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The king was angry.

And regrettably, Gabreel was to blame.

“You have wasted my time, Heiro,” boomed King Réol.

He was a rippling statue of muscle draped in white robes from where he stood at the head of the stone table. Gabreel was at the far end, having been brought to his council room, which was less of a room and more of a circular pillared temple on the west side of the palace. A lonely building surrounded by sky.

The only way in was to fly or climb a treacherous rocky wall. Gabreel might not have worn shackles, but his bonds were the perils of a deadly descent. As a light breeze blew through the columns, the scars along Gabreel’s back burned, ghostly wings urging him to escape, to jump from the ledge and be free.

But he could not.

For more reasons than the brutal reality that he no longer had wings.

“You have wasted my time,” the king repeated as his wintry gaze speared Gabreel. “And your own in your attempt to protect your offspring. These plans are unacceptable.” He dropped the schematics on the table, the papers fanning out.

“Your Majesty,” said Gabreel calmly, hands in fists at his back. “These are two viable and working options for the mine. More than what my predecessor could create.”

“Yes, but they exceed our budget to erect,” chimed in Lord Tezzos, one of the king’s advisers. He was a trussed-up bird in his lavender-and-gold tunic, wings dyed to match. A theme, it appeared, for all in the king’s council. The painted parrots were six in total, a colorful wall of fashion on either side of His Majesty.

“That’s what it costs to build at this site,” countered Gabreel. “The rock is unstable so close to the cliffs. The waves erode masses of dirt each year. We might be able to tap the ore for a time, but it would be short lived and extremely dangerous for both workers and overseers. We must fortify it properly, or you might as well throw every gem and ambrü you spend straight into the Aspero Sea.”

There was a chorus of huffs and annoyed sputters from the council. They might have been displeased, but they knew Gabreel was right. Certainly, it was not the first time they had heard such an assessment. His predecessor’s schematics were wrought with such findings. But where Bardrex had failed to finish the mine’s design infrastructure, Gabreel had succeeded. Twice.

“And your other plan?” questioned one of the treasury chairs. Lord Artur, Gabreel thought his name was. He was a sprig of a man, pale, his brown wings seemingly too big for him to command with any real skill. New blood, Gabreel thought. Primed to be corrupted. “Is there a way to build from further away that will not take as long?” Lord Artur pressed.

If Gabreel were a cat, he would have hissed. These men were buffoons, children wishing for miracles.

A pounding throb had begun along his temples, sleep deprivation mixing with his desperate rage.

He had been working tirelessly over the past weeks to meet the deadline of this council session. Not sleeping, hardly eating.

The only soul capable of awakening him from his hypnosis was his son. Aberthol’s torture had blessedly paused with Gabreel’s progress, and with it his son had begun to stir, pieces of his old self returning in fractured light. He had even begun to sit beside Gabreel, watching as he worked. At one point, Thol had offered up a suggestion or two. It had nearly brought Gabreel to tears. But instead, he had merely nodded and scribbled down the note. Gabreel did not want to startle away whatever healing might have begun in his son.

Of course, Gabreel understood demons did not fade—pain became scars, forever marking minds—but with time he hoped Aberthol would return to a semblance of his old soul.

As had happened to Gabreel after he lost his wings.

It had taken nearly a decade to understand who he was, what he was, without them, but with the help of Aisling and the birth of his children, he understood his purpose lay in his mind, not his feathers.

Unfortunately, Gabreel feared time was not a luxury his son had for healing his wounds.

“Yes,” said Gabreel. “I’m sure there is a way to build quicker. It’s a matter of procuring, or inventing, the right methods to do so. If I am given another week or—”

“You have already been given many weeks,” interrupted King Réol, wings snapping at his back.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I have.” Gabreel bowed. “For which I am forever grateful, but I was unaware of how strict our timing and budget truly were. With my past services, there was always flexibility—”

“Your past services also produced more inspired solutions.” The king’s voice was a cracking of a whip.

Gabreel kept his head bowed, thumping heartbeat pounding against his ribs.

Time. I need more time.

The temple fell quiet, save for the subtle breeze running its fingers through the surrounding columns.

“Perhaps you have too many distractions, Heiro,” began the king, a deceptive delight leaking into his tone. “Your spawn might inspire your speed, but it appears to deflate your usual inventive mind.”

Gabreel’s gaze met King Réol’s, his lungs constricting with panicked fire.

No! he wanted to scream. Do not touch my son!

It took everything in Gabreel to remain quiet, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

The king already knew he had him trapped with Aberthol, knew he could control Gabreel like a marionette. One simple pull of a string, and he’d bring him to his knees. It would not benefit Gabreel to give the king any more pleasure by letting him hear his pain. The High Gods knew he got enough by watching.

“Yes,” continued the king, tone musing. “I believe I have been too lenient with you. If you want your week, you may have it, but in exchange you will give me your spawn for that time. I have no doubt you will find a better solution than what you have presented so far.”

Gabreel was no longer standing in the room; he was shredded into a dozen pieces, ribbons of silent screams, strips of painful howls as King Réol gave a nod to the awaiting guards.

This monster will have my child, thought Gabreel, his lucidness slipping as hands gripped his arms. He will destroy him. Gabreel was pulled back, ushered toward the edge of the temple, only clouds and sky beyond. Soon he would be flown back to his windowless hole. It should be me he takes. Me he destroys. Not Thol, not Thol, not Thol.

“ Wait! ” Gabreel boomed, digging his heels into the marble floor, attempting to twist out of his captors’ hold. His skin burned against their vise grip, muscles screaming. “Your Majesty! There is another way! I have another way! Please, it may be mad, but let me share it with you.”

The temple fell quiet as the king signaled for the soldiers to halt, turning Gabreel back to him.

“Mad, you say?” inquired the king.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gabreel breathed, desperate intakes of air. “It is an idea from a Gabreel of the past.”

His words hit.

Gabreel was released, and with awkward, panicked motions, he demanded one of his leather-bound cases from the guards. He passed a scroll of papers to a councilman, who handed it to the king.

Gabreel watched, anxiousness swirling, as King Réol read through the proposal. It was a plan he had thought of during one of his exhausted sleepless nights. When reason gave way to make-believe, to dreams, to desperate fanciful hopes of how a problem might be solved. He had glanced to his son dozing in the corner, watched the gentle rises and falls of his chest, and had a mad slip of illusion they were back in their den in Zomyad. Aisling would be upstairs in her workroom, their children safe, tucked in. A sob nearly tumbled from him then. How angry was Aisling at him? How disappointed was she that he had brought such harm to their family? This was when Gabreel had written down his mad scheme, organized it as thoughtfully as any other probable solution. Aisling would have told him to do it, ordered him to.

Whatever is needed to save our child, do!

So Gabreel had.

After all, they had spent the past two decades tirelessly working to avoid Gabreel standing exactly where he was now, forced to create another design that would exploit the vulnerable for the gain of the powerful.

Gabreel had been naive to think he could ever escape his past, be gifted a life after his sin with the Dryfs Mine.

Why then fight fate further?

The king could have whatever plan of Gabreel’s he liked. For as it was proved, he’d have it in the end anyway.

His Majesty met Gabreel’s gaze from across the table.

A trickling of sickening, dreaded silence.

And then the king did something that was perhaps more terrifying than his wrath: he laughed, a rumble of thunder.

Gabreel held back a wince.

“And here is the man I remember,” said King Réol, his blue gaze a reflective clear sky as he studied Gabreel. “Gabreel Heiro,” he added, almost sighed. “The man who invents marvels from miracles.” He passed the papers to the hungry men at his sides. They were vipers, lashing out to read first—at the very least, not wanting to be the last.

“Orzel?” whispered one of the councilmen in confusion.

“The High God?” another questioned with a frown.

“He controls the sea,” said Gabreel matter-of-factly. “And the sea is our mine’s issue.”

“So it is,” agreed the king. He was now looking at Gabreel as if a fond, proud parent.

“He will pull back the tides?” asked Lord Artur, who now held the plans, one delicate skeptical brow lifted.

“That is the idea,” confirmed Gabreel. “If Orzel could calm the waters, permanently pull back the tide in that section, we can build the new mine twice as fast for half the price. It would be as if we were erecting a mine on dry land.”

How easy it all sounded, how logical. But, of course, there was a snag.

“Your Majesty,” began Lord Tezzos. “As you know, Orzel ... is not the most cooperative of High Gods to ... negotiate with.”

Tezzos was being delicate. Orzel was the angriest, most disagreeable of the High Gods. Forever destined to live so close to the Low Gods, he was in a state of eternal displeasure, which showed in his constant rough seas. Orzel was in a permanent state of having a tantrum.

Which was exactly what made this plan so insane, so impossible.

“He’ll certainly demand something of great value,” said Lord Artur.

“A trade much worthier than what he is giving us,” added another.

“Perhaps a gift that will connect him closer to the High Gods?” suggested Lord Tezzos.

“Yes,” agreed the king, features turning pensive. “A gift is what he will desire. A gift that only I could give.” A dangerous spark of understanding lit his gaze as it settled back on Gabreel. “Luckily, I know just the one to offer.”