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The Süra was lying.

Zolya knew this, for he had been born into a den of deceivers. To be a child of the High Gods meant one also had to live with them. Or, more aptly, survive their influence. As a youth he had learned the subtle mannerisms of falsehoods. The tightness in shoulders. The heightened octave of a voice. The way distorted confidence tended to sour a gaze or how nerves could cause it to shift.

This Süra had fallen victim to the latter.

Though, in her defense, most of her kind were skittish around his.

But it wasn’t merely nerves that had lifted her attention. He saw her truth from what flickered through her green eyes: fear.

There was only one reason his inquiry would spark such terror, and that was to know the answer but be unwilling to share it.

Was she a friend? A neighbor? Did she work for him? What loyalty would hold her tongue?

Zolya’s heartbeat thrummed harder.

Despite the answer, he was now convinced he was back on Gabreel’s trail.

A wash of relief touched his tired shoulders, slightly eased the ever-pressing ache in his wings from endless flying. Especially since the rumors he had chased west had dried up a fortnight ago.

“Are you certain?” Zolya pushed, studying the Süra more closely as she knelt before him. She held the blessings of Leza, to be sure, her beauty woven through her high cheekbones and delicate brows. But she seemed young. Though, to him, most Süra appeared as such when decades made up their lives rather than centuries. Her white skin was smooth under the twins’ moonlight, her hair spilling a midnight river around her shoulders. Her one peculiarity was that her horns—tall and slightly curved—claimed her eastern-clan heritage despite her clearly living within the western clan. She also wore the common brown-and-green-dyed threads of those from Zomyad, with dozens of pouches strapped to her person. Zolya recalled eyeing her harvesting jadüri before he had descended. A meddyg, he thought. A reckless one to be foraging out in the open, alone at night. Or perhaps desperate.

“May I remind you there are ambrü waiting to be given for what you may know of this man,” he repeated. “Surely that is a sum that can gain you priceless wares for your practice.”

Zolya watched her already clenched fists tighten further. “Indeed, you are correct, sir,” she replied with forced calm. “It is also a sum that could gain priceless food for many Süra families. Which is why it pains me not to have heard of such a person this far west.”

“Yes, how unfortunate,” he mused. “Especially since there have been others before you who have said otherwise.”

“If that is true, sir,” she countered, continuing to speak to the grass between them, “then my ignorance should not stop your search. I merely apologize that I cannot be more useful in your endeavors.”

Zolya almost smiled, noting the slightest pinch of derision buried beneath her even tone.

She was bold, this one.

And lucky.

Another Volari would not have found her words amusing or allowed her to leave unscathed if they sensed she was lying.

Exactly the reason Zolya had insisted he lead this search over the other willing kidars—or, rather, one of the reasons he had insisted.

With great effort, he kept his thoughts from shifting to King Réol, unease creeping through his veins. Instead, he refocused on the girl.

Despite her claims, Zolya had gathered what he needed for his next task.

With the moons cresting well past midnight, he held no desire to further this line of questioning. That way only ever led to a Süra in pain. And as determined as Zolya was to end this search, he was equally exhausted from hurting, from watching his men hurt. He merely wished for a hasty flight back to camp, where he could indulge in a hearty meal and uninterrupted sleep before the next inevitable long day ahead.

Another mark toward this woman’s luck, which he decided on a whim to enhance.

An atonement for the unlucky before her.

“You have been more useful than you perhaps realize,” he said. “Here.” Zolya fingered out a payment from the purse clipped to his belt. “For your troubles.” He bent down, holding it out for her to take.

The woman drew away as she registered his nearness, no doubt finding it unsettling that a Volari would lower themselves to her level. Her frown twisted further into a scowl as she saw what was in his gloved hand.

He held an ambrü between them. Its glowing scarlet center pulsed as though knowing its worth to her kind and whispering, Take me, take me, take me.

Her eyes rose to his, and this time it was not fear that Zolya registered in their depths. No, it was the seed of their races’ shared history: hatred.

The look would have startled Zolya if he had not seen it many times prior from Süra.

He may also have been mistaken regarding her age. This close, he now saw her years woven through her eyes, the speckling of scars across her skin. A worn-down stone, a collection of hardships.

An imprisoned part of Zolya’s heart thumped, saddened.

Though none of it dimmed her beauty. In fact, it merely enhanced it and stirred awake questions from Zolya.

What life have you already lived?

“I cannot take that, sir,” she said, though her declaration was weak. Which, of course, was exactly the reason for her disdain. She was no doubt reminded of the truth of their world: the ones who held valuables hardly valued them.

She needed this more than he did.

“Then don’t take it,” Zolya replied. “I shall leave it here for someone else to find.”

He dropped the ambrü into the tall grass before standing, stretching out his wings.

The effect was as he desired. The woman shrank within the shadow of his feathered expanse, but her eyes still held what was in her heart.

Careful, he wanted to warn. Such a strongly held gaze toward a Volari for too long had led many of her kind to Maryth’s Eternal River.

To curb her future behavior for when she inevitably met a Volari less lenient than him, Zolya sent a quick reminder of his threat.

He took a deep inhale, gathering the power of the High Gods that lived within his blood. It was a racing of fiery cords through his veins as he balled it together in his chest. Be my storm, he ordered before he released his sky magic with a burst.

A rumble shook their surroundings. Dark clouds formed above, curling droplets of ink, and then it began to rain.

The woman fell to both her knees as she shielded herself from the abrupt wet onslaught. Her dark hair was quickly plastered to her pale face, her horns standing more prominently.

“I’d find cover within your forest,” Zolya suggested from where he remained bone dry, the rain curving around him. Created magic did not affect the creator. “Before your jadüri gets drenched.”

With a large push of his wings, he shot into the air, leaving the girl behind, but not before he saw her ignore his advice. Instead, she was bent forward, frantically searching the grass for the discarded ambrü.

“I was about to wake the camp to come find you.” Osko stood by the dark cliff’s ledge as Zolya ascended onto it.

“Then it is good I have returned before you did.” Zolya tucked in his wings, walking past his joint-in-command to find the nearest fire. One still flickered with life between a cluster of tents by the south-facing wall. He turned, warming his frosted plumage. The heat seeped into him, healing, a mother’s embrace. Zolya let out a soft sigh of contentment.

Though it was summer in Cādra, when this high up in the Bedryg Cliffs, the night air held tight to a chill. An effect the winds coming from the rough Aspero Sea to the east only amplified. His men would be wrapped in their thickest hides tonight.

As he took in the stillness of the camp, the last curls of smoke from doused fires, and the weak aroma of stew long since enjoyed, Zolya surmised they had been tucked in for some time. Despite him still having been out flying.

But he could not fault his men.

Zolya knew they were as beaten down as he was from their endless monthlong search. Cādra was vast, with many places to hide. And while it had been twenty-odd years since Gabreel’s banishment from Galia, Zolya had not expected their hunt to recover the infamous inventor to go on for quite this long.

But it shall end soon, he reminded himself. Tomorrow we will know for certain where you disappeared to, Gabreel Heiro. We will know where a dead man might find sanctuary to live again. And then history would repeat itself.

Zolya frowned, that disquieting whisper in his heart awakening again. But it wasn’t his place to question the desires of his king—and especially not his orders. King Réol acted from the voice of the High Gods in his ear. Whatever his intentions, they were from divine reasoning.

“Well?” Osko came to stand before Zolya, arms crossed, black wings twitching behind him with telling agitation. “Was searching the northern perimeter of the forest as uneventful as the last three times?”

“You really must have more faith in my instincts,” replied Zolya as he worked off his leather gloves, then slipped them into his coat pocket.

“It is not your instincts I question,” countered Osko, his dark brows furrowed. “It’s the risk you pose to yourself by doing these searches alone. What is the point of us keeping this unit if you do not use them?”

“May I remind you,” began Zolya, his tone skirting an edge. “It was not my desire to have a unit at all for this mission. Süra do not exactly grow conversational when a horde of armed Volari approach. Or shall I recount the past failed fortnight of interactions? We have made the progress that we have because of my solo flights.”

Osko’s chest puffed up, his features a twist of ire. He was an ox poised to charge but knowing the result would yield little reward. It was the exact expression he had worn since he was a boy, whenever he found himself in an argument with Zolya.

“I take your silence as you coming to the conclusion that I am right.” Zolya turned, warming his hands next.

“You’re a cramp in my wing is what you are.”

Zolya flashed Osko a grin as the large man drew up beside him. “Spoken like a true friend.”

Osko merely grunted, his attention settling on the fire. The dancing glow brushed across his pale cheek, casting a shadow against the black-inked triangle exposed on the side of his neck.

At the sight of Osko’s tattoo, Zolya’s mood sobered, and he looked away.

Not every Volari marked themselves with their craft of sky magic. Those who could wield heat were a particularly proud lot, however. They believed they were the closest in blessings to King Réol. He who upon descending to the throne inherited not only the god of the sky’s namesake but his magic as well. The all-powerful Ré, the father of the High Gods who ruled the heavens, sun, and sky.

King Réol certainly thought this, too, for he favored the heat wielders, having originally been one himself.

Zolya was born with rain in his blood.

Like his mother.

His first indiscretion.

Zolya curled his outstretched hands into fists, lowering them to his side as he fought a twist of agitation. For a star fall he was back as a boy still sorting out his wrongdoings. But with a calming exhale, he forced his mind to return to the present, to their mission—the one he was going to succeed in.

“Tomorrow we shall seek an audience with Nyddoth Marwth,” Zolya announced, his resolve as hard as the rock beneath his feet.

“We will?” Osko’s shock was clear in his voice. “On what grounds? None of our brothers assigned to the western harvest have said they’ve heard of Gabreel or the likes of a wingless Volari in this area. We will need more than your instincts for us to be allowed entry into a Süra forest, let alone to seek an audience with one of their clan leaders. The intel gathered in Garw was either old or a blatant misdirect. We should search Both Island as we had decided this morning.”

“I met someone tonight who knows Gabreel,” Zolya explained, his gaze meeting his friend’s widening one. “Or I highly suspect knows of him.”

“Suspect?” Osko’s brows drew in. “Did you not get the truth from them?”

Red splashed across Zolya’s vision. Blood and screams and tears. A Volari soldier’s way to truth.

But did it always have to be the way?

A question Zolya knew was safest left a thought.

“I did not need to hear the words to know it was their truth.”

“Zol,” Osko huffed as he shook his head. “This is why I should have accompanied you. Or a kidet. Süra are clever. They’ve prospered as long as they have because the Low God of mischief has blessed them with the art of evasion. How do you know this Süra did not merely tell you what you wanted to know to secure his profit and leave? There certainly have been others on our search who have tried.”

“I know the ways of Süra,” Zolya rebutted, his tone a pinprick of a blade. “And I am not a greenhorn kidet. I am a kidar of the royal palace, same as you, and do not need to defend my findings.”

“You are not the same as I,” grunted Osko.

Zolya cut his friend a glance, their gazes a clashing of tides, but he knew the only way to address such a comment was to ignore it. “We have already searched the Pelk Forest and the Garw,” he reasoned. “All that is left is Zomyad, and despite what you may think, Gabreel is there. Or has been recently. If I am wrong, we will go to Both.”

“And what are we to say to Nyddoth Marwth, hmm?” Osko challenged. “We need proof to search the Süra’s sanctuary forests. You should have snagged this Süra to present to their nyddoth and make him share what he had with you. If you indeed caught him outside the forest, then he had left his territory on his own.”

Zolya ground his teeth together, knowing Osko was right. Why hadn’t he grabbed her?

For the same reason you do not correct your friend that he is in fact she , a voice whispered through him.

Zolya’s skin prickled with awareness as his attention danced over the collection of nearby tents. To the tired men inside. The hungry men. The men who assuredly missed their comforts found back in Galia.

No woman would be safe here, especially not a Süra.

And this concerns you why? asked a cutting internal voice, one that brought shame to fill Zolya’s chest, a scolding scalding. Weakness is a decision made from the heart. Words from his king. Do you wish to be a weakness, Zolya?

Zolya was poised rigidly as the echo of the question burned through him.

Do you wish to be a weakness?

The answer always a tapestry: layered and complicated.

“Without such proof we’ll need to be prepared to offer a generous sum,” Osko continued. “Süra clan leaders are proud. The nyddoth will not be bribed easily. Do you think King Réol will approve of such a bounty?”

Zolya dropped his gaze to the fire, quick to bury the provoking voice in the back of his mind. As he churned over his friend’s question, a vision of the woman from tonight manifested in the jumping flames. Her strength had shone through her eyes, reflecting her will to survive. Yet he couldn’t help but notice her slender frame, the collarbone protruding too prominently from beneath her shirt.

A plan slithered into place.

“Leave it to me for what we will offer,” he said. “To King Réol, the inventor is worth any price to be returned. If Nyddoth Marwth knows of Gabreel’s whereabouts, we will come to an arrangement for him to give him up. And by week’s end we will have him.”

Osko poised to respond but then held off. He studied Zolya, and Zolya let him, a matching of silent calculation and histories shared. In the end, Osko gave a terse nod because there was not much else he could do with such a command.

Zolya’s stance relaxed. Thank you, blessed High Gods, he thought, eager to be done with the conversation, to finally end this painfully long day.

“Is there any supper left?” he asked after another beat, wanting to rid the air of tension.

Osko walked the short distance to a discarded covered pot beside the fire. As he picked it up, the base of the metal glowed red for a spell, Osko warming it with his hands.

“Here,” he said, ladling a bowl and extending it to Zolya. “I made sure the kidets left you some.”

The two men sat together on nearby stools, each of their wings brushing the ground at their backs. The pop and sizzle of the fire became their music, the pulsing of stars overhead their entertainment as Zolya nearly drank the stew in one go. It lacked salt, and taste, but it was warm and filled the empty yawn in his stomach. Once he was finished, his exhaustion fell upon him, unyielding. His recent use of magic had not helped. When already fatigued, to expel such energy merely heightened every soreness and discomfort in his body. But it had felt necessary at the time, and by morning he would be restored to his old self. They all would be once they were set to return home.

“I want you to know,” said Osko, breaking their stretch of quiet, “it was not I who insisted so many of our men joined this mission.”

Zolya set his bowl aside, a new weariness slipping into his bones. “Yes, I know.”

“You’re his son,” Osko continued, reasoning. “It’s natural he’d want to keep you safe.”

Zolya remained silent, though his rebuttal rang loud through his mind, a clawing of truth against his heart.

I’m his heir, he wanted to correct. He wants his legacy safe.

For what other reason would a king need a son?