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A hurricane of panic raged inside Zolya as he stood before his king in the throne room.

His magic surged a protective wind through his veins, the beat of his pulse the heavy downpour of rain. Every instinct in his body screamed to grab Azla and fly.

Because the High God Orzel was present.

A god who was dropped into the seas from the heavens for a reason.

The immortal rose from a small pool of water that had been brought in, his wings a translucent waterfall, his legs surging waves. The rest of him was a weaving of barnacles and seaweed and snapping crabs, crustaceans, and puckering blowfish. His gaze was black, the ocean deep, his features sharp, though no less beautiful despite his patchwork form.

Zolya took note that his attention was pinned exclusively to Azla.

A rush of protectiveness filled Zolya, who wanted to take a step closer to the princess, but he stood still. Such a small movement would be noted by all and assuredly not well received.

What have you done, Father? Zolya wondered in terror.

His gaze moved to where the king stood at the base of Orzel’s pool. Despite having already given the proper prostrations and greetings, the king still wore a smile.

A terrible omen.

If his father was happy, suffering soon followed.

“This is a fortuitous day, my children,” boomed the king. He was fully adorned in his finest attire, including a beaded high-collared jacket with an open front revealing his muscular torso partly covered by a gold-laced chest plate. “Our mighty Orzel has agreed to aid us with the building of our new mine.”

Zolya’s confusion swirled. The new mine?

He chanced a glance at Gabreel, who stood obediently to the far side of the throne room, flanked by two kidets. The inventor had lost weight since his arrival, eyes hollow, a haunting. Zolya pushed away the rising guilt forming in his chest. He had wondered at his presence today, but now it made sense.

Azla’s, however, still did not.

“You get ahead of yourself, Réol,” said Orzel, his voice the lapping of waves against sand, a scratching hiss. “I have only agreed to such a favor if I am satisfied with my bride.”

Zolya’s gaze whipped to the god, then back to his father, blood freezing within his veins.

Surely he had heard wrong.

“Bride, Your Eminence?” questioned Zolya, determined to keep his tone even.

“Yes, our lovely princess,” the king explained, gesturing to where Azla stood at Zolya’s side. “She honors our family greatly with this binding. Come, my child, let me show you to your future mate.”

My child.

Never had the king addressed her as such. The pageantry of this moment mixed with the reality of the situation made Zolya feel sick.

The princess seemed similarly afflicted, for she did not move, her brown complexion bleached of color.

Azla was a painting of terror.

A knife-sharp agony sliced across Zolya’s heart at the sight of such fear in his sister-cousin.

But he knew the longer the princess remained still, the further his father’s displeasure would grow at her insolence.

A solution to this nightmare would come later. The only action now was to comply.

“I will escort you, Princess,” said Zolya, taking up Azla’s hand. It was ice, her gaze a shattering soul as it collided with his.

Help me, brother.

Zolya’s knees nearly buckled as he read what was so plainly etched in her features. But he was the prince of Galia, son of King Réol, and sole heir to the throne. This would not be the first time he had gone along with something he opposed. His father had ensured Zolya’s disobedience was beaten out of him as a boy.

The most he could do to reassure Azla was to place another hand atop hers and squeeze.

He tugged them forward until they were mere steps from the king and Orzel.

The High God’s power cascaded over them, an oppressive sting to mortal flesh.

“What is her age?” asked the god.

King Réol looked expectantly to Zolya, another punch to his heart, for he clearly did not know.

“She is five and sixty, Your Benevolence,” answered Zolya.

“Still very young,” said the king. “She will keep well under your waters.”

Azla’s nails dug into the top of Zolya’s hand; he could sense her beginning to shake.

It took everything in him to remain calm. “If I may, Your Eminence,” Zolya addressed his father. “What is this potential binding to do with the mines?”

“Ah, yes, my son, there has been so much to plan that I forgot to inform you. Our mighty Orzel and I have been in negotiations regarding his sea hitting against the cliffs where we need to build. In exchange for his benevolence to pull back his waters, I have humbly offered a favorite of the High Gods, a piece of the royal house of Diusé, the princess. A gift for his aid.”

A gift.

Not a person.

Not his daughter.

A pawn for the king’s gain.

A wave of ire awoke, hot and sharp, within Zolya, a deep-seated hatred for his father.

The sensation nearly rocked him back a step.

Zolya had taken special care to lock up tight such treacherous feelings.

But what was transpiring in this room was shattering the ironclad cage holding his emotions at bay.

If the king was willing to sacrifice his own flesh and blood, even if she was illegitimate, for the success of this mine, what wouldn’t he do to ensure his crown remained securely in place?

Would Zolya be next?

Would his mother?

The king was talking, declaring more advantages of the pairing, but a ringing had formed in Zolya’s head, blocking out his words. He forgot Azla by his side, forgot the immortal being hovering in front of him.

How has this happened?

How is this the solution?

Zolya’s attention rose to the inventor beyond the king’s shoulder.

When their gazes met, Gabreel quickly averted his.

Shame.

Guilt.

Both shadows Zolya knew well.

This is because of him , Zolya thought in fury.

The infamous inventor and his mad schemes.

Gabreel suggested this. Did this.

No, you did this, said another voice in his head. You found him and brought him back. Because you are too weak to face your father when you fail.

Zolya swallowed down a roar he felt surging up his throat, the room snapping back into focus.

“You will now have a favorite of the High Gods forever with you,” the king was saying. “Or as long as you wish for her to be with you, of course,” he finished with a humoring smile.

Orzel’s features remained expressionless. The god eventually spoke to the princess, finally acknowledging her presence. “Your blood holds wind, yes?”

“It does, Your Benevolence,” she answered, voice but a whisper, eyes remaining respectfully on the floor.

The throne room stretched in silence, the only sound that of the infinite churning waves that were Orzel’s legs.

“Wind does well with water,” the god eventually mused.

“It does indeed,” agreed the king.

“I will have her,” stated Orzel. “I will calm my waters in exchange for your princess as my bride.”

With that, the god vanished into his basin of water.

And the princess vomited by the king’s feet.