Page 52

52

Zolya decided he was cursed.

All the women whom he cared for in his life were suddenly growing reckless.

“You promised you’d remain calm,” Azla protested from where she sat on a settee within her chambers, watching as he paced.

“That’s because I didn’t think you’d be telling me something so ... so ...”

“Imperative,” she offered.

“Absurd!” he corrected, spinning to face her.

Zolya was beyond outraged; he was appalled. Or perhaps he was merely stunned.

Stunned that Azla could scheme up something so mad.

And then confess it to him!

“Azla, what you wish to do is”—he lowered his voice—“ treason . And worse, murder . Of our father .”

“You think I do not understand that?” she retorted, annoyance marring her brow.

The midday sun streamed in through the open veranda at her back, casting a radiant glow on her white wings and braided hair. She sat calmly in a mauve wrap dress, looking poised and innocent.

A farce.

Here lounged a princess who wished to kill the king.

“But it’s the only option I have,” she reasoned.

Zolya widened his gaze, incredulous. “Is it?”

“ Yes ,” Azla pressed before sighing. “Zolya, will you please come sit? You must allow me to explain.”

He shook his head. “There is no world in which an explanation will condone this thinking.”

Gods , he had finally come down from his panic over Tanwen’s planned escape, and now this!

His sister-cousin appeared to wish him a heart attack.

Azla pursed her lips, frustration flaring. “ Sit ,” she demanded, violently patting the space beside her.

Begrudgingly, Zolya sat.

He had been lured to Azla’s chambers under false pretenses. She had sent him an urgent summons, only for him to find an overly sweet yet anxious Azla standing beside a decadent spread of his favorite desserts.

Zolya should have fled right then. He knew a laid trap when he neared one.

But because Azla was Azla and it was difficult to deny her anything, especially his company, Zolya had stayed.

And now he was an accomplice to potential patricide.

Insanity.

Zolya would have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified.

“You must understand,” Azla began. “We did not come to this conclusion lightly.”

“ We ?” Zolya countered, swiveling to look at her. “Wait, no.” He held up a hand, stopping Azla’s reply. “Never mind. I can assume who your accomplice may be.”

Lady Esme—the woman Azla had been with for three decades.

Of course she would be in favor of this plan, a coconspirator. Lady Esme was on the brink of losing the love of her life. To not fight such a fate would be a betrayal to their union and everything they had built together.

People took drastic actions for the ones they loved.

Zolya tensed, an uncomfortable understanding pressing against his chest.

His thoughts briefly drifted back to Tanwen—as they were wont to do. She had sacrificed everything to make her way to Galia in the hope of freeing her father and brother. Was still risking her life in the attempt.

And he was going to help her. Had already begun to in subtle, deft ways.

Despite such action clearly being an act of mutiny against the crown, given their end goal, Zolya had switched out the guards stationed by the cottage where Gabreel and his son were being kept. The soldiers were now his personally trained and loyal men, who would do whatever he asked without question. And his first order had been to show the inventor respect while leaving his child well enough alone.

Zolya doubted he could ever make up for Gabreel’s and Aberthol’s suffering, but he’d do everything to help Tanwen and her family escape. For he should never have brought them here in the first place.

At the thought of Tanwen leaving, pain plucked with each beat of his heart.

He was going to lose her. If Tanwen succeeded, she would be gone. If she was caught ...

A shiver ran the length of him, nausea a punch to his gut.

He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if she was caught.

Since yesterday morning, Zolya had been in a chaotic swirl of fear and heady daydreaming. His and Tanwen’s meeting felt fated, albeit destined for a tragic end. She was quite possibly the worst person for him to fall in love with, and yet here he was—transfixed and consumed in his wonderment. The completeness that settled within his heart as he held her, kissed her, listened to her tell him stories from her life and share with him more details of her magic—it left him breathless.

And terrified.

Because he no longer held agency over his emotions.

Tanwen held that power now.

“I can’t marry him, Zolya.” Azla’s desperate tone redrew his attention, reawakened the genesis for his wandering thoughts. Azla wished to kill their father to escape from an arranged marriage to an angry god and save her love.

While it was a wildly inappropriate solution, Zolya held compassion for her motives. He himself was committing treason for someone he loved. Of course, without such a drastic outcome.

He hated his father for what he had condemned Azla to, had wished every day since that moment with Orzel in the throne room that he could fix it, save his sister-cousin, but never was murder an option in his mind.

“And running would not end the contract of my marriage to Orzel,” Azla continued, her features pained. “It would only prolong the inevitable once Father found me and dragged me back. To get rid of one of the signatories is the only guarantee of voiding the agreement. According to our laws, it would make it annulled. The only way to bind it again would be by my next-of-kin guardian.” She looked at him pointedly. “Which is you, brother.”

Brother.

A well-aimed shot.

Zolya tensed, despising that her manipulation was working. The armor around his heart cracked, but with it came another rise of ire.

“Is this why you summoned me?” he asked coolly. “Confided in me? To have me promise not to re-sign your marriage agreement?”

“I summoned you here because you have always been good to me, Zolya,” she explained, features earnest. “You have cared for me when others in your position would have shunned me. I know what my mother did. How her actions were a betrayal to your mother and our queen. I have always wanted to do right by you, Zolya. Have always wanted to make up for the sin of my birth.”

Shame deflated a bit of Zolya’s rage. “You never needed—”

Azla raised a hand, cutting him off. “I wanted you to know what I am planning,” she continued, “and what I intend to go through with because I owe it to you. You are going to be a great king, Zolya.” She placed a hand atop his where it rested on his thigh, a resolute gleam in her eyes. “I did not want your moment of ascending the throne to be overshadowed by my actions. I want you to be prepared.”

Zolya shook his head. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

“I have already thought a great deal about what options I have,” she admitted, “but with the wedding at week’s end, this is the only one that promises my freedom. Our freedom,” she added meaningfully. “Also, the way in which it will be done ... guarantees success.”

Zolya held in his wince. “Please.” He lifted a hand. “Spare me the details. I already know more than I’d like about this ridiculous scheme.”

“It’s not ridiculous ,” she argued, sitting back. “It’s a necessary action.”

Zolya sighed, a heavy weariness pressing against his wings. “Azla,” he began slowly, holding her hard stare. “I do not fault you in your desires for retribution. In fact, I understand them, but you have not seen clearly past your own end goal. There are many ramifications that will follow such an action and none that help in either of our ‘freedoms,’ as you say. Our father’s rule has been with the support of many at court and that of our gods for centuries. To”—he lowered his voice to a whisper, hating to utter what he would next—“ assassinate a king will create much instability. Instability and distrust that I will have to deal with. You say you do not want my rule to be overshadowed by your actions, but with this path it will be more than overshadowed. A murdered king will be an eclipse to my ascension. It will be questioned and scrutinized beyond a normal passing of a crown. I do not wish to sit on our throne by default,” he added, a tight shame filling his chest. “I wish to sit on it because I have earned it.”

“And you have earned it, Zolya,” said Azla, recapturing his hand in hers, a fierceness to her gaze. “You deserve to be king far more than the monster who currently claims the title.”

“ Azla ,” Zolya warned. Her boldness was bordering on madness.

“You might not like what I am saying”—she held his hand firm—“but you know, deep down, I am right.”

Zolya sat stiffly in his discomfort. Years of trained obedience to his king kicked and snarled at Azla’s words. Despite coming to accept that he, indeed, disagreed with many of their father’s ways of ruling and that, yes, their father was clearly not a good man, did that still justify his murder? A plot against him from his own children?

You deserve to be king far more than the monster who currently claims the title.

Azla’s declaration turned over in his chest, an absorption into his marrow.

Zolya understood that to be a great ruler, his responsibilities went beyond his own desires. The very nature of a king’s position was sacrifice—for his people, for the betterment of others.

What sacrifices did his father ever make?

For eight decades, Zolya had witnessed his father sacrifice only others.

At the realization, fury worked like flames over his skin.

And not merely because of how he and Azla had been mistreated by the king. Thoughts of his mother and aunt swam forward. The inventor and his son. All Mütra and every Süra. Those who worked the mines. And even his own people, Volari whom King Réol quickly condemned as Süra sympathizers if they stepped out of line.

King Réol might spout harsh ideals about how a few must be offered up to satisfy the needs of many, but it was only ever his court, Volari aristocrats, who benefited from his brutality. A minuscule number compared to the ocean of souls he’d used to prop them up.

I am not your enemy, he had said to Tanwen. That is my father.

And it was true. So much of the suffering in their world was because of his father and his endless centuries of oppressive rule.

Zolya was unsure what to make of his turning thoughts, the reasoning he was finding to back Azla’s actions. The worst, of course, being that this would help his sister as well as those like Tanwen. Mütra, whose lives were blasphemous under his father’s rule.

Could this be what the gods wanted for King Réol? If not, surely they would have intervened by now. If they were not stopping Azla and Lady Esme’s plans, did that mean they condoned it?

Historically, tyrants had been removed from power before.

Zolya’s unease buzzed as he glanced to the open veranda, to Ré’s light spilling along the marble tiles.

It was a very risky gamble to assume.

“Despite how fit or unfit I may be as a future ruler,” Zolya finally replied, looking back at the princess, “I do know this is a very dangerous game you are playing, Azla. What if you get caught? I won’t be able to protect you from the consequences.”

“Then I suppose I can’t get caught,” Azla reasoned. “But I am at peace with my fate from whatever outcome occurs. At least this way, I’ll be the one responsible for my future rather than at the mercy of another’s decision for what they believe it should be. Father has forced us both into a corner for too long, Zolya,” she explained, voice hardening. “Into his cage. It is time we break free. We are not his helpless children any longer.”

“There is a difference in breaking free from our father and plotting his death,” reasoned Zolya.

“The only freedom we’ll ever have from him is when he’s dead.”

Zolya stopped breathing as Azla’s cold declaration lashed against him.

My gods, he thought, she really does hate him.

The silence stretched as he sat assessing the princess, drank in her calm confidence, her unwavering stare, and finally grasped her position.

In Azla’s mind, she had nothing to lose. Whether she married Orzel or faced the consequences of her intended actions, her fate was sealed. Her life as she knew it would be over.

She had endured decades of neglect from the king to finally be given the proof that he did not love her and clearly never would. She was a pawn to be played and then discarded.

Why should she not then play her own game?

“There really is no convincing you against this,” said Zolya.

“No,” replied Azla. “We will go through with this the night of my prenuptial celebration.”

Zolya froze.

The night of my prenuptial celebration.

The same night Tanwen was planning her escape.

Zolya’s ears began to ring, his breathing growing quick. Depending on when everything happened, this had the potential to help Tanwen further. The chaos that could follow Azla’s plan would divert attention from activities at the edge of the palace grounds.

Of course, that chaos was the death of his father.

Zolya held back an aggravated growl. Why? he thought, pleaded to any High God who might be listening. Why are you colliding every part of my life on this night? Why do you test so viciously where my loyalties lie?

“Zolya,” the princess said with concern, seeming to mistake his visible panic for another emotion. “Unless, of course ... you’re thinking of stopping me?”

Azla’s words were an eerie echo of Tanwen from the other night.

Will you stop me?

Zolya almost laughed at the cruel irony.

Once again, he found himself trapped in a moral dilemma, torn between his loyalty and love for Azla and his duty to the throne. To his king.

And, yes, just like with Tanwen, he could easily stop Azla, throw her and Lady Esme into a holding cell until the day of the wedding. Chain Azla to his arm as he dragged her toward her betrothed. But then that would kill her, a voice reasoned in his mind. You want to save her. This way does.

Frustration surged through Zolya’s veins, his magic a crackling storm in his blood. Like with Tanwen, he realized that to do what he believed was right, he would have to resort to doing something wrong. To free Tanwen’s family, he was allowing sedition. To save his sister’s life, he was condoning his father’s death.

Every decision held loss.

I’m sorry this could not be different, he had said to Tanwen. The sentiment of his regret now extended beyond just the two of them.

Yes, Tanwen had replied. But perhaps one day it will be.

Perhaps one day Azla would be free of her nightmares.

Mütra would not need to hide because they no longer were being hunted.

The treasury would not be bleeding because palace spending would be better regulated.

Volari and Süra would not be condemned for caring for one another.

The queen could return to Galia.

Zolya would finally be able to act, do , rather than remain compliant and silent.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . .

When I am king.

The statement swirled through Zolya’s blood, settling into his heart. A declaration.

His magic now buzzed with a different energy, a hum of dangerous longing, a resolve that might have been mad, might have been the biggest sin of his life, but he now knew was the only way to save those he loved and push Cādra toward a better tomorrow.

An opportunity for change had been handed to him. He needed to decide if he would reach out and grasp it.

When wearing the crown of our kingdom, his father had once said, you must always see the ripple of an action, not merely where the stone falls.

Zolya saw every ripple that would follow allowing this plan, but any that held consequences, he would own, for he’d then be king, and that would be his duty.

Zolya met Azla’s gaze, his pulse a chaotic thrum. “I will not stop you.”