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Gabreel had all but given up on the High Gods years ago, but it appeared Udasha still remembered his decades of service. The goddess of luck was shining on him that morning as he and Aberthol were transferred from their windowless room to an old groundskeeper’s cottage on the northern edge of the palace grounds.

Blessed fresh air pushed its way through the small open panes. Dust motes danced within the sunbeams as Gabreel and Aberthol were shown into the abandoned space.

What might have appeared as squalor to those on Galia was a haven to the inventor and his son. After their weeks spent locked in their cramped and lightless prison, the multiple-room home felt extravagant. Gone were the shared floor mat and musty blankets. In its place was an actual bedroom with two beds and down mattresses. There was even a small kitchen with a kettle and provided herbs, bread, cheeses, eggs, and fresh water.

But what Gabreel took note of immediately were the windows. Every room had one. Even the shed—now a converted workshop—that was connected to the kitchen and where they were currently being shuffled.

Three rooms total.

Three windows.

Three views that teased their freedom.

Teased, not promised. Because though their surroundings were an enhancement, the cottage was still very much a prison. Guards were stationed by the front door, while the entire back of the building skirted a steep cliffside. To climb out was a perilous journey, and one would still find oneself stuck on a floating island high in the sky.

And yet even a sliver of blue expanse was a welcome sight compared to the dungeon they had been suffering.

“We will finish transferring the rest of your materials tonight,” explained the gruff voice of the kidet who loomed in the workshop’s doorway, his wings barely fitting in the frame. “As requested by the king, you’ll be able to oversee the build of the mine from this new location day and night.” He gestured to a large telescope protruding out the far window.

Gabreel approached it, bending to peer through the lens. The magnification was impressive, as he could clearly see the northern edge of Cādra. And there, hugging the coastline before spilling over its ledge, was a skeleton of the new mine. It appeared fragile with its naked beams and scaffolding. But where once rough sea pounded rock, assuredly bashing and breaking such a structure with a simple cresting wave, the rock wall now sat dry. Orzel, as agreed, had pulled the tides, allowing construction to begin.

“Once you’re settled,” said the guard, “let us know if you need anything further to outfit your new workroom.”

“I will still need to have visits on site,” explained Gabreel, turning back to the kidet. “To ensure all of my schematics I’m creating up here are properly installed down there.”

“Prince Zolya and Kidar Terz will be your liaisons for that,” he replied, eyes tracking Aberthol, who was inspecting their new workspace.

Don’t look at him, Gabreel wanted to seethe, the heat in his blood thrashing against his skin. He hated any notice the kidets took of his son.

“No offense to His Royal Highness and Kidar Terz,” said Gabreel, stepping forward so he could redraw the attention of the guard, “but neither is an engineer.”

“Engineers are stationed at the mine,” the kidet explained coolly. “Those who were Bardrex’s assistants. They are on the ground for His Royal Highness to confer with and will be sending the king, his council, and you weekly reports to review.”

How thorough of the king to ensure I never have need to leave this place, thought Gabreel darkly.

“And in the meantime?” asked Gabreel. “What exactly does His Majesty wish of me?”

“To do what you are meant to,” said the kidet, gesturing to their surroundings. “Invent.”

With that the soldier left Gabreel and Aberthol, seeming too eager to escape the small cottage. Their front door was pulled shut, metal lock bolting into place.

The descending quiet echoed with the guard’s last words.

Do what you are meant to do. Invent.

Gabreel refocused on the workroom as a creeping unease slithered awake in his gut. Everything now shone with new light. From the fresh parchment and balsa wood and ink along the stretching table to the far wall, which was fully stocked with a variety of new tools and instruments: T squares and straightedges, dials and circumferentors, adzes and calipers. Even their stocked kitchen and new sleeping accommodations were no longer fortuitous.

This was not merely a transfer for Gabreel to oversee the building of the new mine. It was the foundation of a permanent residence.

The king was settling Gabreel in to stay.

Them to stay.

Such a realization should be a relief, prayers answered that they were then to live.

But no joy came to Gabreel. Only panic as he met Aberthol’s gaze from across the table.

His son had continued to wither despite the latest reprieve in his torture. His cheeks were sunken, his once-lustrous dark curls now limp and matted around his horns. The dark smudges under his eyes were a forever reminder of his fitful sleeps, his screams in the night and quiet sobs. And there Gabreel had lain beside him, unable to console him, comfort him. His touch still causing Aberthol to recoil.

The only hint of light in his son had come when they had learned Tanwen was in the palace. It was like a shooting star, hope there and gone in his gaze before Aberthol’s features grew dark. As he, no doubt, came to the same conclusion as Gabreel.

Tanwen was just as trapped as the two of them.

“They will collect me tonight,” said Thol, his despondent tone refocusing Gabreel’s attention, “for him giving us this place.”

Him.

The king.

Their monster.

“I will not let them,” Gabreel promised.

“You have no power to stop them,” stated Aberthol. It was said not in anger, merely in resignation—pity, even.

His father could not protect him.

His father could not protect any of them.

And Aberthol had accepted this. He stood in their defeat.

A painful chill wrapped around Gabreel as he understood his son had lost all faith in him.

But the worst of it was, he could not blame Thol.

Gabreel had lost faith in himself. In the entire world and every cursed god who tricked mortals into worshipping them for the hope of their favor.

Which was why Tanwen being here was not fortuitous.

It was to be his family’s final tragedy.

A parable to teach others: look what will transpire if you dare defy your almighty king—you will be made to watch all that you love die.

“Thol, I—” began Gabreel before stopping himself. He didn’t know what he could say to his child to ease his pain, lessen either of their suffering.

Everything he had done since they arrived was for Aberthol, for Aisling, and for their family. Every moment he spent ensuring the success of the mine—gladly accepting the future suffering of thousands of Süra and standing silently by when the princess was offered up as chattel—was all to keep his son safe.

For them to have one more night where he would not be taken.

And yet . . .

Failure.

I am a failure.

The mine was underway, and Thol’s future still loomed uncertain, painful. Once the mine was complete, how quickly would the king shrug off his promise to Gabreel and begin to play with Aberthol based on his whims? More than he already had been. His Mütra pet.

Gabreel dug his fingers into the table he leaned on, his useless rage roaring through his veins.

He was stuck.

Trapped.

In body and in mind.

“Do you think Wen will return?” Aberthol asked, picking anxiously at a scab on his arm.

“For her and her mother’s sake, I hope not,” said Gabreel, brows furrowing.

A pensive quiet stretched between them.

“If she does,” began Thol, “how will she know where we’ve been moved?”

“We were very publicly paraded through the upper halls to get here,” said Gabreel. “But I also dropped a scroll by the crack in the door to our old cell for Eli. She will know.”

Thol worried his bottom lip, gaze unseeing as he stared out the window to Gabreel’s right.

“She cannot end up like me,” Thol eventually whispered.

“Like you?” questioned Gabreel.

His son met his eyes, the shadows swimming in their green depths a haunting. “If there is a promise you wish to fulfill, Father,” he said, “let it be that Wen will never become like me.”

Like me.

Broken.

Hollow.

The king’s plaything.

His request was said like a desperate command, hoarse and terrified and determined.

“Thol,” choked Gabreel, stepping toward his son, but Aberthol merely stepped back, shaking his head before dashing into the kitchen.

Gabreel winced as the door slammed shut.

He was left standing alone in his workroom.

The wind from the cliffside howled through the open pane at his back. The stark reality of his solitude bore down on him as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, gathering the fortitude he needed to survive another day.

Aisling, he thought, I need your strength. I need you.

But despite his plea to his wife, who remained half a world away, Thol’s command continued to bear down on him.

Wen can never become like me.

No, thought Gabreel, his breaths growing painful. Nor can she become like me.

A soul full of regret.