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Tanwen’s bottom held more bruises than a rotten apple. The days of endless sitting within the covered wagon mixed with the overwhelming scent of body odor had made for a rough journey home.

But despite her discomforts, Tanwen had never been so happy.

She was back in Zomyad.

The city of Ordyn rose up and around them like a giant interwoven garden. Moss-covered branches twisted to connect bridges and footpaths high above, while warm glows emanated from the hundreds of dens and businesses built along the giant trunks and protruding roots.

Tanwen angled forward, between the others sitting beside her, to get a better look out the back of the carriage.

The road along the forest floor was clogged, a bustling of travelers coming and going. Hardly any paid mind to the caravan of returning recruits.

As their cart rolled to a halt beside the Recruitment Office, Tanwen nearly tripped over the other passengers in her desperation to place booted feet to soft soil.

The fresh, cool air was a heady slap. One that caused her to take large, hungry inhales.

Tanwen couldn’t get enough of the woody richness. Gone were the dry, overperfumed florals and constant jasmine breeze.

No longer was the sky a bright and intrusive blue, but it was now a glorious green. A canopy of shaded safety stretched high above. Ré’s light was only allowed fingers of sunlight to stream through the fanned-out leaves; the rest was a soft, covered jade illumination.

Tanwen realized then how long she had truly been away for this to all feel so ... different yet blessedly right.

The biggest change, however, was no longer finding herself flinching from the endless passing shadows made by massive wings. Absent were the sudden gales from Volari landing nearby.

Tanwen was home.

Tanwen was safe.

An ache worked up her throat at the realization as she hitched her pack to her back. As soon as she was able, she had changed into her leather boots, trousers, and sturdy green coat. It had been a liberating moment for all the recruits once they descended to Cādra. A rush of stripping their servant garb for that of their clans before they crammed back into the awaiting carriages and headed west.

“Oy,” called one of the Recruitment guards from the office’s entryway. “Make sure you sign out over there”—he pointed to a nailed-up piece of parchment—“before you leave. We’ll expect your return in three days’ time for the journey back to Galia. And don’t, some of you, get ideas about not showing. That’ll only allow Volari to come searching in our woods.”

Tanwen distractedly signed her name with the others, her mood remaining high despite the reminder that she was still very much tied to her contract.

“Wen!”

Tanwen turned, her heart stopping as she spotted Aisling pushing her way through the throngs of people. She looked thinner, smaller, but Tanwen ignored her sense of worry and ran.

“Mother!”

Tight arms wove around Tanwen, the scent of gardenia filling her lungs on an inhale. She let out a relieved sob, which her mother echoed as they stood embracing for what felt like an eternity.

“Oh,” laughed Aisling, drawing back. “Hello, Eli dear.”

The mouse had scampered from Tanwen’s pouch, up and over to her mother’s shoulder to nuzzle her cheek.

He was squeaking his delight, whiskers twitching in telling glee.

“All right, Eli,” said Tanwen, lifting her hand so he could scurry to sit on her shoulder. “We’ll have plenty more time for that once we are back at our den.”

Our den.

The words nearly provoked more tears.

A gentle hand was placed on Tanwen’s cheek, her mother studying her with a soft but pained smile.

“I cannot believe you are here,” she said. “You look so much older.”

“I haven’t been gone that long, Mother,” Tanwen teased.

“A day has the power to age us a century,” Aisling answered, dropping her arm.

Tanwen’s stomach fell with it.

It was clear, despite her mother’s letters saying otherwise, she had not been well during Tanwen’s absence.

But whatever melancholy hung in the air was cloaked with Aisling’s smile. “Come,” she said. “I borrowed Rind to quicken our trip home.”

Tanwen’s pulse fluttered, pleased, as she eyed the cart and mare on the other side of the road.

“How have you been, girl?” Tanwen grinned at Rind as she came to hold her bit, stroking her brown nose.

Tired, Rind said, but very glad to see you.

Same here, my friend, replied Tanwen, touching her forehead to Rind’s muzzle.

“Are we ready to go?” asked Aisling.

“Yes,” said Tanwen, giving Rind another pat before swinging herself and Eli up into the cart.

As their buggy lurched forward, Tanwen felt a wash of relief, a sting of happiness as they traveled down the stretch of road promising home.

Their tea sat cold and forgotten.

Afternoon sunlight streamed into the kitchen, where Tanwen and Aisling huddled together. Eli was fast asleep beside his buttered bread roll on the table, the smattering of crumbs serving as his bedding.

“By the Low Gods,” murmured Aisling, sitting back. “I still can’t believe you found them.”

Tanwen had finished retelling—as best she could—what had transpired on Galia since her arrival. She had written bits and pieces to her mother, of course, but it had been difficult to get it all down on paper. Now, face to face, she could unburden the lot of it. Though she took special care to leave out certain details, mainly around Thol’s torture and what had happened between her and the prince.

There was no reason for Tanwen to share the first, given Aisling’s worry was clearly already affecting her health. Her pale skin had grown more ashen, and the dark circles under her eyes had Tanwen assuming she wasn’t sleeping.

As for the situation with Zolya, well, she already knew that was an egregious mistake. One that would never be repeated. She didn’t need to send her mother into a catastrophic spiral of panic and, no doubt, fury at her daughter.

Tanwen had done enough chastising of herself for the both of them. Her visit home needed to have a singular focus, and that was how to get her father, Thol, and herself off Galia and somewhere safe.

“Well, Eli technically found them,” clarified Tanwen. “I have yet to figure out a way into their holding cell. But we’ve been able to communicate through short notes, which Eli has carried back and forth.” Tanwen glanced at her furry friend asleep by her arm, smiling as his legs twitched. He no doubt was dreaming of more loaves of bread he could burrow into.

“I really didn’t think it possible,” said Aisling, redrawing Tanwen’s attention. “You found them,” she repeated.

Tanwen’s chest grew tight as she noted her mother’s shocked relief. She leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand atop Aisling’s. “Yes,” she said. “We found them.”

And then her mother burst into tears.

The light outside had dimmed by the time Aisling was able to compose herself.

Tanwen had rebrewed their tea, their mugs releasing curls of steam as the candles along the kitchen table had been lit. A flickering warmth draped across the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” sniffed Aisling, wiping her nose with her already damp handkerchief. “I’ve become rather blubbering since you’ve all left.”

“Mother,” said Tanwen, squeezing her arm from where she sat across from her. “Never apologize for having feelings.”

Aisling let out a choked laugh, dashing away more falling tears. “Gods,” she said. “Who is parenting who now?”

“I have always been the mature one out of Thol and me,” argued Tanwen, sharing in her mother’s grin.

Aisling scoffed, but her smile remained. “A statement your brother would gladly argue.”

“Which shows his immaturity,” countered Tanwen as she and her mother shared a laugh.

But then their grins faltered in the wake of their unspoken worries surrounding her brother and father.

Beyond the kitchen window, the chirps of birds had been replaced with the buzz of nightlife, the tepid air growing cool. Tanwen’s animal friends had come to poke their heads in from time to time, welcoming her return. It had warmed her tremendously, painting her visit as a true homecoming. She could almost forget everything that still loomed ahead. Almost.

“There’s been news in Zomyad of the king’s new mine,” said Aisling after a beat, absently running a finger along a groove in the tabletop’s wood. “That it is projected to be operational by winter.”

“Yes,” confirmed Tanwen. “That is what they are saying.”

“So your father truly has met the king’s demand.”

Tanwen wasn’t sure if her mother was upset by this. Surely, she had to understand why he had complied.

“I fear Father had as much of a choice in the matter as he did when he and Thol were abducted,” reasoned Tanwen.

Her mother remained quiet, features pensive, pained.

Tanwen was hesitant to pry into her thoughts, not wanting to possibly knock loose a new fit of tears. She was worried another bout would only release her own grief, and she was really trying to hold it together for her mother.

“Orzel is helping the king,” said Tanwen, attempting to change course. “King Réol has given Princess Azla to Orzel for his aid in pulling back the tides by the mining site.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “The princess is to be given to Orzel?” she breathed. “That poor soul.”

“Yes,” agreed Tanwen. “She’s as unwilling a bride as one could be.”

Visions flashed through Tanwen’s mind then, of the princess collapsed on her floor, her sickly complexion and shallow breaths, the poisonous tea leaves splashed across the carpet. Then to the prince sitting sentry by her bed. Shirtless and powerful as his concern and rage overtook the room before he asked Tanwen for her discretion and trust. Then, much later, when she had felt his strength as his hands slid across her body, pulled out her pleasure in delicate—

“ Tanwen? ” said her mother, the concern in her voice snapping back her attention.

Tanwen blinked, her skin burning with embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”

“I asked about your experience as the princess’s atenté,” Aisling said, continuing to eye her critically.

“It’s going well,” admitted Tanwen, clearing her throat along with any last remnants of her traitorous fantasies. “At least, more enjoyable than when I was at Sumora. She’s a much better companion than having to suffer through serving the court and Volari aristocrats. In fact, the princess is ... not what I had expected.”

“How so?”

Tanwen considered her response. “Well, she’s kind, for starters,” she explained. “And ... generous. She seems to genuinely wish to know her staff.”

Aisling leaned back in her chair, studying Tanwen. “Be careful there, my wyrthia,” she warned.

Tanwen frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Princess Azla may have those traits in private,” she explained, “but she is still the princess. A Volari beholden to the laws set by the king, more so than most.”

Tanwen tensed, her mother’s reprimand hitting too many exposed nerves.

You are more than her atenté, Lady Esme had said. You are a friend.

A painful tease and utter delusion.

One that matched the night she had experienced with the prince.

“I know that,” said Tanwen, perhaps a tad too defensively. “I’m not oblivious to my position on Galia.”

“I never said you were,” placated her mother.

“You insinuated, however.”

“Tanwen—”

“I will always remember my place, Mother,” she interrupted. “You and Father have certainly made sure of that. Thol and I could never forget who we are and what we’re not supposed to be.”

“Tanwen,” attempted her mother again, though softer. “That is not—”

“Let us not speak further on the topic.” Tanwen drew the conversation to a halt as she glanced out the window to the darkening forest. “For us to argue will waste my visit home.”

Aisling was quiet for a breath. “All right,” she appeased. “Then what shall we discuss?”

“How about a plan to get Father, Thol, and me off that blasted island,” Tanwen suggested with a frown. “Aside from figuring out a way past the guards, the biggest obstacle I can’t solve is how to get us off after I do. The only way down from Galia is the gondolas,” explained Tanwen. “But those are heavily guarded and require the proper paperwork for a servant to use. They also are riddled with tedious checkpoints. There is the one from the palace gondola to Fioré and another for the gondola to Cādra before a final checkpoint once on the ground.”

“That is complicated,” said her mother, brows furrowed. “And even if we could get the papers, who knows how much time you three would have before someone took note of Thol’s and Gabreel’s absence. You might not even make it to Fioré.”

“Yes,” agreed Tanwen, her frustration rising with how impossible this next task was. “Galia really is a prison for anyone without wings.”

The quiet that filled their kitchen was deafening. Empty air that represented the chasm they needed to cross.

“Then perhaps,” mused her mother after a moment, “we need to give you all wings.”

Tanwen stared at Aisling, concern for her mental health growing. “Mother,” she began slowly. “Did you slip spirits into your tea?”

Her mother gave her a measured look. “I’m completely sober and serious.”

“To give us wings?” repeated Tanwen dubiously.

Aisling nodded, her long brown hair shifting around her shoulders.

“And how, in all of Cādra, would we do that?”

Her mother rubbed her lips together, a nervous tic, as her features grew pensive. “Come with me,” she eventually said.

Her chair’s legs scraping against the floor woke Eli.

What’s happening? he asked blearily as he sat up.

Mother appears to have lost her mind, replied Tanwen silently, reaching out so her friend could scurry up her arm to her shoulder. She’s evidently going to give me wings.

Eli squeaked out a laugh.

My sentiments exactly, said Tanwen as they followed Aisling out of their den.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they descended to the forest floor.

“Your father’s workshop,” answered her mother, setting off down the familiar small footpath.

Tanwen’s pulse quickened, a surge of anticipation building.

They were going to her father’s workshop.

A place she had thought she’d never see again, where she used to find joy sneaking in alone at night.

Now she walked there with her mother.

Tanwen had never been in her father’s workshop with her mother.

As they traveled toward the small glen, Tanwen’s excitement was momentarily pulled elsewhere as she took note of the air around them. It felt thicker, an odd clinging of humidity. There were still the familiar woody fragrances and purring of insects and animals that made up her home, but it all now seemed ... muted—cloudy, even—as if she had stuffed her nose and ears with a layer of wax.

“It feels different around our den,” said Tanwen as she kept pace behind her mother.

“It is Bosyg’s favor,” Aisling explained, pushing away a branch in their path. “She must have put some sort of enchantment on our home, for I have gotten no visitors since you left. And when I do go to town, those in Unig seem only to remember me, but none of you.”

Tanwen’s brows rose. “Not even Father?”

“Not even him.”

“Well ... that is good, right?”

“I suppose,” said her mother, though Tanwen noted the hint of melancholy in her voice.

As they crested a small hill, the glen came into full view beyond the final line of trees. The glow of the crescent moons bathed the field in a cool blue. And there, tucked into the side of the trickling waterfall, was her father’s workshop.

Tanwen held her breath as her mother pulled a key from her pocket.

As they pushed through the door, familiarity hit her like a wave.

The scent of balsa wood, ink, and parchment filled the cool, dark air.

With the striking of flint, her mother lit a nearby lantern, sending a bubble of light to brush against their surroundings.

Her father’s workshop sat in disarray, the pillaged remnants of when it had been invaded by kidets. Tanwen’s ire slid hot in her veins as her footsteps crunched against the scattered papers on the ground, and she eyed the broken bits of once delicately carved wooden models.

Another crack fissured across Tanwen’s heart. The reverent space now sat tainted from the intruders. Ransacked. Soiled.

She followed her mother to a long worktable in the far corner. Aisling set down the lantern, the light feathering out along the worn wood. Tanwen frowned as Aisling reached under the table, and with a small click, an endless cascade of scrolls spilled out.

Her mother had activated a hidden false bottom.

Tanwen’s pulse jumped. “What are those?” she asked.

Aisling gathered the scrolls atop the table, then shuffled through each before she stopped on one. “Wings,” she answered before breaking its seal and unrolling the parchment.

Her father’s handwriting filled Tanwen’s vision, as did an illustration of a kite. Though this one seemed large and a lot more complicated than the child’s toy she had played with in Zolya’s rooms. It was also drawn in proportion to a body, the person’s arms raised to mimic the kite’s wingspan.

“After your father lost his wings,” began her mother, stroking the inked lines as if they were Gabreel himself, “he became obsessed with figuring out how to fly again. This is a glider he created that could be worn.”

“Worn?” Tanwen questioned, stepping closer as her heartbeat stopped and started before it ran. “Did he ever make it?”

“Yes,” said Aisling.

“By the Ré’s light,” breathed Tanwen, meeting her mother’s gaze. “And did it work?”

“Yes.” Her mother nodded. “But not as he intended.”

“What do you mean?”

“It could glide from jumping from a high point, but for it to be able to fly, to be able to soar back up, well, it needed magic.”

“Magic?”

“Yes.”

“But where is there magic—” Tanwen stopped herself as the answer slid into place. “Jadüri?” she questioned.

“Yes,” replied Aisling. “I worked with your father to produce an elixir from the gods’ nectar that could help power the wings, but not indefinitely. Once the solution is used up, the only direction these can take you is down.”

“Is that what this is?” Tanwen pointed to a drawing of a canister that was attached to the spine of the glider wings.

“Yes. Suction points adhere to your spine, sensing your desired flight path.”

“Mother, this is . . . incredible!”

“It is,” Aisling agreed, though her brows pinched in. “But perhaps still foolish to suggest.”

“Not in the least,” countered Tanwen. “This can get us off Galia. The material to build doesn’t look complicated. Father can even construct it within his holding cell. He says it’s outfitted like a workshop. The material can easily be disguised as something he’s inventing for the mine. He could construct it in pieces, something we pull together when we need to.” Tanwen’s thoughts were in motion now, her veins filling with hope, possibility. “We can fly right from a ledge of the palace. Disappear into the clouds below and—”

“Fly where, though?” challenged her mother. “It’s a long way from Galia to one of Cādra’s coastlines. The wings also require training to operate, otherwise you might go plummeting straight down.”

“It’s still the best option we have, the only one at the moment,” argued Tanwen. “We will figure out the rest later, once I get these plans to Father—”

“But what of the elixir?” asked her mother, now seeming to backtrack, her tone revealing her rising worry. “It takes two jadüri blooms per canister. Another reason your father gave up on this design. It’s too hard to find the necessary ingredients.”

Thoughts of the rolling endless jadüri gardens in the palace filled Tanwen’s mind. “Luckily it is not so hard on Galia,” she said. “I can get the jadüri,” she assured. It would still require stealth, of course, but Tanwen would succeed. She had to. “The next full moons are a month away, enough time for Father to build these and for me to acquire what we need for the elixir.”

“I don’t know, Wen.” Her mother looked back at the drawing of wings. “There’s too much that could go wrong.”

“There’s too much that already will go wrong if I don’t return to Galia with a plan to get us free. Thol ...” She stopped herself.

“Thol what?” Her mother’s attention snapped back to her, features contorting into a panic. “What about Thol, Tanwen?”

Tanwen pressed her lips together, regret already surging in her heart, but she needed her mother to understand what truly was at stake. What little time they had on their side. There was no telling what the king would do to Thol once the mine was complete.

Nausea ripped across her gut.

“Thol is a known Mütra in Galia,” Tanwen reminded her mother. “A Mütra that is being kept at the palace by the king. Every day he remains alive there is a miracle. I do not want us to press Udasha’s luck with waiting for another plan.”

Beside her, Aisling paled, her understanding seeping in like a sickness. “Oh gods,” she breathed, shaky hand going to her lips. “My Thol, my baby.” Her lips trembled, and for a moment Tanwen braced herself for another collapse of grief, but then Aisling’s features cleared as a rising rage pooled into her gaze. “I will kill him.” She slammed a fist on the table. Tanwen, as well as the flames within the nearby lantern, jumped. “I will have Réol burn beneath the sun he loves so much,” she seethed. “I will watch with glee as his flesh melts from bone.”

Tanwen’s brows rose.

She had seen her mother angry but never consumed with revenge, with fantasies of hurting rather than healing.

It was both frightening and satisfying.

Her mother was no longer hiding; she was fighting.

“Yes,” agreed Tanwen. “That is a lovely thought. One we can certainly elaborate on later. But perhaps for now,” she continued delicately, “we can concentrate on our escape plan?”

Aisling nodded, though her gaze was still glazed with her ire. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Your escape.” Her attention dropped to the schematics. “Wherever you fly to will need to be direct,” she explained. “Somewhere nearby enough so the elixir doesn’t run out on your journey, and where Volari couldn’t easily follow once you land.”

“Perhaps I can aid in that.” A rippling of a dozen voices filled the workshop as the space began to bend and warp. Moss and leaves and blooming branches unfurled in every direction as Bosyg grew up from the floorboards.

Tanwen choked out a gasp as she and her mother quickly fell to their knees, heads bowed. Tanwen’s heartbeat raced as a cascade of ancient power pressed against her shoulders.

“Almighty goddess of our home,” said her mother. “It is an honor.”

“I am glad to see you returned, child,” said Bosyg, a branch coiling out to lift Tanwen’s chin. She was forced to meet black, depthless eyes. Her pulse was a rapid beat through her veins as the goddess studied her. “I see you have learned much in your time living within the clouds,” said Bosyg, releasing her hold on Tanwen. Her vines curled back into her torso.

“Yes, almighty Bosyg,” she replied. “My time on Galia has been most educational.”

“And productive, it seems.” Bosyg’s roots were a constantly shifting creature, moss growing and melting along with her bloom of leaves. “Your father and brother have been found, and now you wish to find a place of sanctuary.”

“If I can free them,” clarified Tanwen.

“You will,” said Bosyg as a flutter of butterflies took flight from her bark.

Tanwen’s breaths quickened at such a prophecy.

The gods are fickle with how they move us around their celestial board, Ms. Coster.

Lady Esme’s words awoke in Tanwen’s mind, both a reminder and a warning.

Why would Bosyg care for Tanwen’s success? Or perhaps a better question: What was the goddess hoping to get out of it?

“Drygul has always been a place of sanctuary for those seeking asylum,” Bosyg explained. “I invite you there. You will be safe to enter by way of the Cactus Forest. No wings would risk being ripped apart by following you through.”

The Cactus Forest, of course, thought Tanwen. Though it did butt up against the eastern checkpoint on Cādra. They’d need to ensure their flight was at night, skirting its perimeter. And Drygul ... the Low Gods’ territory, where her mother and father had planned on taking them before they’d been split apart.

Tanwen shared a glance with her mother kneeling beside her, trying to work out what her mother was thinking, fearing, but her expression held only a burning determination. She gave Tanwen a small nod.

It was as if she placed an encouraging hand on her shoulder. You have this, my wyrthia.

Warmth bloomed in Tanwen’s chest; her mother was finally showing her faith.

“Thank you, our almighty goddess.” Tanwen bowed before Bosyg. “We are humbled by your continued offered hand in this matter and graciously accept the place of sanctuary within Drygul.”

“Do not thank me yet,” said Bosyg. “I will open the way for you to enter Drygul so long as my favors become repaid.”

Trepidation gripped Tanwen’s spine.

A time will come when I will need a favor of my own.

And here they stood on the precipice of such a request.

“What do you wish of me?” Tanwen forced herself to ask.

Bosyg extended her branched hand, unfurling her vine fingers to reveal an innocuous black stone. “For you,” she said.

Tanwen hesitantly plucked up the pebble. Its hard surface was a kiss of freeze to her fingers. “What is it?”

“A gift from Maryth,” explained Bosyg. “Poison.”

Tanwen nearly dropped the rock, heartbeat tripping. “Poison?”

“It is safe to hold,” assured Bosyg. “Though to drink it is most deadly. It is a collected tear of our almighty mother, Maryth. It is scentless, tasteless, and colorless. Untraceable once dropped and dissolved into liquid.”

By the Eternal River, thought Tanwen, her meddyg and inventor side completely fascinated. She studied the glint of reflective dust coating its dark surface. This is a tear of Maryth. And then— Holy Gods, this is a tear of Maryth!

The reality of what she held came crashing down.

Panic seized as Tanwen resisted throwing the rock across the space, the skin of her hand already feeling sickly, dead from the contact with the tear. “And ... what exactly am I meant to do with it?”

“You are meant to fulfill your favor to me,” explained Bosyg. “You are to kill the king.”