Page 63

Nestled along a cliff’s side, Tanwen waited impatiently within a dark gazebo.

Nocémi’s protective night stretched endlessly from where she stood, gazing out at the Onis Ocean. The rolling waves caught the light of the crescent moons, a glistening dance.

Tanwen leaned against a pillar, crossing her arms as the warm breeze tangled in her hair, sending it spinning around her face.

He should be here by now, she thought, her concern rising as she scanned the empty sky.

Behind her rose the rugged cliff face, where a winding staircase would lead her back up to the perimeter of Drygul. She was no longer technically in the Low Gods’ territory.

In the expansive night, a flash caught Tanwen’s eye.

She straightened, pulse thrumming.

Zolya soared toward her like a falling star, his powerful alabaster wings illuminated under the light of Maja and Parvi.

The sight of him never ceased to cause Tanwen’s body to heat, her heart racing.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here, her rushing pulse sang.

He landed in a great whoosh, his wings tucking in as he took two long strides to reach where Tanwen had retreated into the shadows of the gazebo.

His presence consumed the space, like a roaring fire in a small hearth. Alluring as well as alarming.

Tanwen swallowed against her buzz of anticipation as Zolya greeted her by pulling her into his arms, his azure eyes shining predatorily.

Tanwen barely released a surprised gasp before he was claiming her mouth, dipping his head as his fingers slid along the base of her neck, holding her in place. It was a possessive grip that said Mine , whispered Finally.

Tanwen’s body untethered as she became nothing but sensation. The rhythm of his mouth lifted and fell against hers. His lips were soft but demanding, his embrace warm despite the chill that clung to his coat. He brought with him the scent of wind and night.

Zolya’s rumbling moan of pleasure vibrated down Tanwen’s throat, igniting a fire in her belly. She wound her arms around his neck, pressed up on her toes, desperate to reach more of him.

For a slow dip of the stars, they became lost within each other.

And then . . .

“You’re late,” accused Tanwen, breaking their kiss with a frown.

Zolya’s gaze was dark with his desire, but his lips twitched, fighting his grin. “It was hard for me to get away. Mother demanded I dine with her.”

“I was beginning to worry,” she confessed.

A state Tanwen felt trapped in.

Too much had happened, and too much was still happening, for her to feel calm for long. After losing Eli and her brother, she was terrified of losing anyone else, especially someone else she loved. Especially him . She had once believed she had already lost Zolya, and her heart couldn’t endure that agony again—not with the stitches holding it together still so fresh and fragile.

Zolya’s features flashed with quick remorse. “I would never miss our meetings,” he explained, tone serious.

“Which is what had me worrying when you were late.”

“I am here now,” he reassured, his hand coming up to gently run his knuckles along her cheek.

The trail of heat it left along her skin slightly eased her simmering anxiety.

“Yes,” Tanwen agreed. “You are here.” She sounded breathier than she would have liked.

It had been two weeks since her and Zolya’s last meeting. Two weeks of Tanwen existing half-formed, her heart half beating.

After settling within Drygul, she had enlisted the help of ravens and other fowl to pass notes back and forth with Zolya.

Finally being able to communicate with him felt like taking her first real breath of air since her escape. She could share that she was alive and that they had reached their sanctuary, despite the devastation that had unfolded when they landed.

Zolya’s letters were filled with a similar sense of relief and grief.

Too often Tanwen had lain awake in her bed, rereading his words by candlelight, tracing the fine swoops and curls of his penmanship. As if the touch of his quill to paper could awaken the sensation of his fingers tracing her skin. Her yearning to see him, hold him, hear his reassuring, deep rumble of a voice became excruciating. Like she was adrift at sea, surrounded by water—but none she could drink.

Thankfully, Tanwen eventually discovered this hidden spot where they could meet just outside the Low Gods’ territory. It was an unwatched corner of Cādra, and beneath the compassion of the twin moons and Nocémi’s safe blanket of stars, it became their sanctuary.

Initially, their encounters were consumed with them consuming each other, sating a hunger after an eternity of starvation. Never long were they clothed before shirts were torn open, trousers were discarded, and skin was blessedly meeting skin.

Over time, their meetings evolved into more productive exchanges.

Each shared updates from their respective corners.

And though they never said so, it felt as if they were laying the groundwork for something significant, its shape and purpose still elusive.

However, tonight Zolya seemed of one mind, and that was to taste every part of her.

His soft caresses fell away as he bent once more to capture her mouth with his. Exploratory hands slid down to her backside, pressing her tighter against him, so she could feel him and how much he desired her, needed her.

Tanwen groaned, skimming her hands over his broad shoulders and up his neck to dig her nails into his hair. She gave a gentle tug.

Zolya growled his approval as he pushed her against a nearby column.

The hard stone dug into her back, but it was nothing compared to the formidable strength of Zolya pinned to her front. He was a wall of fervor and heat and possession.

With quick, sure movements, he had her top unbuttoned along with her trousers. The night breeze settled over her breasts, pebbling her nipples before the warmth of Zolya’s mouth claimed them. His satisfied purr seeped into her skin, hot wax fallen from a candle, as he licked and sucked. His hands were everywhere but there , where she ached for him the most.

Tanwen ground against his thigh that he had wedged between her legs, eliciting a whimper of need that she would later blush about.

Currently, she could think only of Zolya and his deft fingers sliding teasingly low, maddeningly slow, before stopping right above the last open button of her pants.

“Tell me, my love,” he rumbled as he gazed down at her, blue eyes as dark as the night sky. “Is this how you touch yourself while I’m away?”

Tanwen could only pant, her anticipation overwhelming.

“Do you imagine your fingers are mine as you slip them inside?” As he spoke, he did as he described. Tanwen arched her back, gripping his biceps as a gasp of pleasure feathered over her lips.

“Do you make yourself as wet as I make you?” His deep rumble of a question was flint hitting stone, igniting.

“Zolya,” she breathed, pleaded.

A wicked smile stretched over his mouth before he was kissing her again, his fingers working in and out, in and out.

“I need you,” she begged against his lips. “ All of you.”

Something flashed, sharp and satisfied, in his eyes before he pushed down her trousers.

And then with strength that always left her breathless, he picked her up, cradling her legs, which were still trapped at her ankles by her clothes and boots, before he slowly eased his length into her.

They collectively moaned their pleasure as he filled her to the hilt before dragging out and then in again.

Over and over and over.

Zolya stood like a demigod, holding her to his hard chest while he kissed and thrust into her with carnal need.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

It was a ravishing that overtook all her senses.

“Oh gods ,” Tanwen groaned as the gazebo fell away along with the stars and the sound of the crashing ocean below.

There was only Zolya’s grunts of desire, his intoxicating scent, his powerful hands holding her securely as he claimed her body and soul. His wings shifted with each drive of his hips, their plumage half-spread as if to offer privacy to their hedonistic coupling.

This was not a tender lovemaking but a desperation to brand one another. They continued to move together deep into the night, until their sheen of sweat mingled and became one, until their sounds braided into a singular pulsing of lust, and until their unified climax trembled the stone foundation where they eventually found themselves collapsing.

Tanwen lay splayed on her back.

Zolya’s weight on top of her was a heady reassurance as they caught their breath.

A blanket was spread beneath them as Tanwen had grown better “prepared” for their meetings.

A smile edged up her lips as she relished this rare moment of peace.

Time drifted by in a satisfying silence, their heartbeats a matching rhythm where their chests pressed against one another.

Eventually, Zolya pulled himself up to lie beside her, resting his chin in his palm.

His gaze was liquid blue, tranquil, but she caught the shadow of concern within its depths.

“How are your parents?” he asked.

Despite the lazy caress of his other hand along her collarbone, Tanwen’s stomach clenched.

Her parents had no idea she and Zolya met like this. No one knew, not even Azla or Huw, and it needed to remain that way.

If anyone in Cādra discovered the prince regent was having a secret affair with a deserter recruit, especially one who’d aided Gabreel and his son’s escape, it would shatter any hope Zolya had of securing the throne and fixing their world.

And if those in Drygul learned that Tanwen was slipping out of their hidden sanctuary to be with the successor of King Réol—the very man who persecuted Mütra—they likely wouldn’t let her return.

Tanwen had already had to dispel certain notions about her and Zolya’s previous relationship to her parents. Her father had been relentless in his anger when questioning why the prince of Galia, the very man who had stolen them away, would help them escape. Tanwen had quickly realized that the truth—that the prince loved her, and she him—would never be accepted or tolerated.

She had concentrated instead on a different truth: that Prince Zolya was nothing like the king, nor did he wish to rule as such.

This, of course, drew more questions around how Tanwen could have known this, but thankfully Azla had been present and backed her statements: her brother was not their father, and she guaranteed he’d be a better ruler. Despite Azla being the princess, her friendship was far more permissible given her history as the king’s illegitimate offspring and the one who’d ultimately tried to kill him.

Huw had merely stood silently in the corner of the room, watching Tanwen as if he knew she was hiding something.

Which made Tanwen extra cautious whenever visiting the gazebo, ensuring no one, not even an invisible friend, followed. Huw’s Mütra ability to blend in was becoming a real nuisance.

But Tanwen understood that Zolya’s question about her parents had nothing to do with any of that. It was his gentle way of bringing up Aberthol.

Nearly three months had passed since they lost him, yet Tanwen’s sorrow remained raw.

“They are still grieving,” she admitted, “but getting through it day by day.”

During their first reunion, Tanwen had revealed that her mother was alive and hadn’t died during childbirth as Zolya had been led to believe. He had surprised her by not being very surprised but rather relieved.

“And you?” questioned Zolya, his hand moving up to cup her cheek. His brows were pinched, his stare patient as he awaited her answer.

Tanwen swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “The same,” she replied. “I still find myself looking for Thol beside Father or putting out a dish for him each meal, as though he’ll come striding through our door any moment.” She huffed a laugh, understanding the absurdity of her words.

Zolya didn’t share in her forced mirth. His expression grew only more severe. “You have never known a world without your twin,” he said. “Nor a womb.”

For a moment, Tanwen could focus only on breathing, his statement a weighted fist against her lungs. Though she understood he did not say them to be malicious but to remind her that her grief was allowed.

“No,” Tanwen said, her reply a mere whisper. “I haven’t.”

Zolya slid his hand from her face and intertwined their fingers.

He gazed down at her, expression soft, aching, and despite the heaviness of the moment, Tanwen could only marvel at his beauty.

The glow of the night framed his tousled hair and drew a sculpted line along the edge of his bare muscular form. The angular planes of his face were cut with shadows, while one of his magnificent wings he had draped across Tanwen’s stomach was a white, silken, soft blanket.

Though she lay naked under the stars, she felt warm and safe tucked in beside Zolya.

“Aberthol’s shrine was completed last week,” she found herself eventually sharing. “The build progressed faster than expected with everyone’s help. It’s been nice to have a place my family can go to talk to him and imagine his presence.”

“Yes,” agreed Zolya gently. “That’s important.”

“Lybel, the young girl with the four wings who I told you about last time,” said Tanwen. “Well, turns out she’s an incredible artist and was able to draw a portrait of my brother for the shrine. Based off only our descriptions, the result was remarkably accurate.”

Silence momentarily filled their gazebo, a thick tension collecting in the air.

It was something that transpired anytime Tanwen mentioned the other Mütra living in Drygul.

She didn’t know if it had been disloyal to share their secret existence, but if Zolya was meant to help her kind, he needed to know that so many lived—as well as lived under the protection of the Low Gods.

Volari couldn’t argue that a Mütra’s existence was blasphemous if half the divine gave them sanctuary. Right?

This was one of the burdens Tanwen knew Zolya worried over and what kept him quiet now, thoughts clearly churning.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he finally said, hiding his thoughtful expression behind a neutral mask. “I like knowing you and your family are feeling settled here.” He squeezed her hand. “How’s Azla getting on?”

“She has her moments of grief, like we all do,” admitted Tanwen, frowning. “But Lady Esme’s shrine is near Aberthol’s, which has helped.”

Zolya nodded, features somber. “And the ... others, they are still welcoming of her?”

“Very welcoming,” assured Tanwen gently, her heart tightening with his worry. “Misfits enjoy meeting other misfits. Some have even taken on the challenge of teaching her to cook. She made her first meal for my family the other day.”

Zolya blinked, his astonishment clear. “And you ate it?”

Tanwen laughed. “Once we got past the burnt layer, it was pretty good.”

“Oh gods,” declared Zolya. “You truly are braver than I.”

Seeing Zolya’s grin was like a cool mist of rain on a blistering day: refreshing.

“She’ll get better,” said Tanwen. “Everything takes practice.”

“Mmm,” he agreed as his hand moved to her stomach, tracing soft patterns across her skin. “I can think of a few things I’d like to practice now.”

Tanwen flushed, her veins filling with fire. “I’m sure you can,” she mused.

Zolya leaned down, his lips warm and inviting as he pressed them to hers. He took long slow drags, a lazy swim in a lake. He cupped her cheek in his hand, controlling the kiss, angling it where he knew she wanted and he needed. Tanwen was a puddle of desire by the time he broke the spell, lifting away.

Zolya’s smile gleamed above her, mischievous delight.

“Well,” Tanwen breathed. “I don’t think you need to worry about getting better at that .”

His laugh was a soft rumble that feathered across her side, slid like honey down her throat on a satisfied inhale. “Perhaps,” he began. “But there’s no harm in continued practice.”

“I certainly won’t argue with that logic.” She grinned.

A contented quiet drifted between them as Tanwen ran gentle fingers through Zolya’s hair. He leaned into the touch like a pleased cat.

“Zolya,” began Tanwen, her thoughts turning back to their earlier conversation.

“Mmm?”

“I know you worry about Azla, but I want you to know, I will always look out for her. Her role as my charge does not end because we are no longer in Galia. I will make sure she is taken care of.”

His eyes held hers, a burning in their blue depths, before he lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “Knowing this is a greater relief than you realize.”

Zolya grew pensively silent after that.

His gaze drifted to the view beyond their gazebo, to the stretch of stars and glowing moons. Tanwen noticed the invisible weight pressing down on his shoulders.

“Has something happened today?” she inquired, an unease sliding awake in her veins.

It was another beat before Zolya answered. “Ré still has not visited,” he admitted, revealing a worried crease between his brows.

Tanwen sat up slightly, pulling part of their blanket to cover her chest. “Isn’t that good?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” He frowned, still looking beyond where they lay. “Most of the other High Gods have come to see the king and offer my mother and me their condolences. Of course, I’m not naive.” He glanced back at her. “It’s all an act to investigate my intentions for ruling,” he added, tone sardonic. “If I will continue as my father had.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tanwen, knowing her reply was lacking but unsure what else she could say to help.

While she had burdens of her own, they felt inconsequential compared to what Zolya suffered daily as prince regent.

The situation in Galia had worsened after the king’s attempted murder. Tensions were rising without a clear ruler on the throne—and not just within Zolya’s people but all across Cādra. The fires at the Volari checkpoints had awoken the repressed. News of other Süra revolts had even made their way to Drygul. Garw’s clan leader evidently had claimed more rights to their minerals, weakening any new builds on Galia. Which had only raised more conflicts between Volari and Süra stationed on the outskirts of every forest.

Tanwen knew Zolya was trying his best to manage everything, but without full control of the crown, it was like trying to plug leaks in a sinking ship with strips of cloth—futile. The only real solution was to rebuild.

Tanwen held tight to her rising guilt, knowing she was partly to blame for Zolya’s troubles. While he knew of his sister’s involvement in trying to kill the king, Tanwen’s was still very much a secret.

Her fear of whether he could forgive her was too great for her to confess. She knew only that she had done what was necessary to save her family, yet it had still cost Thol his life.

“It’s only going to get worse.” Zolya’s gruff declaration returned Tanwen’s attention to him, his features tight. “Especially the longer my father remains in the state that he is.”

“I still don’t understand why you can’t change some of the laws as prince regent.”

“Because my father’s council remains in place. I cannot replace any members as long as the king who appointed them is still alive. If my father had passed the crown to me, the situation would be different. For now, his council remains to ensure I rule according to his intentions, given he could awaken and reclaim the throne at any moment.”

“So many rules,” she groaned.

Zolya grunted his agreement. “That’s only a fraction of them. Politics is riddled with barriers.”

“No wonder things have stayed the same for so long.”

“Yes,” said Zolya, jaw clenching. “Though the world appears ready for change.”

“Which is good,” Tanwen offered hopefully. “Galia can’t ignore the demands of those on Cādra if they are loud enough.”

Zolya shook his head, expression growing as hard as granite. “Historically, uprisings never end well for those who instigate them. I do not want to see Süra or Mütra suffer through famines and floods.”

“Nor do I,” said Tanwen, “but I think the history books have misrepresented who truly provoked those uprisings. I do not recall Süra controlling the trades, creating the Recruitment, or putting a bounty on Mütra’s heads. Living in hunger or fear is hardly ever a choice one enters willingly.”

Zolya regarded Tanwen, a spark of wonder and admiration in his gaze. “You are a formidable ally,” he admitted.

“Yes,” she agreed, smile flashing. “You should be very glad I no longer see you as my enemy.”

It was meant to be a jest, but Zolya’s features sobered, his thoughts clearly growing inward.

“Zolya,” she began hesitantly, touching his shoulder. “What is it?”

“I didn’t want to bring this up tonight,” he said. “In fact, I hate that I must bring it up at all, but ... we need to be prepared.”

Despite the warm breeze, ice slunk across Tanwen’s skin. “Prepared for what?”

Sparks of blue clung to her, Zolya’s mouth set in a stern line. “With all that has begun to happen in Cādra, I will need to navigate everything carefully,” he explained. “My people are watching my every move, the council and court most of all.”

“Yes.” Tanwen nodded. “I have always known that.”

Her words did not alleviate the pinch between his brows.

“Some of my decisions that I’ll soon make ...” He paused for a breath, gaze pained. “You will not agree with, Tanwen,” he admitted, voice rough. “I chance to say you may even come to despise me for them.”

At his declaration, sharpened fingernails gripped her heart. “Zolya, I could never—”

“But you must know”—he cut her off, seemingly determined to finish his confession—“I’ll despise myself ten times over. But for me to work from within the court, I must gain their trust. They must believe I am my father’s son and that I have their best interests in mind, as well as our High Gods. Otherwise, everything I do will continue to be questioned, scrutinized, and any change we wish to make in our world, any minds I must turn, will be futile.”

“Zol,” Tanwen said softly, hating the shadows haunting his expression. “I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked, gaze weighing down on her. “Really understand?”

The quiet that stretched between them was so thick and tense Tanwen braced herself for when it snapped back. Still, she was not prepared for the sting when it did.

“For a time,” Zolya rumbled, eyes laced to hers, “I must become your enemy.”

Despite being in an open-air gazebo, Tanwen felt as though walls were closing in on her. Each of her breaths felt pained, desperate. As if they might be her last.

Zolya’s words hung in the air like poison, invading and clogging her lungs.

She wished to contradict him, fight such a notion.

But she didn’t, because she realized with a dreaded clarity his declaration went both ways.

I must become your enemy.

For that, too, was what Tanwen would appear to him.

An enemy, working to free Mütra, helping the oppressed Süra.

She hadn’t outwardly admitted to such a stance, but she knew in her heart that was to be her future.

While Zolya ruled from Galia, Tanwen would be fighting on Cādra.

An invisible grip tightened around her throat, choking away any response as despair folded in and around her.

Zolya seemed to understand her suffering, share in it, for he answered her silence by drawing her back into his chest. As they lay on the warm blanket, he covered her more securely with his wing, wrapping them both in a tight embrace as if it were a desperate grip on a ledge. To let go would be the death of them.

These meetings were already hard to arrange, and soon they might become impossible.

As she fully realized the future that awaited them, tears brimmed in Tanwen’s eyes, her throat burning as she fought down a sob.

She angled her head up and found Zolya’s lips.

Their kiss began gentle, reverent, before growing hard and demanding—a public defiance of their forbidden union.

Still, despite the pleasure they gave each other, Tanwen knew it didn’t change their fate.

Here lay two souls in love, standing on opposite sides of a war.