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Something strange was occurring in the orchards.

Though Zolya would hardly have noticed if it hadn’t been for Tanwen running into the grove of trees a few moments prior.

He saw her hurrying out of the palace from where he was hiding beneath the shadow of a pediment on the western rooftop. After a recent meeting with the royal treasury, Zolya had been desperate for a reprieve. The conversation had concluded as they always did: poorly.

But those worries dissipated as a panic seized him. Zolya leaped into the air, wings splayed wide, rushing to where Tanwen had disappeared.

Was she hurt? In trouble?

His unease grew as he neared the edge of the palace grounds.

Above the canopy of trees, an odd array of fowl gathered in the sky. Like vultures they circled, though their pattern of flight seemed protective rather than predatory.

As he approached, a few dived at him, a screeching and flapping attack.

Zolya banked to the left before the right, dodging the usually docile macaws and parakeets.

What is going on? he thought, his concern rising as he landed at the edge of the tree line.

He eyed the entrance, uncertainty rooting his feet.

The day was slipping into evening, Ré’s light painting the trunks a burnt orange while pushing shadows into the bowels of the grove.

The royal orchard was a place very few Volari roamed. And for good reason. The short fruit trees gave little berth for wings such as his. In fact, Zolya couldn’t remember if he had ever been inside.

Because why would he ever want to be?

But now Tanwen was in there, somewhere, and potentially in trouble.

A mournful scream echoed from within.

Zolya’s heart stilled before racing.

Tanwen!

He tucked in his wings and dipped beneath the trees.

The air instantly grew cooler, his surroundings quiet. The sweet scent of ripe fruit filled his lungs.

The orchard had been planted in neat but tight rows, leaving the view of the sky nothing but a thin line above reaching branches.

He would not be able to take flight from here, not without the threat of injuring his wings.

Claustrophobia pressed down on Zolya, but he forced himself to hurry down the path, his footfalls purposeful, eyes on alert.

“Tanwen?” he called into the fading light. “Tanwen?”

He was met with no answer, his worry growing.

Since their encounter in the hall, Zolya had made a conscious effort to avoid crossing paths with her. He had gone as far as to avoid visiting Azla and disregarded his usual attendance at evening court functions in case Tanwen would be present among the staff.

It had become clear it was dangerous to be anywhere near Tanwen, especially when in public. He couldn’t help but be drawn to her whenever they were in the same vicinity, and he worried about how long it would be before someone else noticed where his focus lay—the wrong someone.

But currently, Tanwen was clearly in distress, and this he could not ignore.

As he ventured deeper into the orchard, his pace faltered as he noticed who else traveled alongside him. Animals—a strange mix of foxes, hares, chipmunks, lizards, and snakes—wove forward within the forest. Birds darted from tree to tree or flew down the path, all seemingly driven by a singular purpose, headed toward a specific spot in the middle of the grove.

Their behavior was disconcerting, unnatural, and reeking of magic, of possession, yet there was no lacing of celestial energy filling the air, no hint that a High God might be present.

With his ever-rising disquiet, Zolya’s defenses flared, his hand coming to rest at the knife hilt along his hip.

He followed the procession of animals, continuing to search the trees for any sign of Tanwen, but still there was no trace of her.

Where are you? he thought. Where did you go?

As he ducked beneath a low branch, he stepped into a new lane before coming to a halt.

There, not ten paces away, was where the animals gathered.

They collided, creating a single chaotic swarm, a rising and moving mound of scales and fur and feathers. Overhead, additional birds collected within the treetops while other creatures fanned out along the ground, a carpet of life encircling a monstrous form.

Zolya’s heart stopped, the air robbed from his lungs.

He had no idea what he was witnessing, but it was all at once frightening and mesmerizing.

As though the creature knew it was no longer among kin, the mass moved, shifting to face him.

Zolya took a step back, muscles tense as he tightened the grip on his sheathed knife.

But then his surroundings blew apart, and beneath the tapestry of animals, familiar green eyes met his.

Zolya stood a statue, frozen, unbelieving.

This was not happening.

This was not real.

Slowly she stood, and as she did, the animals slid from her as though rainwater, pooling by her feet. There they remained, a pedestal of support as every eye became trained on him, watching, guarding, warding off.

But the only gaze Zolya cared for was hers.

Tanwen.

Uncovered.

Revealed.

A goddess standing amid her loyal subjects.

She looked wild. Her dark hair was a mass around her shoulders, her white peplos and pale skin stained and dirty. Devastation was etched into her features, tearstains disturbing the smudges on her cheeks, which sent a slashing pain through Zolya’s chest. But even in her despair, she held her head high, her horns appearing regal as she looked at him with a dangerous defiance.

Zolya was transfixed, consumed.

She had never been so breathtaking, so powerful, so perfect.

But within Zolya’s awe came a quickly forming realization as he eyed the creatures encircling Tanwen’s feet. Her connection to them was unnatural, a godly gift.

Understanding solidified like a sick lump in his gut, a dreaded truth.

Tanwen appeared to read his thoughts, for she waited, gaze unwavering, forcing him to say it.

“You are Mütra.” The words were rough and finite as they left his lips.

“I am,” Tanwen replied.

The world crumbled beneath Zolya’s feet.

From where he remained under a canopy of leaves, hidden from the watchful gazes of gods, he fought a silent war within his heart; decades of molded obedience, fundamental teachings, collided with personal beliefs and wants and desires.

Tanwen was Mütra.

Her existence was deemed wrong, evil, by society, her magic a mutiny against the crown.

And she was on Galia, had somehow escaped detection to serve within the palace.

Serve the princess.

Act as her healer.

And then there was Zolya.

Who had kissed her, tasted her, wanted her. It was beyond intolerable to his people.

To be a Süra sympathizer was one offense, but that of Mütra ...

Unfathomable.

Especially for Zolya, a Volari prince, next in line for the throne.

There would be no leniency shown to him if it ever became known, only a clear-cut punishment of death for such sedition against his father, the king, and his kingdom.

But with a terrifying clarity, Zolya realized he did not care.

All he cared for in that moment was Tanwen. Tanwen, who was obviously in distress, hurt, broken. By whom or what, Zolya was desperate to know, to fix, to avenge.

She may have been Mütra, but she was still her , still the woman he loved.

The realization rocked him back a step, a shock vibrating down his spine.

He loved her.

Tanwen noted his retreat, misunderstood it, for pain shone in her gaze before hardening her features. “Will you kill me here?” she asked, tone eerily calm, “or have the slitting of an abomination’s throat be a spectacle?”

It was as if she had plunged a knife through Zolya’s heart. “You are not an abomination,” he said.

Her green eyes flashed, incredulous. “And yet your kind says I am.”

Your kind.

Another cleaver between them.

“You are not an abomination,” he repeated.

“Then what am I?” she challenged. “What is the product of a forbidden union?”

The answer came to him easily. “A miracle.”

And gods, was it true.

Zolya had been surrounded by power and beauty his entire life, but none of it was as real or as pure as what he was witnessing now, with Tanwen. She was a marvel. What should be impossible made possible. Her magic was unique, her blood a mixing of soil and sky, of two pantheons of gods. She was a miracle because she represented the unity of a millennia-old divide.

Tanwen drew in an unsteady breath, her gaze widening with her shock from his answer.

Zolya witnessed her hard veneer crack, and with it she revealed a delicate, raw woman beneath.

His body was seized in agony.

Let me hold you, he silently pleaded.

Instinctively, Zolya stepped closer, but Tanwen’s protective barrier of animals reacted swiftly. Snakes lunged, fangs bared; foxes growled; and birds swooped down.

Zolya found himself in a rare situation, shielding himself from danger.

As if a silent whip had been cracked, the grove stilled, the creatures severing their attack.

Zolya met Tanwen’s gaze, apprehension and admiration filling his chest. He knew she had commanded them, controlled them. Told them to stand down.

Incredible.

“Tanwen,” he began gently, a tentative outreach so as not to scare her away. “Tell me what has happened. Are you hurt? Why have you been crying?”

Surprise momentarily danced across her features. “That is what you wish to know right now? After what I admitted to.”

“It’s the only thing that matters.”

Silence stretched as Tanwen wrestled to take in his reply. It was evident her trust in others was nonexistent—no doubt for good reason—but gods how he was desperate for her to trust him. Believe him.

Her being Mütra was inconsequential in this moment.

“Don’t do that,” she eventually warned.

“Don’t do what?”

“Be kind.” Her voice wavered, emotion thick.

“Why?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“It makes it worse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” It was less an agreement than an accusation.

I don’t understand.

No, you wouldn’t.

Their exchange echoed through Zolya, his comprehension finally settling. Despite her menagerie of guards, Tanwen appeared alone then, lonely in the growing darkness creeping into the orchard.

Just like when he had found her unaccompanied outside the forest of Zomyad.

Alone walking the halls of the palace.

Removed from the other servants heading toward the pavol pitch.

Her life must have been a solitary one, filled with constant suffering, continued suffering, knowing that what she was—what she could not help being—was considered an offense, one to be eradicated. Did she have anyone whom she could confide in? Trust?

Not many, he assumed, especially when a heavy payment of gem was tied to revealing her secret.

Kept secrets and I are very well acquainted.

Tanwen’s words, which had been an oath at the time, now rang out with new meaning, the tragedy of them for her survival.

A pain surged through Zolya’s veins as he realized that Tanwen had been forced to bury her true self her entire life.

Like me.

The startling thought came quickly. Zolya would never have said he suffered like Mütra—roaming a world that hunted them—but he knew inherently the need to disguise one’s truth. The necessity of it for self-preservation.

He was the heir to a kingdom that was bloated with privilege and vile behavior, abided laws he silently abhorred, and wished for a future for Cādra that looked nothing like its present. He was ashamed of his father and the legacy of oppression he was to inherit.

But none of this he could openly share or act upon, not as a prince still beneath the mighty thumb of a tyrannical king. The Volari ways were centuries deep and tied to the desires of selfish, fickle gods.

“Tanwen, please.” He tried again. “I know I cannot make right the challenges you’ve faced in life, but I need you to understand, I am not your enemy.”

A cold laugh escaped Tanwen, her green eyes shining with incredulity. “You, sire, are the very definition of my enemy.”

“No,” he rebuked, his frustration rising. “That is my father.”

She stiffened, a dozen thoughts flooding her features. “Perhaps, but it is still you who obeys him.”

“I am not obeying him now.” Zolya kept his gaze tethered to hers, allowed her to see the truth of his words. He would not hurt her. He could never hurt her.

“You are cruel.” Her statement was barely a whisper, but it still punched through Zolya’s chest.

“Excuse me?” He drew back.

“How dare you say such a thing to me,” Tanwen seethed, her ire rising. “How dare you promise me this false sense of security.”

“It is not false.”

“No?” she challenged, chin tilting up. “Then tell me, what sanctuary do I have beyond this moment here with you? What protections can you promise me tomorrow? Or the next day? What will happen when someone else learns of what I am? Will you be able to stop your father’s decree? Or will you remain as silent and still as you did for Lady Eonya and Brilyard’s execution?”

It was a low aim but still met its mark.

Zolya was a powerless prince.

“That is unfair,” Zolya rebuked.

“Unfair?” Tanwen’s brows snapped up. “What is unfair, sire , is that since my birth I have been made aware of what I am and what I am not supposed to be. For my entire life, I have watched Mütra be slain. Their only guilt to have been born, as I was born—at the mercy of others’ decisions. I have watched their throats be cut, their bodies beaten and hung as they fought for their final breaths. And do you want to know the worst part of those moments? Every single time I found myself ashamed to be grateful it was not me. So you say I am a miracle”—her gaze was searing as it clung to his—“and yet I know of no other miracles who grow up terrified, regretful of their existence, and constantly aware of the bounty on their heads. You say I am a miracle, but the only miracle I see is that I was able to survive for as long as I have.”

Zolya held no reply.

He was lost.

Drowning.

Her agony was palpable, penetrating.

How dare he think he understood her pain.

Tanwen had said he was cruel, and she was right.

Zolya had done terrible things.

Obeyed unjust orders.

Remained silent, compliant, when he instead wished to scream his protest.

His cruelty lay in his inaction to erect change for what he believed was right and wrong.

He had been preoccupied trying to survive his own dangerous game played against his father, maneuvering in a world meant to please his king and his High Gods.

Shame was a hot branding to his chest, one that burned further when he saw the curling resentment growing in Tanwen’s gaze.

“So I beg of you,” she went on, “do not promise me safety when I know there is none for Mütra, especially here. Or have you forgotten about the inventor’s son who you offered up to the king? You knew he was Mütra, yet still you stole him away to Galia knowing what torture would await him. If you held any empathy for my kind, you would have left him behind in that glen in Zomyad.”

Her voice broke on the last sentence, a wavering of fury and further despair.

Zolya frowned, a cold slip of unease down his spine. “How did you know I found them in a glen?”

“I—” Tanwen hesitated, realizing her misstep. Her complexion grew paler. “The story of you tracking and trapping the inventor is famous,” she reasoned quickly.

Zolya regarded her a long moment as his creeping sense of disquiet continued to slither awake in his veins. In an odd flash, he was back in the field outside Zomyad, Tanwen kneeling by his feet, her features now uncannily familiar. In a blink, a different face was suddenly in front of him. Same green eyes and dark hair and complexion. Same defiant glint and bitter resolve.

Gabreel.

Zolya took a sharp breath in, heartbeat storming against his ribs.

No, he thought desperately. No.

But then he drew forward the image of the Mütra Tanwen spoke of, the inventor’s son, who, he realized now, had an uncanny resemblance to Tanwen.

Like a broken bone resetting, the connection forcibly snapped into place. Agony barreled through Zolya.

How had he not seen it sooner?

Gabreel. Aberthol. Tanwen.

Tanwen Mütra.

Tanwen being his connection to finding Gabreel.

Gabreel in Zomyad, standing within the open glen, glancing back into the forest as though to find another who might have been watching.

She was that someone.

And then, soon after, Tanwen’s sudden appearance on Galia.

Why are you here? Zolya had asked her that first night at the palace party.

Because I must be.

With the same ability Zolya held for knowing lies, he saw with certainty this truth.

Tanwen was Gabreel’s child, his other child, his daughter, Mütra, and she had followed him here.

But why?

Because I took them. Zolya’s answer was clear and horrifying.

He had taken her father and brother.

Had taken a Mütra to the king.

To be studied, tortured.

Zolya stumbled back, legs growing unsteady.

A flash of concern shone in Tanwen’s features, but she quickly recovered, mask of ire back in place.

And Zolya could not blame her.

How could she stand to be near him?

How could she allow him to touch her, kiss her, after what he had done? What he was still allowing to still be done to her father and brother?

Or had everything between them been pretense? Get near him to get near them.

Zolya would not fault her if it had been, and yet it did not dull the eviscerating grief tightening around his heart. Zolya’s magic surged, chaotic, in his veins, a gathering of confusion and anger and regret.

“I must go,” Zolya said in a rush, a suffocating force bearing down on his chest.

He no longer trusted himself here, with her. He was a brewing storm wishing to destroy the sins of his past, the tragic reality of his present.

He was in love with a woman whose family he had imprisoned, who was clearly here with ulterior motives, and who, in his mind, could not possibly love him. Which should be a blessing, should be a relief, because under no circumstance could they be together.

Zolya turned and fled.

Tanwen did not stop him.