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Gabreel Heiro had planned never to see Galia again.

A banishment he had not once mourned.

It had taken months for the wounds of his dismemberment to heal, weeks to learn to walk properly without his wings, and years for the phantom sensation of their weight on his back and his desire to stretch them to leave.

No, Gabreel Heiro did not yearn for his place of birth.

He despised it.

As the celestial islands that lived high within the clouds came into view, a sun-glistening white expanse of ornate architecture sprawling between greenery and the great pumping of hundreds of winged citizens, he forced his eyes closed.

He had failed.

Failed in his promise to Aisling that they would have a different life, a better life, so long as they were far from here together.

Now, Gabreel was back in the clutches of a vicious king, and this time so was his son.

He gripped the finely woven net he was trapped in, the icy wind funneling through doing little to cool the fury thrumming within his veins. Burn, his anger whispered to his magic, gathered beneath his skin. Every part of him wished to incinerate the threads of his cage so he could fall to the rough sea below.

But even if the taking of his own life hadn’t meant the taking of Aberthol’s, Gabreel could not cut away the net he was tangled in.

The material was infused with a mixture of blood from every type of sky magic, making it impenetrable. A science he had created.

Perfected.

For his king.

“Father,” a voice called through the wind.

He opened his eyes to see Aberthol being carried by another group of kidets.

Gabreel put a finger to his lips. Hush, he instructed his son. Strength. He placed a hand to his heart before making a fist. Courage.

Aberthol mimicked the gesture, though his furrowed brows remained marked with worry. He looked so much like a boy in that moment, a child pretending bravery to please his father.

Gabreel swallowed past the anguish that threatened to choke him, refocusing on the approaching kingdom in the sky.

It had taken two sleepless nights and endless flying to reach Galia, which floated above the center of Cādra. The rough journey was made rougher by the promise of hurt Gabreel saw simmering within the soldiers’ eyes whenever they looked upon Aberthol. And despite Prince Zolya’s strict orders for none of his men to touch the inventor or the Mütra, Gabreel had dared not sleep, curled beside his son—his watchdog. Though he knew it wouldn’t stop the pain his son would inevitably endure.

Galia was pain. A place where suffering was used to erect beauty, carve perfection.

And Mütra were the worst sort of flaw.

Gabreel dared to imagine what horror awaited them.

He also regretted his decision to come. It would have been a mercy to have had his whole family’s throats cut beneath the shadows of the Zomyad Forest. At least then they would have known peace, have found their final resting ground in the Eternal River together.

Instead, Gabreel had been weak.

And once again he was paying the price.

He merely hoped Aisling and Wen remained safe. If they were smart, they’d be a long way from Zomyad by now, searching for a new home where they could live out their days.

Grief, sharp and unforgiving, clawed at his chest once more. After the Great Collapse, Gabreel hadn’t thought he deserved a second chance at life. He now realized this was to be his payment for such a gift. Zenca, the High Goddess of destiny, had finally come to collect, and her price was to be all that Gabreel loved.

As their group banked left, pushing Gabreel into the net, they rapidly descended toward the palace. The gargantuan pillared expanse, tiered with domed citadels, was situated at the highest point of Galia. Its white was so pristine it rivaled the clouds, a bleaching that concealed the bloodstains of the workmen who built it.

Long landing platforms, lined in plush manicured grass, greeted them as they touched down. Barely was Gabreel deposited when the familiar wash of jasmine and honeysuckle invaded his senses. The melody of macaws and cockatoos. Crisp air and the light press of heat. His body was seized in an all-consuming panic.

Back.

He was back.

The full weighted reality of this—where he was being dragged to, his feet and hands covered and then shackled, before being corralled forward with his son—nearly buckled his knees.

But the audience that gathered to watch their procession kept him standing, kept his chin lifted along with his strength.

He would never cower before this court.

Word had evidently spread quickly of the prince’s return, along with whom he had in his company. Sun and Isle Court members filled the towering bright hall they traveled, the scene a collection of billowing peplos and immaculately woven chitons, delicate epaulets all garnished with elegant gold detailing and ornamentation. Pointed ears covered in jewels.

It was a wash of riches, fashion that dripped listlessness, flaunted idle occupations.

Despite himself, Gabreel’s interest snagged, finding Galia’s extravagance had now extended to wings. Intricate mosaics of color were dyed into feathers, visions of beauty when spread wide. Peacocks, all of them.

A low gasp brought Gabreel’s attention to his son shuffling forward at his side.

Aberthol was trapped in utter wonderment as he took in the surrounding splendor.

Even with the danger that loomed, his son remained spellbound, curious, delighted.

It was a thousand daggers to Gabreel’s heart, witnessing such innocence in his child. How soon would that light be snuffed out by the cruelty this utopia hid?

Gabreel fought back tears as he squeezed his trembling hands in anger. He forced his gaze to the white polished stone beneath his feet.

He could no longer stomach the view.

As their procession continued, he sensed the rustling wave of bows to the prince ahead, heard the growing whispers before shouts of “Traitor!” that were aimed his way as he passed. Each echoed with heightened viciousness against the surrounding columns.

Gabreel clenched his teeth, his ire for the crowd of hypocrites rising. Traitor, indeed, he thought with a sneer. The very traitor who had helped create many of their comforts of the past century, enabled everyone in this palace, on this island, to grow richer. A traitor who had been hunted down and then returned because of the value their ruler believed he still held in his mind.

Gabreel had feared this day might come.

It was why he had taken such precautions to hide, not only because of his wife and children.

It had not been an act of benevolence that King Réol had spared his life after his transgressions.

No, it had been insurance.

The king wished for another mine, and evidently only Gabreel could provide him with one.

Though he didn’t yet know how, Gabreel would repeat no such act.

With a slow, steadying breath, he worked to erect his internal armor, prepared himself for what would come next as best he could, the only way he knew how.

Gabreel became the man he had been when still he had his wings, the man who had once been like the watching crowd.

Heartless.

“Do not look him in the eyes or utter a single word,” Gabreel ordered Aberthol from where they were being adorned in simpler Galia garb: white tunics with gold edges and loose-fitting tan pants that hugged their ankles.

Two Süra servants were readying them for an audience with King Réol, their gazes dutifully averted from meeting his or his son’s.

Earlier they had been fed and washed, and Gabreel’s beard had been shaved clean. A pretense to appease any court members they might happen upon. It was much easier to ignore that the palace held prisoners when they blended in as guests.

“Even if the king commands you to speak,” Gabreel continued, “do not. Press further into the floor, prostrate more dramatically, but do not speak.”

“Won’t I then be disobeying His Majesty’s order?” asked Aberthol, frowning as one of the attendants urged him to lift his feet so he could step into slippers.

“Your existence is disobeying his orders,” Gabreel explained. “To hear a Mütra’s voice he will consider tainting his divine ears. It will only be interpreted as disrespect. If requested, I shall do the talking. You must trust me. The execution of Mütra began under King Réol’s rule. He is not like a nyddoth, nor are the Volari of Galia like those stationed in Zomyad. This place ...” He cut himself off, eyeing the nearby kidets who loomed outside their dressing room’s open door. “Beauty is never soft,” Gabreel went on in a whisper. “You must remember this, my son. Beauty is hard, sharp, vicious. It carves away anything and everything that it believes threatens to make it grotesque. It does not care if what it eradicates is in fact helping it thrive or grow or remain nourished or protected. All beauty cares about is being beautiful, even as its innards grow rotten. That is Galia and especially our king.”

At his words their attendants paused their work, a shifting as their eyes met, but they knew better than to linger long in their silent exchange.

The servants here were all Süra and paid better than other forms of labor found on Cādra. This, mixed with the promise of living closer to the High Gods, spurred many to apply for the Recruitment—a lifetime of work in Galia. Though once they arrived, quickly did they realize these isles were in fact a prison. The only true way out was with wings or the large gondolas that connected to various parts of Cādra.

And those borders were heavily monitored.

“I’m to understand that I’m the grotesque,” remarked Aberthol, brows furrowed.

“Here, yes,” said Gabreel. He had never shielded his children from the harshness of this world. It was better they knew what may await them, prepare for it.

“And what about this new mine?” Aberthol questioned. “Did you really help make the Dryfs?”

Gabreel looked away from his son, shame a hot wash to his cheeks. How many souls within the Eternal River was he now responsible for? Too many Süra had been lost within that underground maze, were still lost weekly.

“I engineered it,” he admitted. “A regret I have carried for many decades. The only solace to my atrocity was in meeting your mother. She had been one of the assigned meddygs to the mine. Though I know I should not have been so blessed after surviving the Great Collapse when so many did not, it was because of her I did and why I came to understand the horror of my invention. Of all the ways of Galia rule.”

The silence that engulfed the room was excruciatingly loud. Even the attendants had stopped in their work.

“Why ...?” Aberthol’s voice trailed off. “Why did you never tell us?”

Because I could not bear my own children’s disdain, thought Gabreel.

“Because your mother and I did not want to taint your lives any further,” he explained instead.

“Further because I am already Mütra?” Aberthol’s voice wavered, anger and ache. “Already a misdeed?”

“You are extraordinary,” Gabreel corrected, his tone the sharp decisiveness of a falling blade. “Which makes you a threat. Especially to those who believe they are the only ones meant to hold such a title.”

Gabreel noted the hard swallow to his son’s throat, the conflicting emotions in his green gaze, fury and fear.

“What is going to happen to us, Father?” Thol asked.

The question nauseated Gabreel.

Visions of his past flashed, fast and red and angry.

The scars along his back screamed their agony as though the fire that had been held to cauterize his wounds was still present.

Gabreel shook uncontrollably from where he crouched on all fours. The stone was hard beneath his hands and knees, wet and putrid from his own vomit mixing with his blood. He could not see past the pain, could not breathe for fear of smelling his own burning flesh. He toppled to the ground, imbalanced, out of body.

That’s when he saw them.

A mass of gray in the corner of his blurred vision.

Feathers.

His feathers.

His wings.

His life.

Cut away.

Gabreel screamed but ended up retching again instead, a trickle of bile all that was left inside before the darkness took him. A blessed reprieve from the scorching brightness of his torture.

Gabreel took in a shaky inhale, snapping himself back to the room where he and Thol stood. Though the image of his nightmare remained reflected in the mirror in front of them, where wings should have replaced the empty air at his back.

What is going to happen to us, Father? his son had asked.

“Whatever does happen,” Gabreel said, voice hoarse as he grasped Thol’s shoulder. More to steady himself than an act of reassurance. “I can promise you, it will happen with us together.”

Once dressed, they were escorted to where Prince Zolya and a few of his entourage waited in a large pavilion. Doors, let alone walls, were not details found in many Volari buildings. Wings liked wide-open halls, large skylights. Easy exits and entrances.

Only clouds and sky could be seen beyond the surrounding massive columns from where they walked, leaking sunlight to send dramatic shadows across the marble floor.

Though high up, the air here always held a warm, gentle breeze.

All an illusion, of course.

Wind, freeze, and heat wielders were stationed around the palace day and night, ensuring the perfect atmosphere.

As they approached, the prince stopped his conversation with one of his companions. It was the same kidar who had held a knife to Thol’s throat.

Osko Terz, ambitious adolescent and companion to the prince.

For over fifty years Gabreel had watched the two grow up and grow inseparable.

A pity, for he always found Terz too hotheaded to be a proper adviser to anyone.

“Follow us until the throne room’s threshold,” instructed the prince to their kidet escorts. “Kidar Terz and I will take the inventor and his son from there.”

Prince Zolya had changed since their flight, adorned in the proper royal garb of his station. His gold-and-white chest plate bled seamlessly into the design of his silk tunic and decorative cape. His laurel crown was a delicate weaving through his alabaster hair, pearls and diamonds winking from each leafy tip. He was a vision of power and excess.

As Prince Zolya turned, guiding them forward, Gabreel noted how he seemed to make a point of avoiding eye contact. An interesting tell of guilt.

While they had never been close, the prince had often visited Gabreel’s workroom within the palace as a child and well into adulthood. He had always shown interest in Gabreel’s inventions, the idea of improving something or creating new things. But whenever he visited, there was always a guard, keeping their relationship formal. A purposeful move by the king, no doubt.

Gabreel surmised the prince did not have many trusted companions. More reason why Terz was dangerous.

As they neared towering doors made from a mosaic of ambrü, Gabreel’s feet stuttered. A cold sweat erupted along his skin as he stared at the entrance to King Réol’s throne room.

It had been twenty-three years since he had been on the other side, the day of his sentencing, and yet it was as if he was the same man as then: terrified and desperate.

Gabreel glanced to his son, to his wide gaze fixed to the entrance.

A renewed consuming panic surged through him.

Grab him now!

Grab him and fly!

Gabreel’s heart screamed for him to do whatever he could to help them escape. Help his son be free of the awaiting nightmares. Even if that meant throwing them both over the pavilion’s ledge.

But then the doors were opening, their group pushed into the white pantheon, and Gabreel’s vision was swallowed by light.

It was said King Réol’s throne room was crafted by Naru, the High Goddess of artistry, herself. A claim that could not be denied once inside.

As if her brush had been dipped in the rays of the sun, the towering domed expanse shone like a womb of a star, a celestial paradise. One instantly felt their inadequacy beside such pristine beauty, their insignificance as they walked forward between the laboriously carved columns. So wide and tall they rivaled the ancient trees of Zomyad.

And there, at the center of it all, wings spread wide as he sat at the very top of hundreds of rising alabaster steps, beneath a beam of sunlight, was their almighty king.

A pulsing of power.

Eternal brilliance.

Vicious, unnatural beauty.

Gabreel did not understand how he was moving when everything inside him had stopped. While King Réol was not a High God, he emanated as though one, so much of Ré’s divine powers bestowed in his blood.

King Réol was shirtless, besides a woven cage of a chest plate, and his golden brown skin glowed as though light was trapped beneath. The gold of his epaulets reached over his strong chest and covered his shoulders, where feathered hammered adornments blended into his massive white wingspan. Plumage that was sharp and soft at once, like the gold laurel crown atop his head.

There was no mistaking Prince Zolya’s parentage.

The similarities were uncanny.

But where the prince’s eyes still held shards of humanity, of warmth, King Réol’s were hallowed from centuries of brutality.

Gabreel quickly lowered his gaze as their group fell to prostrating bows at the base of the stairs. The stone floor was ice to Gabreel’s forehead, his heartbeat loud in his ears, but between the galloping echoes, he could still hear the quick breaths of Aberthol crouched at his side.

Terror.

His son was terrified.

As he should be.

Still, Gabreel’s heart was shattering at the reality of witnessing his child’s fear and not being able to reach out to console him. Protect him.

Gabreel gritted his teeth just as the thunderous voice of King Réol washed over him.

“My son has returned home,” he began, “and he has brought me gifts.”

“I exist to serve, Your Eminence,” said Prince Zolya from where he remained bowed in front of Gabreel.

“You may rise.”

There was a shuffling as the prince and Kidar Terz stood. Gabreel and his son remained cowered.

“Given your reports over the past month,” said the king, “I was preparing to be disappointed. However, you have proven your worth today, my son. Present to me that which you have found scurrying on the soil of Cādra.”

Rough hands gripped Gabreel as Kidar Terz pulled him to his feet. With his gaze cast downward, he was brought beside Prince Zolya. A gift presented.

“As wished by our divine king,” said the prince, “I have returned the inventor, Gabreel Heiro.”

There was a stretching of silence, and though Gabreel was not looking at His Eminence, he could sense his sharp smile. It was a cut of acid energy through the air.

Gabreel’s magic stirred in his blood, a rising of heat to protect as the scars along his back prickled with awareness. Wariness. As if the remaining wing shards beneath his skin knew they were back where they had been broken.

“Were you always this small, Heiro?” asked the king. “Or has living so long in the dirt of Cādra tugged you down like a root?”

Gabreel dared not speak; instead he further clenched his bound hands, which rested in front of him.

“No, I suppose it was always your wings that gave you such height,” mused the king. “A true tragedy, that. Especially when they were such a tasteful plumage. Do you remember their coloring, Heiro?”

Slow, steady breaths. That’s all Gabreel could manage.

“Luckily, you do not have to strain too hard to recall.” There was a shuffling a distance away, footsteps as servants dragged in something heavy. “Think of this as a welcome-home present.”

Gabreel’s surroundings warped, blood draining as his gaze collided with gray outstretched wings at the base of the King’s podium.

My wings.

My life.

My freedom.

Gabreel barely swallowed down his sob, his feet stuttering forward before he was wrenched back by Kidar Terz.

“Not so fast, old man,” he hissed.

But Gabreel hardly heard him, his mind splitting and tipping in every direction.

King Réol kept them.

Kept my wings.

But of course he had.

He was a hunter who prized that which he killed.

Rage—blinding, consuming—swallowed Gabreel.

His magic erupted along his skin, causing Kidar Terz to hiss as he released him, his hands scalded.

A cracking slap whipped Gabreel’s head back.

“Stand down, inventor,” Kidar Terz growled. “It is a lashing crime for any sky magic to be used while in attendance with His Eminence.”

Gabreel’s jaw throbbed, but he was thankful for the hit. His mind had been cleared. Or as cleared as it could be under such circumstances.

“I must admit”—the king’s deep voice punctured the room—“our reunion has far exceeded expectations. Despite your continued efforts to disobey the laws of this land, I’m pleased you are here, Heiro.”

Gabreel knew better. Knew the risk. So it was with apparent madness that he turned his gaze up and met that of King Réol.

It was a mouse staring at the teeth that had already punctured his heart.

The king seemed to enjoy the defiance. His lips twisted into a deeper grin. “Yes,” he continued. “I am happy of your company, Heiro, despite how you dishonor this throne with the presence of your Mütra spawn.”

Gabreel swallowed the terror working up his throat, did his best not to flinch at King Réol mentioning his son.

His child who was still prostrating on the ground behind him.

“But the spawn only makes this all the more entertaining, does it not?” observed the king. “As does the news of your Süra succubus finally entering the Eternal River. Despite her eluding our soldiers all those years ago, it appears Zenca still had her pay for her insolence against me. Isn’t this correct, Zolya?”

“Yes, Your Eminence,” the prince replied, expression neutral. “His Süra mate died in childbirth.”

Gabreel did not need to fabricate his heartache from such a statement.

To him, Aisling was dead, as he knew he would never see her again. Low Gods willing.

Pain erupted like a thorned vine in his chest, a desperate ache accompanied by regret. He should have kissed her more that morning, held her longer, told her he loved her.

He should have done a lot differently—like not keeping them so long in Zomyad. Aisling had been growing nervous, voicing her wish for them to leave, but he hadn’t listened. He was too determined to give her the home, his family the home, that they deserved.

“More proof of the gods not condoning such creatures,” scoffed the king, redrawing Gabreel’s attention. “To kill off the mothers who bore them.”

Gabreel clenched his teeth, watching with growing trepidation as King Réol’s gaze slid to Aberthol on the floor.

“Do we know what powers it might possess?” he asked.

It , not they , not he .

It.

“If the Mütra has any,” answered Prince Zolya, “we will find out, Your Eminence.”

“I shall enjoy the reports on your progress,” the king declared. “In the meantime, let us get our inventor settled into his workroom. There is much to accomplish to get my new mine operational. You’ll find, Heiro, that Bardrex has left you quite a mess to clean.”

With the king’s dismissal, Gabreel was pulled to the side, different guards coming to collect his son. His heart leaped from his chest, terror consuming as they were torn apart.

“Your Eminence,” Gabreel called out, fighting against Kidar Terz’s unforgiving grip. “Prince Zolya promised my son would remain alive so long as I did. To ensure this agreement is met, I require my son beside me as I work.”

“Your son ?” the king sneered, as though testing the name for such a creature as a Mütra, finding it most foul. “Your son,” he repeated, eyes narrowing on Prince Zolya before shrewdly on where Aberthol crouched. “Yes,” he mused slowly. “Very well, inventor. You have my word as the conduit for our almighty Ré that your spawn shall live, as well as remain with you, so long as your work proves progress. After all”—the king’s smile was sharp—“we need something to keep you motivated, Heiro.”

As Gabreel and Aberthol were herded from the throne room, he was submerged in a cold drowning of dread.

The king’s declaration was less of an assurance than a threat.

One that was carried out that very night when Aberthol was dragged from their guarded room for his first night of torture. A taste of what would happen if Gabreel didn’t make progress.

But his child was returned.

Alive.

As the king had promised.