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Zolya knew the moment she was back in the palace.

He had told himself it was happenstance. That he found himself returning to the southern rooftop ledge each morning so he could see the sunrise paint Galia in a spill of honeycomb. A necessary moment of respite before he started his exhaustive list of royal duties.

It was certainly not because this was also when the first gondola lift would arrive from Fioré.

Nor was it a relief when he finally caught sight of Tanwen’s familiar dark hair and horns as she stepped from the cable car.

It was in fact a hindrance, because now any chance of him remaining productive that day was consumed by his palpable desire to find a way for them to be alone.

He wished to ask of her visit home.

If her family was well.

If the trip to and from Zomyad was met with any hardships.

Did she think of him half as much as he found himself unwillingly thinking of her?

Zolya breathed out his frustration as he slipped beneath a shadow made by a nearby decorative portico.

This needed to stop.

He needed to stop.

He was bordering on obsessive.

An oddity for himself, surely.

He had had plenty of mistresses in his lifetime, plenty of bed partners and lustful, torrid nights. So why could he not get their evening together out of his head? Get her out of his head?

Because she promises more than mere pleasure. An unwanted voice slithered up and out from his chest, warmed the cold, empty corners of his heart.

Zolya shifted, ill at ease. Yes, he thought. Promises to be an utter disruption to my very delicately balanced way of life. After all, she was already proving thus if Azla and the ladies at court’s behavior was anything to go by.

Zolya pressed his lips together, thoughts churning, as he watched Tanwen and a handful of staff stroll toward the servants’ entrance at the base of the southern wall. Despite the heat, Tanwen was still dressed in her western clan’s garb of sturdy green pants and a long-sleeved coat. He noted how her strides seemed more confident, more fluid than when she wore her atenté uniform.

This observation, of course, only fueled his annoyance. He should not notice such details, should not find himself yearning for her comfort.

A gust of wind briefly drew him from his souring mood, a guard landing nearby.

“Sire,” said the kidet after giving a curt bow. “A situation has arisen in which the king needs your presence most urgently.”

Zolya let out a tired sigh. “Of course one has.”

The kidet looked unsure of how to reply, his wings shifting nervously at his back.

“Show me the way, soldier,” Zolya instructed. “There is nothing out here that I desire more than serving the needs of the crown.”

As he followed the kidet, he held in a derisive snort at his own words.

Zolya had always been good at lying to others, but he’d had little success lying to himself.