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Tanwen was out of her depths.

If this was how the children of gods celebrated, she could not begin to fathom how the High Gods themselves entertained.

The palace party was less of a party and more like a bloated enchanted spectacle.

Yes, it had drinks and music and food, but the overabundance was sickening.

How could such wealth exist when half the citizens of Cādra went hungry? Surely some of the funds to erect a multitiered glowing floral arrangement could be redirected to put food on Süra children’s plates.

This was how much of Tanwen’s initial days had transpired once she had been brought to the palace. She had stumbled into the compound in a mix of devastated awe and appalled outrage. The palace was certainly an imposing sight atop its mountain, but once within its walls, never had Tanwen felt so infinitesimal, so inconsequential among the soaring columns and exhaustively painted ceilings.

The lush lawns and gardens and orchards wove like colorful brushstrokes around the towering temples and domed citadels. And the sky—it was everywhere, as if the mountain’s tip floated alone in the clouds and no town or lake lay beneath them.

It left Tanwen constantly on edge, a lingering unease that she might slip at any moment from a precipice and fall to her death.

Her discomfort had been intensified by the cold greeting from palace staff. Tanwen now understood the hierarchy among recruits in Galia. There were those privileged enough to serve within the palace—and then everyone else.

“Snobs,” Huw had declared beside her when they had been paraded through the servants’ quarters, receiving judgmental glares and upturned noses. “As if we don’t all indulge the same commands at the end of the day.”

Tanwen had paid the rudeness little mind, too used to such coldness. Instead, she had forced her attention on every door or hall or alcove they passed. Could Thol and Father be down there? she’d wondered. Behind those doors? Or those?

She had been desperate to find out, but her hope to explore the grounds had been quickly robbed by thoroughly packed days of preparation.

It had begun with an exhaustive tour of every atenté domain: their dormitory, bathhouse, dressing chamber, docüra workroom. Each space opulent and meticulously neat. But what had truly taken Tanwen’s breath away was the jadüri greenhouse. At the western tip of the palace sat a marvel of engineering with its soaring glass-paneled walls and domed ceiling. Rows of garden boxes holding the sacred flower stretched endlessly, mocking the lengths to which Tanwen had gone to pluck her single bloom in Cādra. Here, in carefully controlled conditions, the plant flourished abundantly. The palace held exclusive rights to cultivate the flower, the Fioré dens purchasing what they needed to make their docüra.

They had then been introduced to the infamous Madam Arini, a lithe middle-aged woman hailing from Garw. Her beauty matched Galia in its cold perfection, her sculpted blond hair catching the sunlight as she walked the rows of borrowed atentés. She had surveyed them as one would when purchasing a horse, demanding they show her their teeth, turn, walk, and bow. She had given nothing away as she clicked her long nails against her gold armbands, hands crossed over her chest, assessing.

The only proof of her satisfaction had been when they were dismissed to wash and dress in the palace atenté uniform before enduring endless training for the celebration. Madam Arini had been relentless in her desired perfection for how they were to approach courtiers and administer the docüra.

“You walked forward too quickly,” she had scolded Tanwen. “You mustn’t seem desperate to please but pleased to obey. And you must offer the dropper with your wrist up. Gaze on the floor! Your bandage needs to be folded in thirds, not halves.”

Tanwen’s nerves had been a fluster under the constant scrutiny, but she had tried her best to remain poised, calm. An achievement made possible by her upbringing, in which she had learned not to be provoked by those in her village.

Do not draw attention to yourself.

You are Mütra. You are Mütra. You are Mütra.

Soon, Madam Arini had moved on to harass another.

But Tanwen’s anxiousness had not ebbed.

It had only intensified when they were meant to make their docüra for the event, all under Madam Arini’s watchful eye. Tanwen had stood frozen, at a loss for how she was to add the dust of her father’s wings without being noticed.

It was Eli who had come to her rescue.

He made quite a scene of scurrying over a row of atentés’ sandaled feet, eliciting shrieks and turning everyone’s attention to the rodent who had gotten into the palace.

Tanwen had only a moment, but she seized it. With her pulse pounding through her veins, she removed the small vial from where she had wrapped it to her inner thigh and released a pinch of ash into her mixture.

By the time the room was righted, Eli sprinting to safety, her docüra spun innocuously in front of her, the vial once again hidden.

Tanwen clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking, her breaths uneven as her adrenaline rushed through her veins. Especially when Madam Arini came to inspect her bowl.

“Yours is darker,” she accused, gaze narrowing.

“It is how I stir it, ma’am,” Tanwen explained, forcing her tone even despite her stampeding heart. “My mother is a meddyg with two decades of experience making docüra. She says to stir with purpose and prayer—”

“I don’t care for your past, girl,” interrupted Madam Arini with a raised hand. “I care that this mixture is usable and up to palace standard—otherwise the cost of the jadüri will come out of your weekly pay.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” breathed Tanwen. “My docüra is quite sound.”

She desperately hoped.

“Taste it.”

Tanwen blinked, confused. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“I am not of a kind to repeat myself,” Madam Arini stated, eyeing her expectantly.

Tanwen’s skin grew hot as she sensed the attention of those around her.

Do not draw attention to yourself.

You are Mütra. You are Mütra. You are Mütra.

Tanwen tasted her docüra, a pinkie dipped and licked.

It was syrupy sweet, headache inducing, but she kept herself from wincing.

Madam Arini stood waiting—for what, Tanwen did not know—but after a moment she took it upon herself to taste the docüra as well.

Her eyes went wide for a breath before slamming down to calculating slits as she regarded Tanwen.

“Your mother is a meddyg, you say?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ Mmm ” was all she had replied, a thoughtful glimmer in her gaze before she had sauntered to the next atenté.

Now roaming within the palace gardens, Tanwen tightly gripped her tray of docüra. Courtiers were clustered in various parts of the expansive grounds, wings painted in a tapestry of colors, gowns and jackets sparkling with jeweled adornments and metallic thread.

She wove unnoticed through the flock as a contradiction of emotions swirled within her chest, anticipation as well as dread to test her mixture.

She hoped, prayed, that it would be as good as her mother’s, but she was also terrified to discover if it wasn’t.

What if she hadn’t added enough dust or had added too much? What if she had unintentionally ruined her docüra completely? She had been in a panic, after all, hardly in a state to ensure precision when throwing in the grains of her father’s wings.

Oh gods, thought Tanwen, heart seizing in terror. What have I done?

“You there,” called someone nearby.

Tanwen turned, finding a group of guests sitting in repose within a twinkling pergola. A man in the middle beckoned her over.

Tanwen swallowed down her rising regret as she approached. There was no turning back now. “How may I assist you this evening, my lord?” she asked as she came to a low bow.

“You are a welcome new face to our usual atentés,” stated the man, eyes raking over her body. His painted wings shimmered like snake scales in the dim light, his pale features pointed. “Tell us, which den have you been borrowed from?”

“Sumora, my lord,” said Tanwen.

“I say.” He tutted to his companions. “Lord Bacton might have a prettier collection of atentés than the palace.”

“Indeed,” agreed another courtier. “But let us see if her skills in attending to us are as well met.”

“A sound solution.” The first man smiled, gaze turning predatory as it remained locked to Tanwen. “Come closer, pet,” he demanded. “And show us how well you can offer pleasure.”

Tanwen’s throat tightened, her indignation spiking at being treated like an object, but she approached nonetheless.

Though her steps faltered when a cluster of glow beetles swarmed into the pergola.

They must have sensed her agitation, for they buzzed in front of her, a fluttering of concern keeping her from walking any farther.

“ Eww. ” A lady swatted one that had dipped too close. “Get these wretched things away!”

Tanwen’s panic soared.

Please, she silently begged the bugs. I am fine. You must go!

They didn’t listen, her quickening heart rate saying otherwise.

The guests’ alarm within the pergola began to draw notice, and Tanwen silently cursed.

Please, she urged again. Please go. This time she forced a deep breath of calm, her white-knuckle grip on her tray loosening.

I am safe, she said to the beetles, working to believe it. I am safe.

As her heart rate settled, so did the bugs. Soon they were gone.

Relief washed over Tanwen.

“How horrifying,” said one of the ladies, settling back onto her bench.

“And odd,” added another.

“It was probably your perfumes,” stated one of the men. “You ladies do spray it on rather thick.”

Offended mouths popped open; glares were thrown.

“All right,” chided the original man who had called for Tanwen. “We are here to have fun, not bicker. Let us save the latter for dinner parties, not palace ones. Come, pet.” He waved Tanwen forward. “I now find myself in even more need to escape this lot.”

Tanwen obeyed, coming to kneel at his side and resting her tray on the bench beside him.

She felt his perusing gaze along her exposed skin, lingering on her breasts, which were uncomfortably on display.

“My lord.” She offered him the small blade.

He didn’t look away from her as he made his nick, but Tanwen’s attention remained dutifully on administering her docüra as quickly as possible.

Her breath held as the dark droplets hit the cut.

A groan, and then another. The man grew limp upon his bench, wings drooping as his moans turned sensual, the sound of unrivaled euphoric pleasure.

The guests within the pergola sat silently as shocked observers.

Before they were all calling to her at once.

By the Eternal River, she thought, a strange giddiness jumping inside her chest, it worked.

Tanwen became thoroughly occupied the rest of the evening.

And would have remained such if it had not been for the arrival of one man.

One man who awoke a potent hatred within Tanwen’s heart.

The crown prince of Galia.