forearm. A storybook of knicks and pricks peppered his skin. Openings from past nights of pleasure. “I don’t like it long but deep,” he explained, eyes darkening as he broke through flesh. It was a small cut but indeed deep, as blood pooled quickly.

Tanwen was quicker.

With practiced efficiency born from her decade of meddyg experience, she blotted the opening with a clean cloth before releasing four drops of docüra into the fresh cut.

The effect was instantaneous.

Her client sucked in a breath in stunned pleasure before exhaling ecstasy. His eyes dilated and rolled back, and he slumped into his settee.

Tanwen snatched up his loosened knife before it could clatter to the floor. She held the blade as she gazed down at Lord Caseer, his arms and wings limp at his sides.

She studied the flutter of his pulse along his neck, his closed eyes, his mind and body elsewhere.

Dangerous fantasies filled Tanwen as the haunting of his unwanted grazes still burned cold along her skin. His condescending remarks and demanding grip.

It would only take a simple slice, she thought. Fast. Fatal. Right where his lifeblood jumped against his throat.

Her fingers tightened around the blade.

Don’t. Don’t. They watch. They watch.

Tanwen blinked out of her dark musings, finding a midnight dove perched within a blossoming cherry tree nearby. The bird repeated its warning with a rustle of its black feathers.

Don’t. Don’t. They watch. They watch.

Tanwen shook herself lucid, furtively glancing at the guards hidden in shadowed alcoves of the courtyard. Their wings were pressed tight at their backs, hands idle on sword hilts at their hips, expressions bored but alert.

Süra may have been trusted to administer docüra to Volari, but they certainly were not trusted after.

Rightfully so.

Not that Tanwen had it in her to kill anyone.

She had been trained to save lives, not end them.

Still, she silently thanked the dove before making quick work of wrapping Lord Caseer’s forearm in a thin bandage. After she collected her supplies, she made to exit the courtyard.

At home, in Zomyad, she would have remained by her client’s side, ensuring their journey to the spirit realm of the gods transpired safely. She would have offered whatever comforting words were needed to guide them back to their realm.

But her mother had spoken true: the only voyage the Volari seemed to experience was a euphoric high for one lazy dip of the moon.

There was no need for Tanwen to linger.

Thank the Low Gods.

As she made her way to slip behind a curtained door, she did her best not to stare at the other atentés and their clients within the garden.

Never had Tanwen imagined she would be a part of such a scene.

Süra were draped over the laps of Volari. A peppering of exposed breasts before exploring fingers covered them. Other atentés stroked wings, singing a soft lullaby as they released docüra into shallow cuts. It was a collection of depraved sweetness and completely contradictory of the two races’ history.

Something that had thoroughly befuddled Tanwen when she had first arrived.

But now, as she leaned against the cool stone wall within a tight corridor, their moving shapes in her periphery blessedly blocked out by a thick drape, she didn’t think much else could surprise her anytime soon.

The theme for her time at Sumora had been set her first night by Madam Kyva herself. Before they were sent to bed, she had called Tanwen and the other two new atentés into her office. Madam Kyva’s expression had held its usual austere mask as she regarded them.

“Do you know the tale of Nocémi?” she asked.

None of them replied, clearly too terrified.

“It’s a love story many enjoy hearing,” she explained. “How when Ré first saw the goddess, he was transfixed by her beauty. Each passing year he only became more obsessed and relentless in his desire for her, eventually demanding she marry him. Being sought after by the father of the High Gods was considered an honor, especially given he had never before sought a wife or shown interest in another sharing his throne. He offered Nocémi rule of the night, a grand gesture of his adoration. But what many do not know about this story,” explained Madam Kyva, with a pinch to her brows, “is that it was not Ré’s idea to gift the night, but Nocémi’s. The goddess saw what happened to those Ré desired, how quickly his flames, when held too long, burned away their existence. The goddess was clever, and she agreed to marry Ré so long as he gifted her rule of the night. Upon doing so, she freed herself from the dangers of her husband. Only during the brief moments of dusk and dawn did the two ever meet. Ré’s light would forever be a gentle graze of yearning as Nocémi slid away.”

Silence had filled Madam Kyva’s office, a prickling of unease working up Tanwen’s spine.

“So you see, girls,” said Madam Kyva, hard gaze piercing. “Nocémi’s story is not one of love, after all. It’s a story of survival. And at Sumora you are each Nocémi. If you are clever, you will survive.”

A rattling stirred Tanwen from her memory of standing before her madam. That terrible tale echoed in her mind as she found her hands were shaking. The items on her tray quivered across the smooth metal surface.

Tanwen tightened her grip, steadying the tray.

I survived, she thought. I survived another night. I am Nocémi.

“Others could learn from you,” said a husky voice within the dimly lit stone hallway. “Caseer is usually not so cooperative.”

“Huw.” Tanwen nearly jumped. “I did not see you.”

“Most don’t,” he replied.

Huw leaned on the opposite wall, beyond the light of the sconces, which was why she had initially missed him upon entering. From the shadows, Huw dug a fingernail into the skin of an orange. A tangy sweetness filled the corridor, a welcome reprieve to the overincensed den.

“Have you had Caseer as a client before?” asked Tanwen, forcing her thoughts away from Madam Kyva’s lesson.

Huw was one of the few male atentés at Sumora. Another oddity Tanwen had encountered in Galia. Men were traditionally not taught meddyg skills on Cādra, but it appeared the dens here would teach anyone pretty enough the art of making docüra. It was all about pleasing their clients, after all.

“I’m not his type,” explained Huw, biceps shifting as he popped a slice of orange into his mouth. He wore nothing but low-slung tan trousers that billowed before collecting at his ankles. “He likes them, well, like you.”

“A girl?”

“Innocent.” His gaze slid to her grip on her tray. “Scared.”

Tanwen tensed, chin lifting. “I am not scared.”

“Then that’s your first mistake.” Huw stepped into the sconce’s light, his blond hair glowing as shadows played over his thick, curling northern horns. His pale skin gleamed with scented oil. He reminded Tanwen of the wheat fields outside Zomyad at sunset, reedy but stubbornly strong against the breeze. “We all are scared here, little fawn,” he said. “Some of us have just learned to hide it better.”

He placed his perfectly spiraled peel on her tray.

“Smell it,” he advised. “It will help clear your head. At the very least settle your nerves.”

Huw smiled, though it appeared heavy, as if his cheeks were exhausted from the constant effort to be lifted.

He’s surviving, thought Tanwen, a press of melancholy to her chest.

Huw walked past her, picking up an awaiting tray of docüra on a side table before slipping out and into the courtyard.

Tanwen stared as the drape swung closed, Huw’s words playing over in her mind.

We all are scared here.

Well, it certainly didn’t seem that way. So many of the seasoned atentés appeared to glow under the attention of their Volari patrons. Many of them fighting over who could attend whom.

Even Tanwen’s arrival had been met with suspicious glares, as if she had come to rob the place. Distrust simmered in the gaze of each atenté. Bullish acceptance when Tanwen was meant to shadow them.

“ Girl. ” Madam Kyva stood at the far end of the corridor, fists plunked disapprovingly on ample hips. “Just because your floor time is over,” she said, “doesn’t mean your shift is. There is plenty to fold and clean and prepare for tomorrow before the night is up.”

“Yes, Madam Kyva,” said Tanwen, hurrying forward, but before she discarded her tray, she plucked up Huw’s orange peel.

That night, when she lay exhausted but awake in the dormitory, the erratic snores of her nearby bunkmates filling the high-ceilinged hall, Tanwen slipped out the peel. It had grown limp in her pocket, the skin dry, but the fresh fragrance still lingered.

She lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

Tanwen waited for her thoughts to clear, for the buzz of her anxiousness to ebb.

The only change she experienced was her feeling foolish.

She meant to laugh at her absurdity, but it came out as a sob.

Tears rolled unchecked down Tanwen’s cheeks as she curled into a ball on her floor mat, orange peel forgotten somewhere by her side.

She wasn’t sure why she was crying, what exactly about her current mess of a life had pushed her over the edge, but she wasn’t exactly in the state to figure it out.

As she silently wept, the first time since leaving her mother, she felt a gentle touch on her hand. Tiny paws tickled along her forearm as Eli arrived from wherever he hid all day, to burrow into her chest.

Here was the only friend she could count on.

It’ll be all right, Eli told her. I’m here.

His words only made Tanwen cry harder.

The emotions she had buried deep since leaving Zomyad leaked unchecked.

She wept out of fear—fear of never finding her father or brother, of being too late when she did. She cried from the uncertainty of ever returning to Zomyad or seeing her mother again. And from the growing dread that one day she might not be quick or clever enough with a client, their demands pushing her to a place she could not come back from.

I am not scared, she had told Huw.

Which had been true.

Tanwen wasn’t scared.

She was terrified.