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Tanwen scowled as he soared into view like a shooting star, his winged entourage of guards trailing behind.

The entire celebration stilled to watch the prince’s approach, his large white wings soaking in the moons’ light before he settled within the temple. He was dressed in an intricate high-collared white coat, decorative gold feathers fanning over his broad shoulders and a gilded laurel crown woven into his alabaster hair.

Something hot and uncomfortable unfurled in Tanwen’s chest, cascading through her entire body as she drank him in.

No one that beautiful should exist.

Certainly, no one as coldhearted or, at the very least, not someone she despised so thoroughly.

His deep voice rolled across the lawn, evoking memories of the night she had first knelt before him—terrified, regretful—and then of later, when he had commanded her father and brother into a net to be taken away.

Tanwen’s grip on her tray stiffened, her fury mixing dangerously with her grief.

After attending to her recent clients, she hadn’t exactly planned on slowly making her way toward the prince’s secluded gazebo. Tanwen felt only an innate desperation to be closer to the man who had upended her life and undoubtedly knew the location where her father and brother were being held.

Could she discern any emotion from him that might provide a clue of their whereabouts? Had he kept his word that Thol would live so long as her father did?

The jar of docüra on her tray swashed back and forth as she slunk forward, a spinning galaxy as she came to hide behind one of the temple’s columns. She was now close enough that she could catch the torchlight reflecting off the prince’s jeweled rings as he lazily held a glass of wine. His brown skin was smooth, taut along his angular jaw.

She watched as the kidar who had gruffly held her brother’s neck joined the prince.

Tanwen clenched her teeth, ire as hot as the sun filling her chest as she observed the men together, laughing and jesting. How unconcerned they were with the life-altering pain they had manifested within Tanwen and her family. No doubt within many citizens on Cādra.

And why would they be concerned?

Here they sat wrapped in their comforts, the ugliness of life’s hardships nowhere in sight.

As Tanwen remained hidden, she had no idea why she remained torturing herself by standing there. But she did.

It wasn’t until the prince once again sat alone that she made her mistake.

As she angled for a better view, Tanwen slipped a step too far into the light.

Like an animal knowing when he was being hunted, the prince turned his gaze on her.

Everything in Tanwen stopped, numbed, as their eyes collided.

But as their connection held, a surge of fire burned across her skin.

It was a heat that only intensified as a dangerous spark of recognition flashed in the prince’s blue depths.

Tanwen sucked in a panicked breath.

You fool! she scolded, about to dart back into the shadows when a whip of wind had her attention snagging on a royal guard approaching.

The kidet’s words jumbled in Tanwen’s head as he stood towering over her. Surely, he had not said the prince wished for her services. Surely, she was not abiding the command by following.

Tanwen was out of her body, floating overhead as she watched herself crouch before the crown prince.

Again.

But this time she knew exactly who he was. Not a kidar, not even a prince, but her enemy.

“We have met before.” His voice was a velvet touch, smooth, calm, not a question.

Tanwen’s pulse fluttered like hummingbird wings; thoughts of lying spun quickly, but something told her it would be futile. “We have, sire,” she said, attention remaining on his shining leather boots.

“You are the meddyg from the fields outside Zomyad.”

How? Tanwen thought, roiling in shocked dismay. Why?

Why would the prince remember a dirt-covered meddyg from so many weeks ago?

“I am, sire,” she managed to reply.

“Why are you here?”

Tanwen almost laughed, her answer so obvious in her mind. To hurt you, she quietly seethed. And hopefully save my father and brother in the process, she silently swore.

“You are amused by my question,” said the prince. Another statement. Here sat a man who was confident in his assessments.

For who would dare contradict him?

“Of course not, sire.” Tanwen quickly schooled her features, bending lower.

Do I have a death wish? she wondered in a panic. Pull yourself together, Tanwen.

“You may look at me,” instructed the prince.

Tanwen hesitated but then did as she was ordered. Slowly, she sat back on her heels, tray of docüra remaining on the stone floor by her knees.

Prince Zolya’s blue gaze pored over her, a liquid sky. He was luminous in his gold-and-white adornments, his flawless brown skin, and the delicate jewels woven into his laurel crown. The view of him was almost painful as he sat leaning one elbow against a padded armrest. He stared down at her like a predator eyeing a potential meal, wondering if it might taste good or merely cause him indigestion.

As he sat assessing, Tanwen remained very, very still. She could not look long at him. Her skin grew flushed when she did, the fabric of her dress becoming too suffocating.

She loathed how exposed she felt in her low-necked dress, wished instead to be wearing her sturdier clan pants and tunic with the comforting weight of her medicinal pouches at her hips.

“Shall we try this again?” asked Prince Zolya. “Why are you here, meddyg?”

Tanwen must have been mad, or tired, or desperate. Assuredly annoyed by his placating tone, for she found herself replying, “The same reason every servant is in Galia, sire: because I must be.”

Her regret was instant.

Tanwen waited, breath held for the prince to order her dragged to whatever dungeon was hidden within the palace or beheaded on the spot for such insolence.

Instead, he shocked her by appearing concerned before bewildered, as though this might be the first moment in his decades of life that someone had spoken their mind to him. From her class, it certainly must be.

“I apologize, Your Royal Highness,” Tanwen began. “I do not know what—”

“You answered my question,” he interrupted with a wave of his hand. His white wings shifted at his back as he sat straighter. “Which is what I had requested.”

Tanwen swallowed, nodding her gratitude for his lenience. She had not been around many royals—Prince Zolya was the first, in fact—but she surmised a subject should never act as she had.

She blamed it on being so near the man she had grown to hate, blamed it on her desperation to find her father and brother, on her losing conviction in succeeding, on being so torturously close to the prince who could give her all her answers but being unable to ask. Tanwen was growing rash with her actions, and she needed to snap out of it.

Be Nocémi, she reminded herself, taking a slow inhale. Survive.

“You wished for my services, sire?” Tanwen offered up her tray of docüra. Under the torchlight, the knife beside the bowl winked with dark temptation. Tanwen’s fingers flexed along her tray.

But then what? she silently admonished herself.

Guards were an impenetrable circle around them, His Royal Highness’s clear strength his own shield. Tanwen would no doubt be tackled before she could grasp the blade.

Besides, she now realized, causing harm to the prince would in no way help in her efforts to retrieve her father and brother.

“While my subjects may enjoy the euphoria made by the nectar of the gods,” said the prince, redirecting Tanwen’s attention, “I do not indulge in the stuff.” He must have noted her surprise, for he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, adding, “You see, it is not advantageous for the sole heir of this kingdom to be laid out publicly. One never knows if an angry subject might use such a moment to strike.”

Disquiet was a rushing of water filling Tanwen’s veins from how similar his musings had been to her own.

“Surely that is why you have your guards, sire?” Tanwen inclined her head to the surrounding kidets. “To keep threats at bay.”

Prince Zolya’s lips twitched, as if resisting a smile. “Yes, they do serve their function in protecting me,” he said while holding her stare. “Still, I suppose I prefer to indulge in my pleasures privately.”

Tanwen dared not breathe.

Heat was melting her from the inside out; visions of what sort of pleasures he might be referring to sparked in her mind. Beautiful slick skin, featherlight caresses, and ruffled sheets.

Tanwen swallowed, blinking away the imagining.

What was that? she silently chastised.

She was abuzz with confusion, her atenté training scattered within her mind. What was she meant to say again? How was she supposed to react? Divert?

Tanwen knew only that the man in front of her was not behaving like the man whom she had met in Zomyad. The coldness in his features had been replaced by a curious spark; his hard gaze now held only warm interest.

Tanwen glanced at his forgotten wine on a nearby table, noticing the almost empty decanter.

Is he in his cups? she wondered.

Hoped.

This would certainly clarify the tone of their exchange.

“Then how may I be of service to His Royal Highness?” It almost pained Tanwen to ask, to put such power into his already powerful hands, but this was her role. An atenté never left a client wanting, certainly not the prince.

He must have noted her discomfort, for a small displeased pinch appeared between his brows before he sat back, breaking whatever rope had been coiling around them.

Tanwen let seep a relieving exhale.

“Are you part of the royal atentés?” he asked.

“I ... have been hired for this evening’s events from Sumora,” she explained.

Thoughtfully, Prince Zolya drummed his fingers on his thigh before nodding. “And how are you finding Galia compared to Zomyad?”

Tanwen frowned. Why do you care? she wanted to argue. Why does a prince desire to know how a servant is getting on?

“My question confuses you.”

My gods, she thought with further annoyance, more of his assured assessments.

Not that he was wrong.

“I am merely wondering,” Tanwen began slowly, carefully, “why His Royal Highness would concern himself with a servant’s thoughts on their time in Galia.”

Her directness hit, for his brows rose ever so slightly. Why indeed? his expression seemed to say.

“It is part of my duty to understand the lives of those my family rules over,” he explained. “You do not need to worry of upsetting me with your answer.”

Tanwen almost snorted. “You are the crown prince,” she pointed out. “Everyone must worry about upsetting you, sire.”

This time, Prince Zolya allowed his grin to grow. Something Tanwen could tell he rarely indulged. If possible, it left him more dazzling, more disarming. “Well, for the moment you do not,” he assured. “For me to reconnect with those I meet along my travels through Cādra is rare. I wish to hear of your voyage here and—” He paused, a puzzled expression overtaking him. “I apologize; what is your name?”

“My name?” she repeated, confused.

“I assume you have one.”

“Yes, of course, sire.”

He waited for her to give it, but she was stuck in her indecision as her thudding pulse sent a warning to her brain.

Lie, lie, lie.

But her name was already known in Fioré, and if she was ever to be found out in her lie ...

“Tanwen Coster, sire,”

“Tanwen Coster,” he repeated.

Never had her name, fake or real, sounded so ... alluring when spoken out loud.

“So tell me, Ms. Coster,” he began. “Are you enjoying Galia?”

“It is very beautiful, sire.”

“It is,” he agreed, allowing the following silence to stretch, as if knowing she had much more to say.

“It is also ... different,” she added.

“In what ways?” he pushed.

“Well ...” She refocused on him. “I am not used to being so often under Ré’s light,” she explained. “I did not realize there would be so few trees in Fioré.”

Prince Zolya’s brows furrowed, as if he had not considered such a detail nor realized what a difference it could make to those who lived most of their lives exclusively within forests.

“But my opinions hardly matter,” she added. “What of you, sire? Are you glad to be home?”

Tanwen knew it was a precarious branch to tread, but if the prince was willing to converse, she would use it to her benefit.

“I am certainly glad to no longer be sleeping near the snoring of a dozen men,” he replied easily.

“That does sound unpleasant,” Tanwen agreed. “But at least it wasn’t all for naught? You eventually found the man you were looking for, this Gabreel Heiro.”

At her words, Prince Zolya appeared to wake from a dream. He blinked, features hardening. “That is what this celebration is about, is it not? My and my men’s successful mission and return.”

“Of course, sire,” said Tanwen, understanding she was mad to keep prying, but she would not get a better chance than this. “I asked around about him,” she added boldly. “After our meeting.”

Stars of blue held to her, Prince Zolya regarding her with a curious glint. “And what did you learn?”

“I learned he was the father of the Dryfs Mine and was the inventor for the king.”

“Is,” corrected the prince, tone chilling. “He is the inventor for the king. He has been reinstated.”

Tanwen’s hands tightened on her thighs. “What an honor for Mr. Heiro,” she said tensely. “Is he here, then? At the celebration?” Tanwen’s pulse rushed, her breaths shallow. “If so, I would very much like to meet this legendary Gabreel Heiro. Perhaps he would like to indulge in my docüra.”

“He is much too busy to attend such affairs,” Prince Zolya replied, tone despondent. She could sense his attention drifting, his displeasure in discussing the inventor evident.

If he is so burdensome, let him go! she wanted to scream.

Or, at the very least, tell me where he is!

Tanwen was poised to pry further when their bubble of seclusion was disturbed.

“I believe I have found her, Lord Bacton,” said a lilting voice from behind. “Yes, over here! She fits the description my ladies gave exactly.”

Tanwen turned from where she knelt to find her den warden approaching along with a stunning woman adorned in gilded leaves and a small group of courtiers.

Tanwen’s throat closed in a panic, taking in Lord Bacton’s hard glare.

“Is this her, Lady Beatrice?” inquired the woman of a nearby companion.

“It is, Princess,” answered Lady Beatrice.

Princess?

Tanwen’s pulse kicked into a sprint.

She furtively glanced back at Prince Zolya. He was watching the exchange with furrowed brows.

So this is the infamous Princess Azla, thought Tanwen.

Bastard half sister and cousin to the prince.

Tanwen had heard many tales about the affair between the queen’s sister and the king, but the only details she cared to hold on to were the repercussions of a king’s desire: the queen who now lived in solitude and a mistress who was dead.

“Azla, what is this about?” asked Prince Zolya.

“Oh, sire, I apologize,” said the princess, appearing as if she had just realized he was there. “We have been on the hunt for this atenté for a solid dip of the moons.”

“And why is that?” he inquired.

“Because she is said to be spectacular!” she explained, giving an emphatic wave of her hand. “Or her docüra is,” she added. “Is your docüra spectacular?” asked the princess as she bent toward Tanwen.

Tanwen could just make out the sweet scent of wine on Princess Azla’s breath.

She realized then that it was the princess who was in her cups.

“I ...” Tanwen faltered for a moment as she caught the pointed stare of her den warden.

I expect perfection. Lord Bacton’s earlier command was a digging grip to her shoulders.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tanwen as she bowed her head demurely. “My docüra is, so long as I administer it.”

Bloom, she thought, heartbeat pounding. Now is my chance to bloom.

The princess smiled, a spirit-glazed beam of pleasure. “I must have you,” she said, returning to her full height. “Sire, if you are done with her services, I must procure this atenté for my party.”

A spark of irritation flashed in the prince’s features before it was covered up with cool indifference. “Who am I to keep you from what you desire, Princess?”

“Oh!” She clapped, a contented child. “You really do spoil me, my prince.”

“I know,” he muttered.

Before Tanwen collected her tray, she dared to meet the prince’s blue gaze.

It grabbed her, an invisible hand cupping her chin, forcing her to hold his stare.

I see you, he seemed to be saying.

A sense of forewarning thickened the air, of looming dangers with each breath their connection remained.

This was not proper.

This was not right.

He was Volari, the man she was meant to hate, and the crown prince of Galia, for god’s sake.

And yet ... Tanwen could feel it. With her subsiding fear, an odd tethering was forming between them.

Quickly, Tanwen lowered her gaze, her mind reeling along with her pulse.

What was that?

She dared not look at him again as she gave a departing bow before she was shuffled to the far end of the garden.

There she would remain for the rest of the night.

Only once, when her wits had returned, did she indulge herself, glancing back to the far-off temple.

But the gazebo within now stood empty.

Prince Zolya had left.