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Gabreel stood in the corner of his workshop, watching his daughter try on her wings.

The candlelight within the room pressed its warmth against Tanwen’s pale skin and flickered against the gold caps accessorizing her horns. Her brow was knitted in determined focus as she adjusted the straps and tested the mechanism.

She appeared more capable and assuredly older than he had remembered.

But perhaps she had always possessed these qualities, and he had simply failed to recognize them. Too often, Aisling had been beside his daughter, occupying his sight and thoughts. And many of his days and nights in Zomyad had been consumed with teaching Thol or passing solitary hours in his workshop. With this realization, an uneasy weight pressed against Gabreel’s spine.

He had neglected his daughter.

Failed to see the strong, intelligent woman she had grown to be.

One who had single-handedly found her way onto Galia, then into the palace, to free them.

Guilt dug into Gabreel’s chest for any moment he might have doubted her.

“We should put some padding around the joint holds,” suggested Tanwen, flexing one of her arms, which were both strapped to the glider. “Once we are in the air, our weight will quickly drag against them, especially when we angle to change directions. I’m not expecting the flight to be comfortable, but I’d rather not grow distracted by the pain of rubbed-raw skin when I’m meant to be concentrating on not spinning out.”

“Yes,” said Thol thoughtfully as he bent to eye the parts Tanwen mentioned. “We can add another layer of leather before some fur lining, especially around the wrist straps. It will only help with its durability too.”

Tanwen nodded her agreement. “I was also thinking, because of the length of our flight, we should make footholds we can slip our feet into by the glider’s tail. It will help control our steering, not having to worry about dangling legs.”

Thol grabbed his notebook and started to jot down their thoughts. “Good idea. I’ll add that to our list of improvements.”

Gabreel resisted a grin, watching his children working together, a lump of pride forming in his throat. While Thol would never be his old self, with Tanwen’s visits, his energy had picked up, a bit of light shining once again in his gaze.

It was a glimmer of hope Gabreel had not dared believe still existed.

But then Tanwen had arrived with her plans and determination. Her sure words and access beyond their confines.

Despite his previous skepticism, Gabreel found himself convinced this escape could be possible.

A dangerous thought, he knew.

The gods did not grant reprieves without sacrifice.

But Gabreel was forever prepared to lay down his life for his children to live.

“Show me how these come apart again,” requested Tanwen to Aberthol.

Aberthol left his notebook beside Eli, who watched from the worktable, before helping Tanwen unclip and unclasp the wings.

Gabreel’s attention returned to Eli, whose whiskers twitched from where he sat observing on his hind legs. The mouse had become a strange comfort to him and Aberthol, his nearness usually meaning Tanwen was also nearby. In their cottage prison, Eli had become their small beacon of reassurance.

“And then you can easily fold them down like this,” Aberthol was instructing as he collapsed the various parts of the glider.

Gabreel scrutinized the fluidness of the motion, looking for any potential flaw, but the wings appeared sound. It was a relief, given he and Thol had spent countless nights perfecting the design. Thus far, they had constructed one glider, requiring it to be flawless before proceeding with the construction of the other two.

His original schematics, while successful, were—as he had suspected—outdated.

Many new materials and advancements had been invented in the past twenty-odd years. A benefit, given the number of additional alterations that needed to be applied: a stronger skeleton to withstand their longer journey, a more insulated canister to keep their power supply from freezing as they fell from such a high elevation, and a design that could be easily disassembled and reassembled so their wings could become innocuous when laid about his workroom.

Gabreel’s recent influx of requested materials had, unsurprisingly, piqued the king’s interest. What must his glorious inventor be inventing now? The kidets toured his workshop often to collect reports for King Réol. So far, Gabreel had been able to disguise what he built as a device that was meant to redirect the strong winds coming off the Aspero Sea near the new mine.

Any advances in the productivity surrounding the new mine His Eminence appeared pleased to support.

“This is spectacular,” breathed Tanwen, staring at where the wings were now split into two neatly folded piles. “How long will it take to make the other two?”

Aberthol turned expectantly to Gabreel, and the gesture nearly knocked him unsteady. His son had not looked at him like that in an age, with a need for guidance.

Gabreel’s response was momentarily stuck in his throat. “They will be operational by the next full moons.”

Three weeks.

Tanwen nodded, determination hardening her features.

The following silence was disrupted by their cottage door banging open.

Eli scurried under a pile of tools as each of their gazes went wide, snagging on to one another as their joint panic froze time.

And then their workroom filled with movement.

Tanwen and Aberthol hurriedly stashed the glider and schematic while Gabreel hissed for Tanwen to hide. He then sprinted toward the kitchen door.

“How may I help you?” he asked the two kidets who loomed near the front door, soft night air filtering in. Gabreel did his best to mask his panicked breaths. He prayed they were here to check on him and Aberthol before their shift change.

But when they didn’t answer him and instead pushed farther into the cottage, his fear spiked.

“Have you come to see progress in my wind shifter?” Gabreel asked as he backed his way into his workroom. The guards’ wings tucked in tight as they pressed their way through the doorframe. “I just finished up for the night,” he explained as his heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He furtively glanced around the room, but thankfully Tanwen was nowhere to be seen. Gabreel chanced a relieved breath, though his muscles remained tense. “I can give you an oral report for the king, however,” he went on.

“The Mütra is to come with us,” one kidet declared as the other stepped toward Aberthol.

The room fell silent as the request was absorbed within the space.

“Wait,” Gabreel called, a rising hysteria filling his lungs. He wedged himself between the kidet and his son. “I’ve been working, inventing. I do not understand. My son is meant to remain with me so long as I’m working.” He hated the desperate plea in his voice, the fear, but he’d prostrate himself any way necessary to stop this madness.

“Our king does not need reason for his demands,” stated the kidet, a look of disgust in his gaze as he attempted to force Gabreel out of the way.

“ No! ” Gabreel dug in his heels, his heat magic surging to his hands.

I will set you all on fire!

“Father.”

His name said softly from behind paused his retaliation.

“It’s fine,” Aberthol added, voice hollow as he placed a reassuring hand on Gabreel’s shoulder.

Fine.

It’s fine.

Nausea swelled in Gabreel’s stomach, a cold sweat awakening on his skin.

Nothing about this was fine .

He met his son’s eyes, caught the meaning in his hard gaze, the worry that had nothing to do with his own future pain.

Tanwen.

She was here, hiding.

And needed to remain hiding.

Wen can never become like me.

Thol’s plea to Gabreel all those weeks ago.

Gabreel clenched his teeth, the agony of the moment too much.

He stood paralyzed.

The longer the guards remained in their cottage, the more at risk Tanwen became of being found. But if he merely stood aside ...

“I will come,” Aberthol said to the guard, stepping around Gabreel.

“Thol,” he whispered, disbelieving.

But his child did not look back as he was absorbed by the large men and shuffled out.

The front door of their cottage shut with a gentle click.

The wind rattled the workroom window.

Gabreel stared at the doorway his son had fleetingly occupied.

His son, who had gone willingly to his own suffering.

And Gabreel, like every time before, could do nothing.

Aberthol had endured more than all of them and still had the fortitude to walk toward his nightmares.

A racking sob escaped Gabreel as he fell forward, but a strong, steadying grip kept him from hitting the floor.

Tanwen.

He met her wide green gaze, her eyes red from unshed tears.

Her features mirrored his own, displaying a mix of terror, fury, and grief. But there was a strength there that he no longer felt within himself. His daughter, who had come to save them, remained propping them both up despite the agony he knew she shared.

Gabreel took a moment to marvel at her.

To marvel at his son.

His children, who were braver than him.

“Father,” she whispered, pained.

He could hear the question in her tone. What now?

But Gabreel no longer held answers. He held only facts.

“It’s happening,” he said.

“What is?” Tanwen asked, brows furrowed.

“The king is growing bored of his promise.”

Gabreel watched Tanwen’s expression grow panicked with her understanding.

It didn’t matter if Gabreel behaved, listened, and obeyed.

King Réol had a Mütra within his palace, and he wished to play with him.

Our king does not need reason for his demands.

Though he and Tanwen remained quiet, their unspoken fear hung heavy within the workroom.

For Thol, waiting until the next full moons to escape could prove to be too late.