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The palace was in an uproar.

Confusion engulfed Tanwen as she found herself an unwilling sheep in the flock of servants being corralled upstairs. Hardly had she finished drying off from her bath and slipping on her atenté uniform before all staff were hurrying toward a southern courtyard.

Tanwen’s only reprieve was knowing Eli remained in the atenté dormitory, sparing him from the stampede.

“What’s going on?” Tanwen asked, finding Huw in the fray.

His blond hair gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the corridor, his chiton a pristine, pressed white.

“There’s to be a public sentencing,” he answered breathlessly.

“Sentencing?” she repeated, brows pinching as her nerves soared.

“A lady of the Isle Court has been accused of being a sympathizer.”

Tanwen’s steps faltered, causing impatient staff to nudge past them.

Sympathizer.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, unease a cresting wave through her veins.

“Are you all right?” Huw asked, holding on to her elbow. “You should stay here if this is too much after your day of travel.”

“No,” she managed. “I’m fine.”

Huw looked unconvinced, but his desire to move with the rest of the group won out, and soon he turned back into the stampede.

Tanwen followed blindly, her pulse a rushing beat.

Despite understanding the shortened term sympathizer was connected to Süra sympathizer , and the danger it possessed, never had she witnessed an actual trial. Though, of course, Tanwen had lived through the repercussions of what happened when those on trial were found guilty.

Visions of her father’s large angry scars along his back flashed within her mind. The jagged, puckering skin from his wings having been broken and severed. His wincing in pain anytime he suffered the phantom sensation of his plumage still being there.

Nausea rolled within Tanwen’s gut as she and Huw were pushed and pressed into the open marble courtyard, the staff a claustrophobic horde.

The sun was punishingly bright, forcing her to squint as Ré’s light hit and heated every marble surface. White stone made up each column, tile, and balcony, causing the space to merge into one large reflective sheen. If not for the people filing in, it would have been difficult to determine its dimensions and length.

While the servants were the ants on the ground, the five levels of wraparound galleries were overflowing with winged court members, their collection of animated whispers louder than if everyone were shouting.

Tanwen had never been to this part of the palace. Assuredly a blessing, given the raised executioner block in the center.

Tanwen stared at its pristine surface, finding the dark bloodstains caught within the tight veins. No amount of cleaning appeared capable of erasing the history of pain the stone had endured.

Her heartbeat stuttered just as the crowd fell silent.

A wave of kneeling as the king arrived.

The quiet was oppressive, the sun burning as it pressed on the back of Tanwen’s neck and exposed shoulders.

“Rise,” King Réol finally commanded.

The mass obeyed.

As Tanwen stood on shaky legs, she drank in the king for the first time.

Her breath hitched.

It was like looking at a star, his presence so brilliant the edges became lost. His wings were large, perhaps the largest she’d seen despite them remaining tucked in at his back; his gilded breastplate was an intricate layering of white and gold across his broad chest; his brown complexion was warm under Ré’s light; his snowy locks rested in waves on his shoulders; and his laurel crown was sharp—a threatening reminder of his rule—as it sat atop his head.

And she was meant to murder him.

Ice filled Tanwen’s veins, a nauseating dread of how impossible such a task was.

I will fail my family, she thought with a panic. How will I ever be able to kill such a demigod?

Tanwen’s pulse surged as her gaze slid to the prince, standing just to his father’s right.

His father ... gods, I’ve agreed to kill his father!

Tanwen was paralyzed by her fate as she stared at Zolya, an austere replica of the king. Mouth stern, gaze hard, shoulders broad, his presence intrusive and powerful. But Tanwen was relieved to note the important difference between the two.

The king, though undeniably beautiful, held a brutality to his aura. A trait Tanwen could tell ran straight to his soul. A heart that might beat, but not with life.

Zolya’s mask, while cold, was still a mask. A veneer that she knew could be thawed. His hard gaze could be softened and warmed. His brutal strength was still capable of delicacy, a gentle caress, a reverent gaze.

Tanwen swallowed down the ache rising from within her throat, not having expected the flood of emotions that would come from seeing him again after so long. Her skin tingled recalling his skilled touch, her lips warming as if his mouth still pressed to hers, the taste of him before he had lowered himself to taste her.

You are my devastation, Tanwen.

Tanwen shifted from the blossoming of heat between her legs.

This is absurd, she chastised herself. It was one night! A mistake not to be repeated.

Though even she could hear the lie in her thoughts. Seeing him again made her realize that nothing about what they had shared that evening felt wrong. On the contrary, it felt entirely too right, too necessary. Despite their vast differences, despite who Zolya was and the command he had obeyed for his father, Tanwen had felt irrationally safe with him. A forbidden attraction of souls that eerily echoed her parents’ past.

As if he sensed he was the focus of her thoughts, Zolya’s attention lowered, and he spotted her in the crowd.

Tanwen’s heart stuttered to a stop.

His blue gaze penetrated through her, a shadow passing over his features, a remorse, but then Zolya looked away, severing their connection.

Cold plunged across Tanwen’s skin, a shaky exhale.

“Bring in the accused.” The king’s demand boomed through the space.

All eyes looked up as the quiet courtyard was abruptly engulfed in jeers, hisses, and vicious shouts as two shackled forms descended from the sky.

A group of kidets encircled a Volari woman, her wings tightly bound, and a male Süra, guiding them to a marble block. Both were attired in plain tan garments—she in a peplos, he in a tunic and trousers, the uniform of the accused. Despite their shackles, as they were forced onto their knees, they still strained toward each other.

Tanwen’s chest constricted in anguish.

It was the desperate act of separated lovers already resigned to their fate.

A simple touch, an embrace, remained their ultimate and final desire.

But before it could be granted, they were pulled apart.

The courtyard erupted in louder heckles and ridicule. A rock was even thrown, hitting its mark as the man’s head whipped back. The woman cried out, imploring hand reaching as a vicious cut now marred her lover’s cheek, blood sliding down his pale skin.

“Enough,” boomed the king, his tone a resounding hammer, commanding obedient silence from the assembled onlookers. King Réol waved a hand, a gesture that said, Get on with it .

A herald stepped forward within the royal box. He was the very definition of a twig, his chiton hanging loose over his belt, his wings minuscule compared to the king’s. As he unfurled his scroll, the crinkling of paper filled the tense quiet. “Brilyard Mendi,” he began, voice haughty, “of the northern clan of the Pelk Forest, and Lady Eonya Heeba, of the eighteenth house of the Isle Court, you have been accused of breaking the fifth code of conduct decreed by our almighty king and chosen son of our High Gods, King Réol Ajno Diusé the Fourth, ruler of the Sun and Isle Courts, protector of the kingdom of Galia, and lord of Cādra: the continued cavorting of relations between Volari and Süra beyond what is professionally acceptable. Do you deny these accusations?”

From where the two remained kneeling, Brilyard poised to respond, but Lady Eonya’s defiant response rang out first. “I do not.” She held the king’s stare as she spit on the execution stone.

The crowd erupted just as her kidar handler landed a backhanded slap.

Lady Eonya fell to her side, Brilyard wrestling within the other soldiers’ grips, his rage and despair palpable. “Eonya!” he called.

Tanwen was jostled from all sides, the energy heightening around her, but she was unsure if the staff was cheering or jeering. The courtyard was a dizzying chaos of emotion.

A loud clap of thunder sounded, a vibration of energy barreling through the open room.

Everyone froze.

The king had approached the edge of his balcony, his skin emanating a soft glow from his quick use of magic. More disconcerting, however, was the sharp smile marring his lips as he held Lady Eonya in his sights.

“I thank you for your honesty, Lady Eonya.” He spoke calmly. “It only helps in the simplicity of your sentencing. By disregarding my orders, you have not merely ruined your life but also shamed your family’s name.”

A breathless sob drew Tanwen’s attention to a woman on an upper gallery. She held a hand to her mouth, her face sallow, grief stricken. The look of a mother who had lost a child. The man beside her, however, held only contempt as he gazed down at his daughter.

Tanwen’s rushing heartbeat was a loud pulse in her head.

“To be in love should not be a law to defy,” declared Lady Eonya, her voice strong.

“A simple statement made by a simple mind,” said the king. “Your sin is not your so-called love but the repercussions of what it can grow within your womb.”

“And here is our king’s truth.” Lady Eonya turned her attention to the crowd. “Scared of a baby.”

Her head whipped back again, another blow from the kidar. “No one disrespects our king,” he seethed.

Eonya spit red but rose back to her full height from where she knelt, features almost appearing satisfied.

“Your insolence grows dull,” barked the king, quieting the growing whispers. “By the throne, I find you guilty,” he declared.

There was a hush as the reality of his words settled like ash from a pyre, a burning understanding.

“As law decrees of the guilty,” announced the herald, “you will be stripped of your wings, Lady Eonya. Your Süra coconspirator executed.”

Lady Eonya’s strength faltered then, her gaze meeting that of her lover.

Tears slipped down both their cheeks, chests rising and falling with their anguish, but in the end Brilyard smiled. A gentle I will love you always smile that ripped open Tanwen’s chest to witness.

It appeared to similarly affect Lady Eonya, for she let out a frustrated scream, sending a burst of chill into the air. It pummeled over the crowd, momentarily stealing Tanwen’s breath. But more importantly, and perhaps intentionally, it slapped against the two soldiers, causing them to loosen their holds.

She and Brilyard leaped toward one another, blessedly reunited for a heartbeat. Their kiss was violent, desperate, before they were once again dragged apart.

“If you wish to make a scene,” said the king, unmoved by the tragedy taking place within his courtyard, “then do it with your punishment.”

Lady Eonya’s hatred was etched into her creased brows and dagger glare. Her breaths were giant puffs as she looked up at her king. “If you will take my wings, sire,” she said, “then take my life.”

“No!” shouted Brilyard. “No, Eonya, no!”

She ignored his plea; no doubt his one solace in entering the Eternal River was knowing that she still lived. But it seemed the lady had no desire for a life that did not include him.

A thousand blows punched through Tanwen’s chest, her thoughts consumed by her parents, to the lengths to which they had gone to remain together, all that their love had defied.

And then to Zolya, to their fleeting night of perfection, what she could feel growing between them—unable to be born.

She didn’t know which was worse: knowing such intense love only to have it ripped away or never allowing oneself to experience it at all.

Both seemed ripe in tragedy.

The king eyed Lady Eonya from his great height, a calculation in his gaze. “As you wish,” he replied.

Tanwen could not look while their throats were cut.

As those around her stood riveted by the cruelty taking place, Tanwen met the hard stare of the prince.

Her skin ran cold.

Zolya’s expression was unreadable, distant, masked, but Tanwen didn’t need to know his feelings to understand her own.

With her pulse stumbling, she held in her flinch from the sound of a blade slicing through skin, the splattering of blood across stone, and then the heavy thud of one lifeless body before another.

Two souls had been ripped away, added to Maryth’s Eternal River.

All because of love.

Throughout the execution, Zolya’s stern expression remained pinned to her, his features slowly growing darker, more withdrawn.

Here was Zolya’s world.

Beautiful and cruel.

What he was born into and what he was meant to inherit and uphold.

And then there was Tanwen: worse than a servant, she was the defiant creature that her mother had grown in her womb.

Mütra.

The only future they had was the execution in front of them.

Tanwen tore her gaze from Zolya, pain a lacing around her lungs as she fought for each of her breaths.

Despite what they had shared that night, despite the yearning she felt in her heart to have found another with the same beat, it needed to remain in the past. Locked tightly away. Ignored.

This execution was the reminder she did not need, but it certainly cemented her resolve.

If she held any hope of survival, Tanwen had to get as far as possible from this palace, this island, and assuredly this man as quickly as she could.

After all, even if the prince could come to care for a Mütra, he certainly could never love someone who planned to kill his father.