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The princess lay in bed, asleep. Her brown complexion had returned, and her lips were no longer purple, though the dark shadows beneath her eyes remained. A stain of endless shed tears.

Tanwen placed the decanter of medicine on a side table, then gently wiped Princess Azla’s lips before bending to check the intravenous line that was attached to the inside of her elbow.

“She’ll sleep for a while now,” Tanwen explained, doing her best to ignore Prince Zolya’s encroaching form. He sat close to the bed, attached to the other end of the tube, his blood being used to clean the princess’s. “We can remove this soon, sire.”

He remained silent, continuing to stare in the direction of the closed curtains. His expression gave nothing of his feelings away, a stoic statue lit by the nearby flickering candlelight.

When they had landed on the princess’s veranda, he had let go of Tanwen so fast she nearly toppled to the hard stone. In quick strides he had entered Princess Azla’s chambers, pausing for only a breath as he caught sight of his sister-cousin unconscious on the ground before scooping her up and laying her in bed.

Then came the demands.

Tanwen was to give him a list of what she would need to fix this. She was to reenter the princess’s chambers from the outside while he went to fetch the items. All evidence of the event needed to be eradicated, cleaned, wiped away.

Tanwen had obeyed.

And the prince had returned through the veranda as quickly as when they both had left.

Tanwen didn’t know how he had gotten everything she needed, if those he took from questioned why he would require such a plethora of medical supplies or a variety of herbs and hot water, but when he handed everything over wordlessly, Tanwen knew in that moment she had done what was right.

The princess would live, no one would know what had been attempted, and, Tanwen hoped, she would remain alive so long as the prince felt he required her services.

The only precarious spot had been their flight together.

“Sire,” Tanwen began slowly. “Do you think anyone saw ... that is, when you carried me here ...”

Prince Zolya shook his head. “Mostly everyone was at the pitch,” he answered. “And I skirted the side of the palace that is mostly wall.”

Tanwen nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She needed to remember that he had grown up here and assuredly knew the ground’s idiosyncrasies better than most.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to his arm.

He offered it up, watching as she extracted the needle.

Tanwen was excruciatingly aware of his attention, of his still-shirtless form and warm skin beneath her fingers. Her pulse became a restless sprint as the memories of him holding her flooded her mind.

Despite flying high above the ground, Tanwen had felt surprisingly safe in his arms. His grip had been sturdy yet gentle as he held her against his chest. The cool rush of air was a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. Tanwen had been oddly overtaken by the freedom of the moment, when they had soared untethered by gravity. With Zolya’s mighty wings pumping at his back, his power seeped into her grip, the flex of his muscles, the subtle metallic tang of his magic lifting from his skin causing her own to burn with a strange, mad longing.

And then it was over, and they were back on solid ground.

Tanwen had been left unsteady on the veranda as the prince had hurried to the princess.

Tanwen blinked, the bedroom coming back into focus. She still held the extracted needle, Prince Zolya eyeing her questioningly.

She cleared her throat, hating the blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Press this against the incision point, sire,” she instructed as she handed him a piece of cloth.

She turned to do the same to the princess, and after tying a bandage around her elbow, she moved to the end of the bed, where she had set up her meddyg table.

Tanwen meticulously cleaned her supplies as the room hung in silence.

“Thank you,” came a quiet rumble.

Tanwen glanced up in surprise, her hands half-submerged in water.

The prince was bent over, studying the princess, his large white wings draped down his back, skimming the floor. A small worried pinch sat between his brows. It was the first emotion he had released since he entered Princess Azla’s rooms.

“You saved her.” His blue gaze lifted to meet Tanwen’s. “Azla was right. You are a skilled meddyg, Ms. Coster.”

Tanwen took an unsteady breath in, not knowing what to do with such gratitude from the prince. She certainly should not have enjoyed the way his compliment slunk down her body like warm honey.

“We both saved the princess, sire,” she replied, removing her hands from the water basin and drying them. “She would not have recovered as quickly if not for your blood.”

Prince Zolya glanced back at Princess Azla. “She will be mad we saved her,” he said.

“If she is,” said Tanwen, “I’m sure it won’t be for long.”

Tanwen still wasn’t sure what had led the princess to take such action, but it wasn’t her place to pry.

“This is my fault.” The admission left the prince in a whoosh, a dam breaking as his features finally crumpled. He appeared haunted, devastated, young. He pulled the princess’s hand into his own, stroking the top with his thumb. It was an affectionate gesture, loving, and in this moment Tanwen no longer saw a prince and a princess but the bond of a brother and a sister. Siblings. Family.

She saw herself and Thol.

A heavy weight pressed against her chest, an uncomfortable sensation that came from understanding his suffering, empathizing with it. “That could not possibly be true, sire,” she reasoned.

“She’s meant to marry Orzel.”

Tanwen blinked. “The High God?”

“A recent marriage arrangement decreed by my father.”

Oh dear, thought Tanwen, her attention settling back on the sleeping princess.

This was why she had sought Indigo Eclipse. Such a marriage was a death sentence on its own. The princess would be losing the woman she loved, taken far from her home, a creature born for the sky forced to be submerged into the deep, bound to the angriest of all the High Gods.

It appeared if she was to die, the princess wished to take her own life on her own terms.

A clawing guilt filled Tanwen. Had they done what was right?

“I still do not see how this is your fault,” she said, watching as the prince brushed away a stray hair from the princess’s face. “If it was the king who ordered the marriage.”

Prince Zolya’s frown deepened. “I brought him back.”

“Who?”

“The inventor.”

Tanwen froze.

The inventor.

Her father.

“It was his scheme which brought this upon the princess.”

Tanwen’s defensiveness flared, but she forced her tone to be even. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a trade that’s part of the building of the new mine. A favor from Orzel to pull back his waves at the excavation site in exchange for a princess bride.”

This information settled like soured food to Tanwen’s gut. “How do you know the inventor suggested this?”

“Because only Heiro would think up something so ... barbaric.” Prince Zolya nearly spit the last word.

Barbaric?

Tanwen’s outrage was a surging wave.

Barbaric was cutting off the wings of those in love.

Barbaric was hunting down those whose only crime in life was their existence and then murdering them in broad daylight.

Barbaric was stealing back a man who already served his time, suffered his penance, while holding his son hostage.

Barbaric was this island.

This palace.

The king and the High Gods he so adored.

But certainly not her father.

“I do not know the relationship of the inventor and the king,” Tanwen found herself saying, a chill to her voice, “but I would be amazed if Mr. Heiro felt comfortable enough to offer up the king’s only daughter as a solution to any of his plans surrounding the new mine.”

She instantly wished to swallow back the words as Prince Zolya’s attention turned toward her, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I ... speak out of turn, sire.” She averted her gaze.

“Yes, Ms. Coster, you do, but I ask that you explain your meaning. You obviously appear to have some passion on the subject.”

“I do not, sire.”

“And now you lie to me.”

“No—” She glanced up, finding the prince watching her closely, as he had done at their first meeting in the fields outside Zomyad. As if he saw through what she presented. But this time he was half-naked in a bedroom. “I merely question the inventor’s place to be so bold in his advisement to offer the princess,” she explained.

“Indeed,” agreed the prince. “But then who could be so bold?”

The king.

No one spoke the words, but the answer echoed through the room nonetheless.

A shadow passed across the prince’s features, a dark understanding, as a frenetic energy filled the air, as though it were about to storm.

Every nerve ending in Tanwen was on alert.

Prince Zolya abruptly stood, wings fluttering at his back, making the bedroom—despite its immensity—feel entirely too small.

“I’m going to inform the staff that you are to remain with the princess,” he said. “She came down with an illness due to her courses. You were here to see that she got the proper care. Alys will be fetched to assist in anything else you may need. I require to be notified when she wakes.” He rounded the bed, approaching Tanwen. Her pulse quickened. “No couriers, Ms. Coster,” he instructed, stopping an arm’s distance away, glaring down. A wall of strength and bare skin and heat. “Anything to do with this particular matter and the princess, you will come to me directly.”

“Yes, sire.” She nodded.

“The king must never find out—do you understand?” His voice lowered, a warning. “It would only have him hurry the wedding further. If you truly care for the princess, you will never speak of what transpired here today. I will certainly know if you do.”

His threat was a cold finger ringing her neck.

“Yes, sire. You have my word.”

He studied her for a long moment, as though peeling back her flesh and bone in search of what else she might be made of. Despite her position, Tanwen forced herself to hold his gaze. I am stronger than you may think, she wanted to tell him. As their connection stretched, the space between them crackled and warmed, a traitorous pulling. Something dark and foreboding flashed through the prince’s eyes. But neither of them dared step closer. Because why would they?

He was a Volari prince.

She was a servant.

When Prince Zolya spoke next, his voice was as rough as an uncut stone. “I have a decided sense, Ms. Coster, that you are good at keeping secrets.”

Tanwen’s heart was a pounding drum against her ribs.

“Yes, sire,” Tanwen answered. “Kept secrets and I are very well acquainted.”