She circled overhead, studying, but the garden was mercifully empty. She swooped down in slow circles, cautious and watchful. She perched on a wall and examined the terrace. No people in sight. A heavy, dark metal door, benches, a few high hedges, a cherry tree, many low shrubs and flowers.

She plopped down onto the dirt of the garden. Where could she hide near the door? And what form would be best to sneak inside? There were no easy hiding places, at least not for a medium-sized animal like an eagle. Should she shift to a mouse? Mice were trustily mobile and small, but also easy targets for both humans and animals. Something else? A falcon? A fly?

The door to the terrace suddenly groaned and creaked open. She stifled a gasp. Hell—her time was up. And as an eagle, she might as well be begging them to spot her. She had to transform, and she had to do it now. She focused her mind on the image of a fly and flung herself into that shape. Her body shrank abruptly down toward the earth.

When her limbs stopped twisting and her eyes focused, she could see him. The man walked toward her, face buried in a book. He did not expect anyone to be here, thank goodness. He sat down on a sun-soaked bench without looking at it, obviously familiar with the place. His dress was finer than a servant or laborer and lent him a refined elegance.

She flew on wobbly, unfamiliar new wings closer to him, crash-landing on a rosebush. Her visitor frowned over a blue leather book with gold inscriptions of stars on the cover. Shaggy blond-brown hair threatened to fall into intense eyes, their color so light and strange she almost couldn’t make it out.

Should she act or wait? Others could be coming to join him. He could leave at any time. She could hope the door was left unlocked, or she could try to sneak inside along with him—a risky proposition. Or she could try to get information out of him. What was just inside the door? And how could she find this prince?

Her heart was pounding as she quickly formulated a plan. Then she went for it before she could reconsider.

She circled behind the bench. He didn’t notice her. She paused for a deep breath, eyes on the door, hoping no one would interrupt what she was about to do.

Anara, protect me. Now or never.

She released her hold on the transformation, and her shape unraveled around her wildly. She could slow and control the process, but when speed was of the essence, the magic spun out of control, flinging her back into her own form like a hurricane falling to pieces.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a split second—as long as she dared—and struggled to steady herself. When she opened them, she could see no one new had arrived. He hadn’t heard the thud that must have accompanied her transformation. She should have silenced the sound, but luckily, he was intent on the book. Get it together, she thought. She couldn’t afford to be sloppy now.

She rose to a crouch, her steps hidden by the wind rustling the leaves of the cherry tree. She crept forward, one step, then another. She jumped as he moved slightly. He turned a page and continued to read.

She was just behind him now. She could hear his breath. After this, there would be no turning back. But then again, there had never been any turning back, had there?

Rising, she clamped one hand over the man’s mouth while the other caught a wrist and forced it behind his back, raising him up to his feet.

A sudden gust of wind hit her from the left and knocked her off-balance, but she dragged him with her to the side and back behind the bench. Strange, it hadn’t been so turbulent a second ago—but they were on a mountaintop. So much for luck.

They fell roughly into the dirt. She released him but only long enough to thrust him to the ground and bring her knee down on his chest. She brought the blade of her dagger just under that strong jawline.

His eyes studied her even more intensely than they had the book. He made no sound and offered no resistance. His eyes—a lovely, mysterious, grayish green—were unlike any she’d ever seen. She instinctively reached into his energies, hungrily, not expecting to find much. As a rule, she never tasted the creature energies or thoughts of other people. But at times like these, she needed to know everything as quickly as possible, so it was worth the risk of knowing or tasting too much.

Smoke. Sulfur. Air magic.

A thrill of fear shot through her.

So not a servant or a prince, but a mage. Oh, by the gods. An air mage could easily kill her before she could grow enough of a wing to fly away—

But she forced her thoughts to a halt, buried the fear. His unusual eyes were still staring into hers. He had cast no spells. She wasn’t dead yet. And there wasn’t the stark, bitter taste of corruption that hung around the Masters.

“Your name—now,” she demanded.

“Aven,” he said, simply.

She froze, mouth still open. Could it be? Aven was certainly a common name in Akaria. There were probably a hundred Avens hiding inside Estun. Every one named after the royal, most likely.

“Who are you? Your full name,” she said.

“Aven Lanuken is my name. Son of Samul, King of Akaria. What of it?” His voice was soft, confident, and a little intrigued. Not the slightest bit afraid. “Who are you?” he added. A brave one, then?

She didn’t answer. She could hardly believe it. Either her luck was incredible, or this was destiny. When he said his full name, she felt the brand on her shoulder throb and burn excitedly—he was the one her binding sought. What she had thought might be the hardest part might just be the easiest.

But she wasn’t out yet.

Before she lost this chance, she began the transformations. With her non-blade hand, she pulled a scrap of white fur from her side pouch. He watched her, unmoving.

Surprising herself, she paused and said, “This might feel a little… weird.” Then she ran the fur across his forehead, down his nose, across his lips—and the transformation began. The energy began to flow out of her, faster and faster, and she reached with lightning speed toward the plants around them, refilling her energy reserves as quickly as she could spend them. She tried to leave the plants alive, but there was no time for precision.

She sheathed the dagger. For a moment, he was still, and then he twisted and thrashed as the transformation took hold. His form shrank, and fur grew. His clothes did not shrink with him. She’d forgotten to spell that as part of the transformation—damn it. Eventually, there was just a small lump inside his shirt.

She quickly grabbed him. The little mouse’s eyes were still a mysterious gray-green, and it was breathing rapidly. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”