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Sumora was in chaos.

“What’s going on?” Tanwen asked a kitchen maid hurrying down a hall within the servants’ quarters.

Her eyes were frantic as she gave Tanwen a once-over, recognition sparking. “You better get a move on,” she urged. “The warden is coming!”

“The warden?” Tanwen repeated.

But the girl had already rushed forward, leaving behind a stunned Tanwen. She had barely risen for the morning meal when the den shook with a panicked commotion.

Despite her hunger, Tanwen rushed from the kitchens to sprint forward with the rest of the flock.

The atentés were corralled back into their dormitory, where Madam Kyva yelled for them to make themselves presentable and to gather in the larger garden immediately.

Tanwen was all puffs of breath and wiping sweat from her brow when she finally came to stand within the courtyard along with the other twenty-three atentés. The white wrap dress she had changed into felt clingy against the perspiration made by her haste, and she hadn’t had the time to fix her hair. It currently rested in a haphazard mass around her shoulders.

She would certainly be reprimanded by Madam Kyva, but that worry was for later.

Presently, her—and everyone’s—attention was held by the form descending into their courtyard like a High God come to bestow mortals with his magnificent presence. The warden’s wings were painted an array of colors, more complicated than any tapestry Tanwen had ever seen. And they glistened as the sun touched them, light passing through stained glass. He gracefully landed in the center of the garden, wings tucking in as he peered down his nose at them. His black skin was youthful, despite him no doubt being well over a century in age, and his hair rested in tight braids on the nape of his neck.

Tanwen had met Lord Bacton, their warden, only once when she had first arrived, and his visit then had been terse. A swift assessment of Tanwen, the property he had inherited, before he had left as quickly as he had arrived. No words shared, only judgment.

“My lord,” said Madam Kyva, coming to a deep bow before him.

Tanwen and the rest of the atentés followed.

“We are most honored by your visit,” she continued. “We would—”

“I haven’t the time for pleasantries,” interrupted Lord Bacton with a dismissive wave of a manicured hand. “Show me those on your list.”

Madam Kyva appeared uncharacteristically flustered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, calling out various atentés and instructing them to step forward.

“Tanwen Coster.”

Tanwen snapped her head up, her pulse stopping before racing forward.

Me? she wondered in a panic.

“Go.” Someone nudged hard at her back.

Tanwen’s feet were boulders, impossible to lift, but she somehow managed to stand in the new line of atentés presented to the warden.

Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?

Tanwen’s mind spun for what she might have done wrong, for certainly this was not promising. I take too long in the washroom, she thought with dread.

Instincts to flee raced down her spine, her gaze shifting to every break in the columns, past the guards to the doors that lay beyond.

Her thoughts went blank, however, when Lord Bacton stopped in front of her.

The warden’s cologne was thick, floral mixed with cinnamon. Tanwen’s breath held as she sensed his gaze raking down her body. He even lifted a lock of her hair, feeling it between his fingers.

“Turn,” he demanded.

A burst of ire awoke in Tanwen’s gut, but she did as she was told.

She turned.

When she faced Lord Bacton again, he was already walking away.

Tanwen let out a slow breath, her heart restarting.

Similar assessments of the other atentés went on for far too long, a few being told to step back while new ones were pulled forward.

Tanwen remained where she stood, her worry compounding.

Finally, Lord Bacton spoke. “There is to be a celebration at the palace,” he said, “to welcome home his crown prince and his brave kidets on their recent voyage across Cādra.”

Tanwen was stone, frozen in shock.

The palace.

The prince.

“Like with most palace celebrations,” continued Lord Bacton, “the size of the affair as well as the prestige of those invited requires favors from those at court. As done in the past, Sumora has been called upon to offer up some of my atentés for the event. Those standing in this line”—he waved to where Tanwen and nine others stood—“are due at the palace by end of the week to prepare for the festivities. You will be representing this den, but more importantly, you will represent me .” His tone dipped low, a warning. “I expect perfection from each of you.” He allowed the severity of his order to stretch for an uncomfortably long beat before adding, “This is a time to show off why Sumora has the most prestigious clientele. Do not disappoint.”

With that, Lord Bacton spread his wings, an angry peacock, and shot up into the air.

Tanwen shielded herself against the storm of dust his flight awoke, dirt coating her lips, but she could have been facing a sandstorm and she would not have cared.

She was going to the palace.

The palace!

Where her family was being held.

Where she would be another step closer in finding her father and Thol and freeing them all from this floating prison.

Udasha, she thought, glancing up to the sky at the High Goddess of luck, thank you.

“Well, well, little fawn,” Huw remarked at her side, causing Tanwen to start. She hadn’t noticed that she had been standing beside him this entire time. “Seems the warden likes them scared too.” He winked at her before sauntering away.

Tanwen stared at his retreating form with indignation, shoulders stiffening.

Once again Huw had misread her.

Tanwen wasn’t scared.

This time she was ready.

Under the cloak of night, when the last patrons had left and the atentés were finally granted respite in their beds, Tanwen slid from her mat and into the bathhouse.

The vacant marble expanse echoed her hushed footsteps, the tiles still slick from their earlier washing. Her path was lit by nearby torches and an additional spill of moonlight through a skylight, but despite the illumination, Tanwen knew how to move through shadows better than most.

Unseen, she slipped into a corner toilet, concealed by a partition, and raised a loose stone from the wall.

It might not have been a floorboard, but it still did the trick.

Eli sat on her shoulder, watching as she pulled out the small glass jar that held the dust of her father’s wings.

Tanwen had not trusted the others enough to keep it with her belongings in the dormitory. Too nosy were her bunkmates; plenty of her items had already gone missing as part of the hazing of being a greeny.

But all that was forgotten as Tanwen turned over the jar, the dark grains rustling as they fell over one another.

Her pulse kicked a quick rhythm through her veins.

It’s not the best plan, said Eli.

No, agreed Tanwen, but it’s all I’ve got.

As she held the delicate container, her mother’s words floated forward in her mind.

Use it when you must. When it will mean something.

This certainly was such a time.

Tanwen was going to the palace.

Finally.

And when she got there, she would use her family’s secret spice in her docüra mixture.

She didn’t know if it would work—if her docüra would turn out as good as her mother’s or, if it did, that it would even matter—but this was her one chance to try.

The atentés had been in a fluster after Lord Bacton’s arrival, whispered debates filling the dining hall about who among them might end up staying at the palace.

Tanwen’s ears had burned at the discovery, her heartbeat a stampede of desperation.

Evidently, the palace used these gatherings as unconventional auditions for new recruits working in Fioré, aiming to refresh their staff. The court tended to tire quickly of familiar faces among their entertainers.

Tanwen had been unable to finish her meal, her stomach a ball of nerves as the reality of her situation had pressed heavily upon her shoulders.

The gods only knew when another opportunity like this would come again.

Tanwen needed to bloom at this event so she might be the flower that got picked and brought inside.

Her family was depending on her.

She would do her very best to search the palace while she was there, but she understood her success in locating her father and brother and getting them out relied greatly on her length of stay.

It was an insane gamble, but much like the risk she had taken in striking a deal with Bosyg, Tanwen found herself with limited options.

This must work, she thought, gripping the glass.

Maybe if you got the prince as your client, it could, said Eli from her shoulder.

Tanwen wasn’t sure if he was jesting, but suddenly her thoughts turned in a new direction, her veins pulsing with ire at the mention of Prince Zolya.

The man who had allowed a blade to be pressed to her brother’s throat, who had taken away her father and best friend. Who had upended her entire life.

As Tanwen caressed the glass bottle, revenge was a dangerous poultice to her pain.

“Yes,” mused Tanwen, “how fortunate would it be to serve the prince.”

A dark imagining flooded her mind then: Tanwen beside His Royal Highness, so close to the sharp knife in his hand, to a precarious vein.

While Tanwen had learned much since coming to Galia, perhaps her most profound lesson had been imparted the first time she had watched a Volari cut into their skin.

Blood had trickled out, as red as her own.

In that moment, Tanwen had learned an invaluable truth.

The children of gods could bleed.

And if they could bleed, then they could die.