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Tanwen climbed into the covered wagon, praying to the Low Gods no one took notice of the crinkle emanating from her coat.

Her father’s wing schematics had been sewn into the lining.

It’s as loud as a tavern in here, assured Eli from the pouch at Tanwen’s waist. No one is paying us mind.

That wasn’t exactly true.

A few men sitting farther down in the carriage she recognized as fellow palace staff, and they evidently recognized her. Their gazes slid to her chest, which was properly covered by her tunic and coat, but she knew what they saw. It was hard to forget the low cut and revealing garb of an atenté, as was intended.

Annoyance flickered awake in Tanwen’s gut as she turned her back to them. She was already tired; to add on needing to be aware of her leering companions pushed her to exhaustion.

As she forced a calming breath, Tanwen refocused on the crowd of loved ones forming around the Recruitment caravans.

Though the scene was just as tearful as when they had arrived in Zomyad, the mood had changed. Their earlier excitement had been replaced with a heavy sense of mourning. Children cried as they reached out to siblings or parents waving goodbye, caregivers holding them back as their features pinched in anguish.

Tanwen swallowed her own grief as she met the gaze of her mother in the middle of the fray.

Aisling stood stoically still.

Her brown hair rested around her shoulders, her eastern horns setting her apart from most of those around her.

She looked lonely standing there, and it caused a painful grip to encircle Tanwen’s heart.

We’ll be reunited with her soon, said Eli from within his pouch at her waist.

At the reminder of their next tasks, Tanwen absently touched the necklace that sat under her shirt.

The stone pendant pressed to her chest, an unnatural cold digging into her skin. Even after she and her mother wrapped the pebble and wove it into an intricate leather casing to pass as jewelry, it still held a supernatural chill.

A gift from Maryth.

Bosyg’s raspy voice dug into Tanwen’s mind.

Poison.

Tanwen loosened her grip from the pendant, a clawing of unease climbing up her throat as her thoughts tipped to the past.

“You are to kill the king.” Bosyg’s decree had stopped time.

“What?” Tanwen’s attention had shot up to meet the goddess’s black gaze.

“This is the trade of favors,” said Bosyg. “A life for a life. The saving of your mother’s life, of your family’s, for the taking of the king’s.”

Tanwen knelt in disbelief, her reality collapsing inward, burying her alive.

“Almighty creator of our home,” began Aisling, who had remained crouched beside Tanwen. “This task may be achievable by a god as mighty as yourself, but for a mere mortal to—”

“If the Low Gods could have removed Réol from his throne,” interrupted Bosyg, a sprouting of thorns along her bark skin, “we would have by now. This matter is delicate, nuanced, and exactly a task for one such as your child.”

“But why?” Tanwen couldn’t help asking.

Bosyg’s gaze pressed down on Tanwen, a seeing that went further than what was visible. “You have gained favors within the royal family,” said the goddess, sending prickles of unease down Tanwen’s spine. “Favors grant access, young one. You also have the proper motivation to succeed.”

A snaking of vines whipped out, curling around her mother.

Aisling gasped her pain as Tanwen lurched forward, but another of Bosyg’s branches knocked her back.

“Stop this, please!” implored Tanwen, fear spiking through her veins.

“My intent is never to hurt,” reasoned Bosyg, though she did not let go of her mother. “Only to teach. I have taught you I can keep your family safe,” she explained. “Do you need to learn what happens if you’re unwilling to pay your dues?”

“No,” said Tanwen, a sob working up her throat as she watched the vines tighten around her mother. Aisling’s complexion turned purple, her lungs compressed. “Please, no, almighty goddess.” Tanwen fell to her knees, a desperate prostrating as her forehead kissed the dirt floor. “I will do as you ask. I will kill the king.”

Her mother was released. Tanwen flew to where she crumpled to the ground, helping her sit up, take in gulps of air.

A searing hatred filled Tanwen’s chest, a maddening desire to lash out at the goddess.

“Your anger is understandable,” said Bosyg, clearly sensing Tanwen’s emotions. “Though misguided. Remember who put you in this predicament, child. Who took your father and brother. Who keeps them captive still. Who suppresses all who call Cādra home. Who has forced you to hide your entire life and who wishes for your kind to be eradicated. It is time for King Réol’s rule to end and with it the claim our celestial cousins have had on our soil. They have already taken the sky; why then should they also own the land?”

Understanding slipped, cold and unwanted, through Tanwen.

This was the game that was being played.

A war of the gods.

Tanwen knew the myths, the stories of the celestial ripping. Maryth, mother of the Low Gods, was finally taking retribution for her brother Ré’s betrayal all those millennia ago, when he clipped her wings and banished her to the ground.

And Tanwen was to be their sacrificial pawn.

The one to remove Ré’s precious king from the board.

“I shall remind you that the stone is a gift,” said Bosyg, revealing the black pebble once more. Tanwen had dropped it rushing to her mother. “Use it however you wish.” She placed it back into Tanwen’s palm.

The cold surface bit into her skin, the chill of death.

Tanwen swallowed her disquiet as she closed her fingers over it. “What of after?” she asked. “You say you can keep my family safe. How will we be safe once the king’s death is on my hands?”

“I suggest you leave Galia before anyone knows,” reasoned Bosyg. “You have your father’s plans for his wings. Use them,” she instructed. “Fulfill this debt, child, and our agreement will be complete. Your mother will be waiting for you in Drygul.”

A loud ripping tore through the room as the Low Goddess gathered her forest and disappeared into the ground.

Tanwen and her mother had found themselves returned to her father’s workshop, the only proof of Bosyg’s visit the cold kiss of the pebble clenched in her fist.

Poison for the king.

Tanwen was bumped, causing her to blink back to where she sat in the stuffy wagon as more recruits were shuffled in.

Her skin was dusted in a cold sweat; the memory of being with the Low Goddess slowly dissipated.

Soon their wagon lurched forward. Everyone’s attention turned toward the crowd of loved ones huddled around the opening at the back.

Within the mass, Tanwen met her mother’s gaze once again, a new suffocating pressure in her lungs.

Neither of them waved their goodbyes as the wagon pulled away.

A pact they had agreed upon on their ride back to Ordyn.

After all, this wasn’t a goodbye. They would see each other again.

They had to.

She will be safe in Drygul, assured Eli from his pouch. Many animals in Zomyad have skirted Drygul’s borders. Despite its strangeness, they say it is safe.

Eli’s words only slightly reassured Tanwen.

She studied the other recruits sitting around them. All were just as quiet, just as pensive and somber.

None were glad to be returning to their lifetime of service to the children of gods.

Not a new realization, surely, but nonetheless still not comforting.

More than just her and her family wanted to be free of Galia.

The stone lying against Tanwen’s chest pulsed, a chilled whisper in her mind that perhaps killing the king would help more than the Low Gods.

Tanwen shifted uneasily on her bench.

Yes, perhaps, she thought, but she was in no position to take on anyone else’s problems.

The Low Gods certainly knew she had enough for three lifetimes: bargains to complete, a king to somehow murder, and a family to free.

Despite the growing warmth in the carriage from the packed-in bodies, Tanwen pulled her jacket more tightly closed, her anxious worry for what lay ahead sending a chill through her bones. The impossibility of it.

But she had to succeed. Faltering now would be perilous. For herself, her mother, and her father and Thol.

Tanwen touched the lining, feeling for her father’s plans, now reassured by the crinkling.

Tanwen might be wearing the mad scribblings of a man who had been desperate to replace his wings, but she was now his mad daughter, just as desperate to fly.