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Tanwen was going to be sick.

With each retreating step from Princess Azla’s chambers, her rush of adrenaline faded, and the weight of her actions crashed down on her like an avalanche of uncertainty and regret.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

Tanwen had gambled with the riskiest hand of her life. She had placed a bet on each of her family members’ lives. She had given away the only poison that could guarantee the king’s death and was now a conspirator in sedition.

But it had been such a clear-cut path at the time. The princess wanted to get rid of the king.

Tanwen had the tool to do it.

This also saved her from having to do it herself. Bosyg had never specified that it needed to be Tanwen to kill the king, only that he needed to be killed. An act that seemed more impossible by the day.

And days Tanwen no longer had the luxury to give.

Her brother was withering, her father was a step behind him, and the approach of the next full moons was edging ever closer.

What access did Tanwen have to the king?

None.

But the princess and a lady of the Sun Court had plenty.

They also could be calling the guards right now, reporting Tanwen’s insolence in having been so bold to offer up a poison to kill King Réol, the princess’s father.

Oh gods. Tanwen hurried behind a nearby column, dry heaving over the corridor’s ledge.

Tears sprang to her eyes from the pain of only bile rising. She hadn’t yet eaten today.

As she leaned against the hard stone, she gripped her empty tray in one hand while wiping at her mouth with the other. She tried taking in steadying breaths, but the breeze carried only the perpetual sweet scent of jasmine, worsening her nausea.

She was beginning to loathe the smells of Galia.

She now understood the perfume’s purpose: to hide the sour rot growing from within the island, the dead hearts of the aristocrats and their king.

Reluctantly, Tanwen thought again of the princess and what she had overheard before entering the sitting room.

In contrast to her courtiers, the princess’s heart was very much alive. Fighting for her life just as Tanwen fought for her own, fought for her family’s.

Which, Tanwen reminded herself, was exactly the reason she had done what she had.

Her insurance in giving Princess Azla the stone was that she was clearly just as determined to win in a similar high-stakes game.

If the princess didn’t want to sacrifice herself and her happiness, the king must die.

A wriggle of guilt twisted in Tanwen’s gut then at the thought of Zolya.

It was clear Zolya had a complicated relationship with his father, admitted to not agreeing with the way in which he ruled, and openly despised his maltreatment of his daughter, but did that equate to him wishing for his death like the rest of them?

Nausea rolled through Tanwen once more.

No, Zolya was too honorable in his duty to the crown to ever support such treason.

Even if this would free his sister and finally allow him to be king.

Allow him to rule as he believed just.

It might be his law, but it would never be mine.

Zolya’s declaration still prickled down Tanwen’s spine. Her mind spun at what else he would change, improve.

Stop it, a voice hissed within her mind.

This was not the time to daydream.

Her reality was that Zolya could never find out what she had done or helped try to achieve.

If he had been out of her reach before, this would set their fates even further apart.

Zolya would never forgive her this sin, and even if he could, his father would then be dead, and he’d be king.

And a Volari king could never be with the likes of her.

Heartache awoke like sharp knives blossoming in Tanwen’s chest, but she resisted crumpling under the pain.

Instead, she held tight to her purpose in coming to Galia: to save her brother and father. King Réol still sat on his throne, and her family’s lives were still in danger.

As Tanwen straightened, her resolve for what had transpired with the princess found its footing again.

It was done.

Her move had been played.

Only time would tell if it would work against her.

Tanwen made her way to the servants’ quarters beneath the palace. After leaving her tray in the kitchens, she headed to the atenté dormitories, seeking a brief reprieve before her next shift. But upon entering, a commotion near her bed caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

Noting her arrival, the other atentés fell silent.

Dread pooled, acidic, in Tanwen’s gut as she worked her way forward, the crowd parting, but before she could see what they had been looking at, Huw intercepted her.

“Hey,” he said softly, too softly. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What’s happened?” asked Tanwen, attempting to sidestep him.

“I’ll tell you, but not here.” His grip grew painful as he tried to turn her around.

“Stop.” She pulled her arm free, her concern rising. “I want to know why everyone is—”

Tanwen’s words faltered as she caught sight of Gwyn’s sinister smile from where she leaned in a nearby doorway. She stood removed from the crowd, Efa and Owen close by, but they looked less confident in their sneers. In fact, they appeared frightened, guilty, swiftly averting their gazes when Tanwen made eye contact.

Unease worked like claws down Tanwen’s back, terror pumping with each beat of her heart.

She shoved past Huw, ignored his pleas for her to stop.

As Tanwen reached her bed, she drew up short.

Eli.

Pinned to her sheets.

The white-handled docüra knife gleamed, pristine against the pool of his blood. Eli stared unseeing up at the ceiling.

A silent scream tore from Tanwen’s throat as she gripped her chest, pain eviscerating.

Her heart.

Her heart.

Her heart.

Ripped.

Severed.

Destroyed.

Eli.

My Eli!

Dead.

Devastation was a cresting wave, an engulfing surge that dragged Tanwen down into its depths. She barely registered a soft touch to her shoulder, a weak tether to life above. Huw was nearby. Somewhere.

But Tanwen was drifting further beneath the ocean, lost in an incomprehensible despair as the gruesome scene overtook her vision.

“Eli,” she whispered, sobbed, before crying out, “ Eli! ”

A lashing hate snapped Tanwen back into the room, surging her above the bleak darkness as a vicious growl tore from her throat. She turned and lunged toward Gwyn.

“You monster!” she thundered, vision stained red. Tanwen held no doubts as to who was responsible for this.

A strong grip snagged Tanwen, keeping her from reaching Gwyn. “You soulless beast!” she bellowed as she fought against whoever held her captive.

Gwyn’s eyes widened, revealing her flash of terror. She had the good sense to take steps away.

But the distance didn’t matter.

Tanwen would reach her. She was feral, frothing, and desperate for blood.

Gwyn’s blood.

“It will not bring him back.” She heard the urgent cruel words of Huw, who held her, was containing her. “Madam Arini will not side with you attacking Gwyn over a mouse,” he reasoned further, his words a vicious truth. “But she will get what’s coming,” he promised, a fierce whisper in Tanwen’s ear. “Though not like this. You need to go, Tanwen. Go!”

His shove was hard, a command.

Tanwen had no idea why, but she obeyed.

She turned from the cold silent room and fled.