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The royal banquet hall was bloated with opulence and grandeur.

Elaborate flower arrangements adorned every swath of the open-air room, petals dyed blue and green, with flecks of diamonds to mimic a midnight ocean—an homage to Orzel.

The soaring columns gleamed under the warm glow pulsing from large burning bowls. Food and wine overflowed from passing trays, allowing half the mingling guests to already be in their cups. Their laughter and chatter filled the air, their painted wings a kaleidoscope of colors complementing draped satin and organza and silks, courtiers reveling in the ambience of a royal celebration.

Zolya stood at the head of the room, unmoved.

In fact, he was offended by the entire charade.

Tonight was not a commemorative occasion—it was the beginning of many ends.

His magic swirled in an anxious rhythm through his veins, his body so tense he might shatter with the next light breeze.

How was he to survive this?

Zolya looked over the crowd, searching for her, but the atentés had not yet been let loose within the party.

A mountain of unease rose within his chest.

Was Tanwen going to come? Or was she already making her way to her father and brother?

No, thought Zolya, restraining himself from abruptly flying from the party to verify. Madam Arini would immediately note Tanwen’s absence. She would need to make an appearance first. The madam always did a final check of her staff, her approval necessary before each was ushered into an event.

A blessing, for Zolya had to see Tanwen one last time.

For the past three days, they had been overwhelmed with their separate duties. Apart from passing glances in the hall, he and Tanwen hadn’t found a moment alone.

Zolya clenched his jaw, despising the idea of this being how they spent their final time together, their final farewell.

A night in which he could not kiss her and elicit her beautiful moans or laughs or hold her in his arms as they drifted off to sleep.

That moment had come and gone much too quickly.

Zolya hadn’t been able to confide in Tanwen, either, regarding Azla and Lady Esme’s plans, despite wishing very much to unburden his worries with someone he trusted, really the only person he trusted. But Zolya knew Tanwen had enough to get right tonight, that they each had to get right. Zolya feared telling her about the princess’s plan for the king would unsteady her footing.

Especially since it was still thoroughly unsteadying his.

I can’t believe I’ve condoned this, Zolya thought with further disquiet, gaze surveying the room, drinking in the crowd of ignorant guests.

Though, like every day since his meeting with Azla, he remained unchanged in stopping her.

As if on cue with his thoughts, the arrival of the princess drew the hall’s attention.

Heads turned and conversations ceased as a wave of bows trickled down the center of the room.

Azla glided toward the front dais, where Zolya stood, her head held stoically high while her entourage of ladies and guards trailed behind.

Zolya’s heart skipped.

Despite the occasion, Azla was resplendent.

Her dark skin was luminous, her alabaster hair and wings adorned with precious flecks of gold as her seafoam dress cascaded down her lithe form. She met Zolya’s gaze, a ripple of determined energy jolting forward.

She was a warrior disguised as a bride.

As she reached him, Zolya stepped forward to take her delicate hand in his before they faced the room together.

The court bowed once more, the view of the massive prostrating crowd sending an uneasy twinge to Zolya’s wings.

Will they still bow to me after tonight?

Will they accept me as their new king?

Zolya forced himself to ignore his rising doubts as he and Azla settled onto their plush benches.

The prince and the princess sat, a royal spectacle, allowing the court to resume their revelry.

“How are you?” Zolya leaned in to gently ask Azla.

She kept her gaze forward. “As good as one can expect given the circumstances,” she answered before fervently glancing his way. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she admitted and then, after another pause, asked, “How are you?”

“As good as one can expect given the circumstances,” Zolya repeated.

He felt Azla’s continued focus on him.

“You look angry,” she observed. “Are you angry with me?”

“Do you want the honest answer?”

She paused as though thinking. “No.”

“Then I am not angry with you.”

“ Zolya ,” she admonished, though it came out more like a plea. “I cannot suffer the guilt of your scorn, especially not this evening,” she finished on a whisper. “You know I clearly am not happy with either of our situations, but this is the fate the gods handed us. Or would you rather I go through with tomorrow and be pulled into the ocean’s abyss for eternity?”

Zolya let out a long-suffering sigh, sitting straight. “No, of course not.”

“Then smile,” she demanded. “Or, actually, don’t. Your scowl is perfect. It will draw less suspicion, as you rarely are a jovial participant at parties.”

Zolya sucked in the side of his cheek, annoyed. “This is hardly an appropriate time for wit,” he countered.

“If we can’t laugh tonight,” Azla offered, “then when can we?”

“Ask me in a decade,” he muttered. “After this evening is thoroughly behind us.”

The gentle touch of her hand to his momentarily startled him.

Zolya met Azla’s blue gaze. The same blue as his, as their father’s.

“We are doing what is right,” she said softly. “And you know it. Otherwise, you would stop me.”

“Who says I still won’t?” He arched a brow.

Azla studied him a beat, a wavering shadow passing across her features, but then she regained her poise, lifting her chin. “You won’t,” she assured. “Your passion for fairness and justice is too great. Plus, you love me too much and loathe him enough.”

Zolya stiffened.

Him.

The king.

Was that why Zolya was allowing this all to happen? Not because he knew it was a necessary, albeit tragic, outcome to create a better Cādra, to free many of those he loved, but to satiate the hatred he might have for his father?

The thought didn’t sit well. It made the circumstance feel spiteful and vindictive. Well-known traits of the king.

Zolya frowned. No, I will never be like him, he silently vowed. I’m doing this to set others free, not myself. For Zolya knew that the role he would take on tomorrow would restrict his thoughts and actions even further. No freedoms would he enjoy.

“Will you at least do me a favor?” Zolya asked.

Azla glanced at him, her expression wary, but she waited for him to continue.

“Will you warn me before you ... do what you intend to do tonight?”

Azla’s features softened. She looked as if she wished to comfort him with another touch of her hand, but they remained in her lap. “If I am able,” she replied. “Yes.”

Despite her answer, Zolya didn’t feel any more relieved.

But their conversation was put on hold as Osko approached.

“Your Royal Highnesses.” He bowed low between them. “What a beautiful night for a celebration. I wanted to congratulate you again on your upcoming nuptials, Princess.” He inclined his head to Azla. “You honor us with this divine union. Never has our kind been elevated to such illustrious ranks. You will be a beacon to aspire to for all ladies of court.”

Zolya inwardly cringed. Osko was laying it on rather thick, and he didn’t need to look at Azla to know her gaze was searing. Neither of them had ever truly cared for each other.

“Thank you, Kidar Terz,” Azla replied, honey sweet. “I do hope you are right. I would be honored if my actions regarding this union inspire others. We ladies must know what we can achieve.”

Zolya cleared his throat, her meaning more than clear to himself, while Osko merely preened, oblivious.

A dramatic hush swept through the hall as a herald announced the arrival of the king.

Azla and Zolya stood from their bench before sinking to their knees, mirroring the reverence of the entire room.

The king’s promenade took forever, Zolya’s heartbeat a pounding drum against his ribs from where he remained prostrating. A coiling of fear and dread, a common affliction whenever his father was near.

“You may rise,” boomed the king as he took his place at the head of the room. Zolya and Azla now flanked his sides on the royal dais.

King Réol’s authority loomed over the great hall, his power unfurling in a heavy current.

I am greater than you, it seemed to say. Stronger, blessed, chosen.

Zolya forced his breaths to be even, forced away the rise of overwhelm surging through his veins, kicking against his magic.

Now as he stood beside his father, their intentions for tonight seemed not just foolish but impossible.

The way in which it will be done guarantees success, Azla had promised.

But what could possibly guarantee the killing of practically a demigod?

Zolya fisted his hands at his sides, his annoyance with himself flaring.

He should have asked more details, should have allowed Azla to tell him exactly what she was planning to use and how.

But Zolya had been too stubborn in thinking if he knew less, he’d have less sin on his hands, less of their father’s blood, less to hide when standing before his subjects as their new king.

Now he realized his foolishness, as this had left him only ill prepared.

“My devoted patrons,” said the king, his voice a rumbling storm through the hall. “Tonight marks a momentous occasion. It is the eve of one of our own ascending to the rank of goddess. Historical in its union, this symbolizes a fortuitous future for us all, with our mighty Orzel as an ally.” He extended his hand to Azla, which she accepted, though Zolya noted the tension along her jaw. This perhaps was the first time their father had ever touched his daughter. Zolya’s own physical contact with the king had only been from hard blows.

He swallowed his sudden spike of protectiveness toward Azla.

“You honor me, daughter,” the king proclaimed, a show of adoration for his child as he smiled. “You honor us all.” He turned back to the room. “Dear guests and loyal subjects, I thank you for attending tonight to celebrate this joyous occasion. Let us hope that all my children can make us this proud. Now feast!”

The banquet hall rose with cheers of delight while Zolya stiffened at his father’s last statement, a purposeful public lashing.

Let us hope that all my children can make us this proud.

Because Zolya still had not.

But despite how in the past such sentiments from his father would have knocked him down, tonight they helped Zolya regain his footing.

He was nothing like his father, and never did he wish to be.

He glanced at the king, who appeared content and bloated after selling his only daughter to an angry god. All so he could sustain his court’s lavish lifestyle.

One of his many transgressions.

We are doing what is right. Azla’s earlier words now echoed a steady beat in Zolya’s heart.

For the first time all week Zolya felt a sense of calm.

She was right.

Their father’s cruel rule needed to end.

And Zolya would help see that it did.

As the soiree bubbled around them, their royal dais slowly filled with familiar faces. Osko reclaimed his spot beside Zolya while a few of the king’s close advisers slid into their circle as well as Lady Esme.

Zolya had acknowledged her arrival but couldn’t bring himself to converse with her.

There was too much meaning in each of their shared glances, too much radiating between her and Azla, too much anticipation.

Are they going to do it now? Zolya wondered, his anxiousness compounding. Right here, where everyone can see?

His swirling thoughts were interrupted, however, by the king addressing Lady Esme.

“My lady.” King Réol turned his icy stare on her. “I must compliment you on your years of service to my daughter,” he stated. “It is rare that a lady-in-waiting would so long stay with their charge. Usually, your position is used to make an advantageous marriage match. And yet you have remained with my daughter for decades, unwed.”

It was a purposeful undercut, for King Réol knew perfectly well why Lady Esme remained a charge of the princess as well as unwed. Ire flashed like lightning through Zolya’s veins.

“It has been my honor to serve the princess, Your Eminence,” said Lady Esme with a bow, deftly ignoring his other statement.

“I would assume so,” replied the king. “Which is why I have been thinking a great deal about how untethered you’ll be once Princess Azla is married and living in her husband’s domain. It would be cruel of me to allow you to fall from ranks at court after how loyal you have been to my family.”

No one spoke, a thickening of tension in the air.

“I have decided that you will serve in my personal entourage,” he announced, eyes lingering a beat too long on her bosom. “You are young, with much still to learn regarding the ways in which you can be valuable. I will see to it personally that your continued royal service is an educational experience that will benefit your future.”

Zolya had stopped breathing, his rage a quick boil to his blood.

I have decided that you will serve in my personal entourage.

He was claiming Lady Esme as one of his mistresses.

In front of his daughter.

Zolya clamped his teeth together, his wings stiff at his back, as he glanced to Azla.

Her brown skin had been sapped of color, her gaze a flash of unchecked animosity and grief.

Osko met Zolya’s gaze, his eyes wide in shock; even his dutiful friend saw the wrong of this moment.

Yes, thought Zolya, this is the monster we are meant to serve.

But the true warrior of their group was Lady Esme.

She hardly faltered as she produced a demure blush to her cheeks. “You honor me tremendously, Your Eminence,” she replied. “It would be my privilege to continue serving your family.”

King Réol’s triumph was vile in how his eyes darkened with pleasure, his grin sharp. “You are a good girl, aren’t you?” he purred.

Princess Azla hastily waved forward a servant, then snagged a flute of spirits from his tray.

She finished it much too quickly.

Zolya’s rage surged with his wave of helplessness, wishing he could knock his father to the ground, a shockingly new emotion. But he held steady, knowing his sister’s retribution would come.

Now more than ever, it needed to.

In a change of energy, the arrival of the atentés distracted the party.

The hall filled with murmurs of delight as the provocatively dressed servants wove through the crowd, their promise of euphoria sparkling in their bowls.

Zolya’s heartbeat raced as he frantically searched the crowd.

And then his pulse stilled as he caught sight of Tanwen, toward the middle of the room. She was alluring and graceful as she slid through the guests, her sheer chiton clinging to her curves.

Tanwen’s hair had been pulled into an intricate weaving, her horns capped with gold, matching jewelry glittering from her pointed ears. Her beauty seemed to cast a spell, drawing admiring glances from all.

A protective flame caught light in Zolya’s lungs.

None of them were worthy of her presence, deserving of her smiles and wit.

As if sensing his attention—despite being across the room—she turned, meeting his gaze.

At the contact, Zolya nearly shivered from the heat traveling the length of him.

His desire to go to her was overwhelming, his want to shield her from this looming madness. But before he could do much of anything, events unfolded rapidly.

The king began to select guests and various servants to join him in his private receiving room, a customary practice at such gatherings.

He only ever graced the full court with his presence for a moment before shutting himself away with a chosen assembly of guests. A privilege that invariably stirred envy among those left behind in the grand hall.

Disturbingly, Lady Esme was among the chosen few.

Zolya watched a flash of panic shoot across Azla’s features as she pulled Lady Esme quickly aside. Their heads were bent low as hurried, worried whispers were shared.

But then Lady Esme grabbed the princess’s hands, an assured grip that said, I’ve got this; do not worry.

Something passed between their hands, small, dark, and round.

Zolya’s pulse raced as understanding dawned.

Their plan ... it had begun, but he sensed something was amiss.

It wasn’t transpiring as intended.

Unease surged through him as he worked his way toward the ladies, but when he got there, Lady Esme had already departed with the rest of the small party.

He and Azla stood watching her disappear. “Is it happening?” he asked.

Princess Azla nodded before a hard swallow. “It wasn’t meant to be Essie,” she said, her voice a scratchy whisper.

“Who was it meant to be?”

Azla met Zolya’s gaze, a haunting in her blue depths. “Me.”

Zolya was poised to respond when another commotion caught his attention: Tanwen among the staff being ushered into the king’s private gathering.

Zolya’s wings half unfurled, his pulse stopping as a madness overtook him.

No! he silently screamed, his body a fight of wills. Every muscle battled his heart, which demanded he fly forward and snatch her back.

The idea of Tanwen being anywhere near the king, within his cruel eyesight, left him shaking with fear and dread.

“Zol?” questioned Azla, who he had forgotten was still standing beside him, suffering a similar torment. “Are you all right?”

But Zolya couldn’t respond, couldn’t breathe, as—for a pause in time—Tanwen glanced over her shoulder, finding him through the buzzing crowd.

Their eyes locked, held, her dismay evident in her gaze.

Then she was gone.

The doors closed behind Tanwen with a finite whisper.