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Tanwen was worried, but for the first time in a long while, it was not because of her family.

Princess Azla had taken ill.

Though it was a sickness not of body but of mind.

Tanwen knew, for she had seen it many times before from those in Zomyad: mourning widows, devastated beaux.

No longer did the princess entertain. Every meal she left untouched; she even refused the presence of Lady Esme. Evidently, the mere sight of her lady-in-waiting seemed to throw her into a deeper fit of despair. Or so the servants kept whispering.

It had been three days, and the princess had not left her rooms.

Normally, Tanwen would ignore such rumors swirling downstairs. To her the woes of aristocrats were hardly true suffering, but something had sparked in Tanwen’s heart regarding Princess Azla.

She had been the first, and really only, Volari to ever show her true kindness.

She had taken the time to come to know Tanwen and her talents, even stand up for them. To the prince.

And Tanwen had understood the dangers of this.

Volari could bed Süra, but to defend them or show any loyalty to them ... well, that was a road her father had gone down, and look where that had gotten him.

Süra sympathizers were not long tolerated, especially in Galia.

Which was why, despite the prince’s reprimand, Tanwen found herself approaching the princess’s chambers with a desire to help.

At least as much as she could.

“The princess has ordered not to be disturbed,” said Emyr, eyeing Tanwen as if she smelled most foul.

If anyone was arrogant in their service, it was the ushers to the royal family.

“I have been told her monthly bleeding has begun,” explained Tanwen, lifting her tray laden with meddyg supplies. “The princess ordered that she would need my services once they started.”

“Meddyg Hyrez has already seen to the princess yesterday evening.”

“Even so,” countered Tanwen, forcing her confidence despite her wavering nerves. “Her Royal Highness was adamant that one of her atentés also saw to her in case she needed anything further. I would not like either of us to be punished for not obeying a royal command.”

Emyr studied her, lips pursing. “Be quick,” he demanded.

Tanwen obeyed, ignoring his and the two flanking kidets’ scrutinizing gazes as she pushed into the princess’s chambers.

The door shut behind her with a heavy click. Instantly, she was swallowed in darkness.

Every drape was closed tight; the only hint of the outside was the breeze that billowed beyond the silken folds that led to the stretching veranda.

“Your Royal Highness?” questioned Tanwen as she worked her way deeper into the opulent rooms. The ceilings were monstrously tall, the furniture large, made to fit a form with wings. “Princess, it is Ms. Coster,” Tanwen tried again as she moved toward the bedroom. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, her sense of disquiet blooming as she eyed the doors partly ajar. There was no sound from the princess as she shouldered them open. “I’ve come to see if I can help ease any pains you may be suffering due to your course—” Tanwen gasped, nearly dropped her tray.

Sprawled on the carpet, halfway to the bed, was Princess Azla. She appeared as a bird shot from the sky. Her white wings were fanned out, arms at uncomfortable angles where she was flopped belly down, a mass of snowy hair hiding her face.

“ Princess. ” Tanwen rushed forward, sliding her tray along the rug as she came to kneel by her side. “Princess!” she urged again, heartbeat stampeding hooves against her ribs as her hands hovered over the princess’s body. She was not meant to touch a Volari, let alone a royal—not unless given permission. Tanwen’s panic spiked, her indecision made from the rules of her position clashing with her innate instinct to help.

In the end she bit out a curse as she delicately moved the princess’s hair from her face. Her brown skin appeared sickly, lips a dangerous shade of purple. Tanwen placed her fingers to her neck, releasing a relieved breath as she felt a pulse. It was faint, but it was there.

Tanwen swung her gaze frantically about the room, looking for what might have happened. Then she spotted it: the broken pieces of a teacup beside the princess.

Tanwen jumped over to it, eyeing the brown liquid staining the carpet. She bent low, finding dark bits of flower petals among the spill. She sniffed them, took a small taste before spitting furiously. “ No ,” she croaked, recoiling as the licorice tang overwhelmed her mouth. “No, no, no, no. Princess, what have you done?”

Indigo Eclipse was a coveted bloom, almost as difficult to nurse as a Sun Orchid, but when it blossomed, it was deliciously fragrant as well as deadly poisonous if ingested. Tanwen had noted them scattered around the palace’s exterior. Trophies of beauty, no doubt, over the precariousness of their nature.

In a flash, Tanwen was grunting as she tried rolling Princess Azla to her back, her wings making it difficult, but she eventually managed. Fear gave one unnatural strength.

Princess Azla’s dress was twisted around her delicate form, her arms limp at her sides from where she remained cradled within Tanwen’s embrace. Without thinking further, Tanwen angled her head to one side, forcing the princess’s mouth open, and stuck her fingers deep into her throat.

The princess jolted with a gag, becoming semilucid as she released a splatter of liquid onto Tanwen’s arm.

Tanwen cared not. She did it again and again, forcing out the contents of Princess Azla’s stomach.

The princess groaned, attempting to push Tanwen away, but she held tight.

Only when the princess used her wind magic, blasting it into Tanwen’s face, knocking her back, did she stop.

The princess was moaning, slurring incoherent words as she slumped back to the floor.

Tanwen was a ball of relief.

If the princess was making sounds, then Tanwen had gotten here in time.

Tanwen detangled herself, rushing to mop up the mess as best she could. She threw a blanket over where Princess Azla remained lying on the carpet, wings lifting and falling with her even but shallow breaths.

Tanwen’s entire body shook as she stood, her mind racing.

This is bad, she thought, very bad.

And not only for Princess Azla.

If anyone was to walk in, observe the situation, Tanwen would assuredly be blamed.

“They will execute me,” she whispered.

Panic clawed viciously through her veins.

Why did I come here? she chastised herself. Why couldn’t I keep to my regular duties and leave the princess well enough alone?

Because you have a healer’s heart. Her mother’s voice eased into her mind. Your duty is to help others.

What about helping myself? Tanwen wanted to argue. Altruism was not a celebrated trait, certainly not in Galia, and it was certainly not a luxury for a Mütra to act upon. Her mother had taught her this as well.

Tanwen swallowed the frustrating scream angling up her throat as she stared at the princess on the floor.

Her fight or flight was a battle of wills in her chest.

But where would I go? she thought. I’m on this godforsaken floating island.

Running was not an option. Tanwen had been the last to enter the princess’s chambers. If she did not fix this, and quietly, she might as well swallow the remainder of the wet Indigo Eclipse lying on the carpet and escape to the Eternal River in the princess’s stead.

Tanwen balled her hands into fists at her side.

She had to fight.

Everything her mother had taught her about the deadly bloom surged forward. There was much still needed to tend to the princess, to ensure she was out of Maryth’s grasp, but she required help.

Whose help? was the question.

Alys was the obvious choice, but there was no certainty she could keep secrets, especially one of this magnitude, despite the princess being her charge. She also held delicate nerves. She might instantly scream upon seeing the princess and bring every guard running.

Tanwen needed someone whom she could trust with such a sensitive matter. Who would do everything in their power to prevent anyone from discovering what the princess had attempted, as it would tarnish the royal family and jeopardize the crown’s stability.

“I’m mad,” mused Tanwen, knowing who alone fit such a description. “I’m mad,” she said again as she rushed toward the door. “I will be back as quick as I can, Princess,” she called over her shoulder. “ Please , stay breathing,” she finished to herself.

Everything became a blur as she slid from the princess’s chambers, explaining to Emyr that she needed more bleeding rags. That the princess most assuredly did not want to be disturbed by anyone , least of all a man. He did not question her hurried steps away.

It was midweek, which meant she would find him on the Recreational Lawn.

Breathless, Tanwen wove through the pillared halls, wishing more than ever she had wings of her own to get there faster.

As she kept her head down, she skirted the columns, doing her best to disguise her panic.

But the birds who lived within the palace seemed to pick up on her distress. A chorus of tweets and calls followed her path. A few finches danced from candelabra to statue to banister’s ledge as she passed, asking if she was all right.

I will be if you remain quiet, she pleaded, eyeing the court members who had begun to take in the odd display of fowl.

Please, she urged, eyes trained on the floor as she shuffled through. I can’t afford a scene.

The hall instantly went quiet.

Tanwen cringed.

The sudden silence was perhaps more attention grabbing, but as she sped forward, she thanked the birds nonetheless.

Soon, she exited the main palace compound. The sun was dipping past midday, the evening light sending orange tendrils across the marble steps Tanwen ascended. The heat gripped her skin as she squinted into the far-off lawn, studying the amassing crowd settling around the base of a pitch. High above, in the center of the field, a flurry of wings zipped and soared and dipped through the air. It was the weekly games of pavol. A sport played by the kidets and kidars involving an oval ball and a lot of wrestling and sky magic. Tanwen had glimpsed the game once with little to recommend.

But she appeared alone in her disinterest, for the entire palace flocked to the Recreational Lawn once a week, servants included.

It probably didn’t hurt that he played among his men.

As Tanwen rushed forward, she could instantly make out the prince against all the other players. He was like a drop of sunshine hovering in the sky, dazzlingly bright. A star. His white wings drank in the light as they were splayed wide, his immaculately sculpted torso bare and brown and beautiful. His pants clung to him as he twisted through the air.

Tanwen’s cheeks felt flushed as she eyed his taut muscles, the grace of his movements, his strength.

It made her uncomfortable.

She wished to never look away.

Reason enough she held off on attending these matches with the rest of the staff.

That, and it was one of the only times the palace grew empty; even Madam Arini attended the games, giving Tanwen an opportunity to walk more freely, search for her father and brother along with Eli.

But today she had been foolish with her time, deciding to help a royal instead of looking for her family.

Guilt was a hammerblow to her chest.

One she forced aside as she dived into the mass of onlookers at the perimeter of the field.

The games had yet to begin, the shirtless players still stretching and idly passing the ball.

Tanwen’s mind raced to piece together a plan as she pushed her way forward through the crowd.

The courtiers sat in raised stadium seats, while the servants stood along the lawn. This at least afforded her front-row access.

But once she squeezed her way between two disgruntled footmen, toeing the chalked line, the grass on the other side an immaculate rich green, she became paralyzed.

What now?

Tanwen’s nerves continued to shoot across her body as she worried her bottom lip.

The prince hovered at the opposite end of the field. His wings were a terrifying pumping of power as he idly chatted with a kidar beside him. Kidar Terz, Tanwen had learned, the one who had held a knife to her brother’s throat and was often seen with the prince.

A burning hatred filled her chest. In a stopping of time, she wavered once again on whether she should be doing this at all.

In the end, she came to the same conclusion: My life is at stake, but also ... I can’t let the princess die .

Her healer heart wouldn’t allow it.

With a steadying breath, Tanwen stared full force at the prince.

Not the most sound of plans, but it had worked before; perhaps it would work again.

Look at me, Tanwen thought, urged, prayed, ignoring the pressing crowd at her back. Please, look at me.

He didn’t.

Because of course not.

Tanwen was merely an insignificant speck among the pulsing assembly of fans, a servant made to blend in with all the others.

Argh! she wanted to scream. If only she could rush forward, yell his name.

In a flash of desperation, Tanwen grasped the gold clasp holding together one of her dress’s straps, angling it so it might catch a spark of light.

Please, please, please, see me! she silently yelled. See me!

She felt like a fool standing there wobbling the metal, hoping that those beside her were too busy admiring the players to pay her mind.

She was about to drop her hands in defeat when a distant blue gaze landed on her.

Tanwen held her breath.

The prince—he had seen her.

Was seeing her.

She kept his stare, eyes wide to display her panic as she mouthed Azla, Azla!

The prince frowned as he regarded her, remaining entirely too far away.

Deciding she was already crazed, Tanwen leaned into her madness and beckoned him with her hands. A tight gesture, close to her chest.

Come, the gesture said. Come now!

Prince Zolya’s brows rose, something passing through his features, but at this distance Tanwen could not make it out and didn’t care to wait around to decipher. She turned and threw herself back into the crowd, heading toward the palace.

She hoped the prince’s curiosity, or at the very least his offense, would cause him to follow.

Her steps nearly became a sprint as she approached the white pantheon of the west wing, but instead of ascending the stairs, she cut to the left, rounding a corner to tuck herself into a small grove of trees. Hidden.

With him hovering in the sky, he would have seen where she fled.

Her heart pumped wildly in her chest, her breathing uneven as she waited.

Did it work? Is he coming?

Too much time began to pass. Tanwen’s desperation for the prince to show turned to worry about not returning to the princess in time.

But then a whip of wind pushed through the leaves above her; a dark shadow descended into the grove. The pebbles beneath his feet crunched with his landing.

Tanwen’s pulse took a tumble.

At a distance he had been a sight, but at this nearness he was overwhelming. The prince was a vision of sculpted perfection, shirtless and gleaming. His hair was pulled back, leaving room for his angular features to be admired undisturbed. On his left pectoral were three vertical inked stripes, the symbol of his rain magic.

Tanwen’s skin heated, and she swallowed hard as he tucked in his wings, approaching.

She gave a quick and clumsy bow.

“Ms. Coster,” he began, his deep rumble stroking down her spine. “Your behavior is most untoward.”

“Are your guards in tow, sire?”

Prince Zolya’s brows lifted. From her question or from her directness, or both, she couldn’t say. “Should they be?” he asked.

Tanwen glanced behind him, to the parting of trees, finding the space empty.

“I instructed my men to remain at the pitch,” he explained. “Your covert summons had me assume this was of a delicate matter. Though why I felt the need to answer, I do not know.” He said the last bit more to himself, a displeased murmur.

“It’s the princess, sire,” said Tanwen.

His expression froze. “What about her?”

“She ...” Oh gods, am I really going to do this?

“She what ?” His tone carried an edge as he took a step closer. “Ms. Coster, this—”

“She drank poison,” Tanwen blurted out. “Indigo Eclipse. But I found her in time. I came to her chambers to see to her monthly bleeding, but she was just lying there—” Tanwen frantically waved at the ground between them. “I got her to dispel most of it. She lives,” she assured, seeing his complexion pale, panic seizing. “But she still needs help. I—”

“Who else knows?” Prince Zolya was a calm storm as he gazed down at her, wings tense at his back.

“Only me,” answered Tanwen before thinking, Oh gods, only me.

He can get rid of me.

Her rushed plan had missed this detail.

“I came to find you directly, sire.” She tried to backstep. “I understood this to be a sensitive matter. Not even Emyr or her lady’s maid or the guards beyond her door know how I found the princess. I came to you directly,” she repeated, knowing she sounded desperate because she was desperate. Desperate for him to understand her value in keeping the princess alive. “As I said, I got what I could from her stomach, but she still needs tending to. I know meddyg Hyrez is of preference, but I did not know if he’d be obligated to tell the king, and I wanted you to make that call, sire. I have been trained in how to heal from poisons. I can help, but I will need—”

Prince Zolya was upon her in an instant, a wall of muscle and wings, the scent of sunshine and wind, stopping her words.

Tanwen felt dizzy at his nearness, fought an overwhelming urge to close the last bit of distance between them.

“Do not make a sound,” he warned.

“Sire?” she squeaked in disobedience.

But then the ground fell away as he scooped her up, as though she were as light as a reed.

Erratic heartbeat in her throat, Tanwen went rigid as she clung to his bare shoulders—warm, smooth, tempting—before he shot them into the sky.