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Tanwen’s breaths came out as ragged gasps as she raced toward the cliff near the old groundskeeper’s cottage.

Her quick footsteps echoed in the night, the grass beneath a hissing beat filling the tepid air. High above, the eyes of Maja and Parvi glowed bright and full, lighting Tanwen’s way.

Despite the evening’s stillness, panic surged through Tanwen’s veins.

Lady Esme had drunk the poison!

Lady Esme was going to die.

She might already be dead.

Princess Azla would be destroyed.

Tanwen picked up her speed, as if she could outrun the thought, as if the farther she got from the palace, the further the tragic truth would recede.

But no one could outrun such fate.

The goddess of death would be waiting to claim the souls who tasted her tear.

Lady Esme and King Réol.

King Réol, whose death currently held no joy for Tanwen, nor did it bless her with relief.

Would the princess blame Tanwen for Lady Esme’s death? Given she was the one who provided the stone.

Would she tell Zolya what Tanwen had done, what she had encouraged?

Devastation barreled through her chest, causing her pace to momentarily falter.

Her thoughts tumbled backward, to when Lady Esme had swallowed her demise.

Tanwen had been rooted in her shocked horror before the reality of the situation pummeled into her like a winter freeze.

Her actions had then been swift.

Tanwen had fumbled with her tray, spilling the rest of her docüra on her dress, disheveling her appearance.

An unacceptable state to be in in front of the king.

A guard by one of the side exits promptly granted her passage to clean up. A thousand blessings, for Tanwen’s urgency to flee the room had compounded.

She had no idea how long before the poison would take effect.

But she refused to wait around and find out. The palace would soon be in an uproar, and she needed to reach her father and brother before it happened.

Tanwen immediately descended to the servants’ quarters, but instead of heading toward the atenté dormitory, she veered in the opposite direction until she reached the outdoors.

That’s when she had run.

As she was now, before she came to a low shrub grove.

She dropped to her knees beside the roots, frantically digging at a pile of rocks and dirt.

Soil pressed into her fingernails, her breaths loud in her ears as she pulled forward her buried backpack. Inside were the three elixirs for their wings and a change of clothes.

Tanwen quickly shed her atenté dress and donned her sturdier and warmer clan trousers, tunic, and coat.

As she fitted her pack over her shoulders, she spun to continue her ascent up the hill when a gust of wind pushed her back a step.

Zolya landed in her path.

Agony tore through Tanwen’s heart at the sight of him.

He glowed like a god beneath the full moons’ light, his features severe, his wings pristine white, his gaze eviscerating—tortured.

For a moment neither spoke before they rushed forward, colliding.

Zolya’s scent of rain engulfed her, his mouth warm and demanding against her lips, his chest impenetrable from where he held her against him. He curled a hand against the nape of her neck, a possessive hold securing Tanwen exactly where he needed her. Tears slipped unchecked from the corners of Tanwen’s eyes, the anguish of each palpable as they clung to one another, feasted like they were each other’s last meal. Neither cared that they were in the open, Nocémi’s night watching from above. They needed this. They needed each other. They needed one final taste, smell, touch to hold within their hearts.

Eventually, Zolya drew away, ending their kiss.

Tanwen held in her distressed whimper, kept herself from reaching out to pull him back.

Zolya’s gaze was searing, a pooling of desire and pain as he looked down at her.

An appropriate distance now yawned between them.

A canyon of heartache.

“You were able to escape my father.” Zolya’s voice was the deep abyss of night, his words not a question but a marveled observation.

“Yes,” Tanwen scratched out.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.” Another statement, but she caught the hurt in his tone.

Guilt slid like a knife down Tanwen’s spine. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I couldn’t risk it.”

Zolya’s expression remained hard, though eventually he nodded.

They stood in silence, Zolya’s attention raking the length of her, as though he wished to commit everything about her to memory.

It forced another dagger into Tanwen’s heart. She didn’t want him to need to remember. She wanted him to forever be a part of her now.

But such a fate was never theirs.

“There are no guards outside the cottage,” Zolya announced.

Tanwen blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I allowed the kidets a reprieve so they may join in the palace festivities for a spell,” he explained. “The front door to your father’s cottage remains locked but unguarded.”

Tanwen was momentarily robbed of a reply. Zolya had removed the soldiers. Her father and brother were unwatched. Tanwen’s last obstacle to her family was gone.

Will you stop me? she had once asked him.

No, but I also cannot help you.

Not stopping me is helping me.

Never were her words truer than in this moment.

There was so much Zolya believed he was powerless in, incapable of because of his father’s looming presence, but he was the most capable, courageous soul she had ever met.

What he had done would save her family, allow them to escape, and was a direct action against his father, an atonement for an order Zolya had once obeyed.

At the thought of the king, Tanwen’s chest constricted in a mix of guilt and dread.

“The king drank poison,” she blurted out, as if sharing this news could somehow match his gesture, absolve her from everything else she would never be able to confess.

“He what?” Zolya stiffened, brows furrowing.

“He drank ... poison,” Tanwen repeated. “As did Lady Esme.”

“Lady Esme?” Zolya’s eyes widened, his shock clear. “How do you ...?”

“I saw it happen,” Tanwen explained. “Lady Esme, she—” Tanwen stopped herself, not knowing how to share what she knew without outing the princess and her lover. She could not betray their trust, not even to Zolya. Not after they clearly had kept her involvement a secret.

A thunderous blast interrupted their moment, sending a wave of energy surging out from within the palace. Tanwen reached for Zolya, steadying herself as the ground shook beneath their feet.

Everything then fell silent. Still.

Tanwen’s gaze locked with Zolya’s. A ripple of uncertainty, of fear, stretched like a taut rope before snapping back.

Screams rang into the night. Winged guards poured in toward the palace.

Panic erupted in Tanwen’s veins.

The king.

It had happened.

“You must go.” Zolya’s deep rumble snapped her back to where her hands still gripped his forearms.

His blue gaze was wild, an austere swirling of concern and determination. She could sense his magic rising beneath her fingertips, a cool vibration of power, like the creeping of fog at dawn. He looked every bit a warrior readying for battle.

Tanwen stepped back but then hesitated, torment raking through her veins.

“Go!” he bellowed, a king’s command.

Tanwen pushed past Zolya and fled.