Page 12 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Outside, the wyverns roared against the sky, their cries a chorus of unrest, as though sensing the unease coiling in her bones. The wind howled through the open gaps in the stone, whispering ghostly secrets against the cold walls. Mal's bare feet moved silently over the polished rock, the cool bite against her skin grounding her in a way that nothing else could.

Wyverians were creatures of shadow, sculpted by ancient gods from the marrow of nightmares. The Kingdom of Darkness, shrouded in eternal dusk, was their cradle. The sunbarely kissed their land, warmth an unfamiliar thing. They thrived where others withered, adapted to the chill of an unforgiving world—but tonight, Mal felt the cold differently. It was not the comforting, familiar cold of her home. It was a creeping, merciless thing, sinking into her ribs, making her stomach coil tight with unspoken fears.

At last, the massive black door of the king’s study loomed before her, a monolithic thing carved from stone so dark it swallowed the firelight that flickered in the sconces nearby. Mal stilled.

Her pulse pounded hard—a rhythmic drum against her ribs, beating with such force she feared it might tear free from her chest. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cold iron handle. Thoughts flooded her mind, unwelcome whispers that slithered in from the shadows. What would he say? What could he possibly tell her that warranted this secrecy, this weight of sorrow in his gaze?

A terrible thought gnawed at her.

What if they had finally realised she didn’t belong?

No.

Her family loved her. They had never turned their backs on her, never made her feel like anything less than one of them. And yet… she was different. The mark of a witch tainted her eyes, and though no one had spoken of it outright, she knew the whispers, the fearful glances.

Would he send her away? Cast her from the only home she had ever known?

Mal forced herself to push forward.

The heavy door groaned as she opened it, and her father’s shadow-hounds stirred from where they lay curled at his feet. Their deep, glowing eyes snapped open, watching her silently before relaxing once more.

King Ozul sat in his vast leather armchair, a tome resting in his lap, the firelight casting silver shadows upon his lined face. He was staring at her already, those warm, tired eyes drinking her in as if it were the last time he would ever see her.

‘Sit with me, my dearest,’ he said, his voice thick with something she could not name.

Mal hesitated. The weight in his voice—the sorrow—made her limbs feel heavy, her movements slow as she crossed the room and settled into the chair opposite him. She felt small, curled in the depths of that vast, silent space, the fire between them the only thing that breathed.

Her gaze roamed over the towering bookshelves lining the walls, their endless spines carrying knowledge, history, secrets—perhaps even the truth she was so desperately seeking.

‘Do you remember the tale of the two brothers?’ her father asked, his voice so soft it barely disturbed the silence.

Mal frowned.

‘It was my favorite story as a child.’

‘Will you tell it to me?’

She hesitated, her fingers curling against the cold leather of the chair. ‘But… you know the story, Father. I don’t understand...’

‘Please, Mal.’ He exhaled slowly, as if carrying the weight of a thousand untold truths. ‘For you to understand everything, we must tell the story first. Perhaps then, you may understand… and learn to forgive this old fool.’

The word forgive struck her like a blade.

A thousand questions burnt inside her, but her voice failed her, tangled in the confusion pressing against her ribs. What was there to forgive?

And yet, despite the storm of unease swirling within her, Mal swallowed her fear and did as she was told.

She let out a breath and straightened her back, steeling herself against the unknown.

‘Very well, Father,’ she said. ‘I will tell you the tale of the two brothers.’

And so, with the fire whispering between them and the shadows leaning in to listen, Mal began.

A century ago, in the wake of the Great War of the Eight Kingdoms, two young boys were left orphaned beneath the ashen sky.

The first, a child with hair as dark as the abyss, was found deep within the forest. His cries had echoed through the trees, haunting the night like a restless spirit. A young woman, unable to ignore the sorrow in those wails, defied her husband’s cautious warnings and ventured into the unknown. She followed the sound to an abandoned hut at the forest’s edge, where beneath the crumbling beams and dust-laden air, she found him—small, helpless, and utterly alone.

With the babe cradled in her arms, she returned home, elation brightening her heart. For though she and her husband had longed for a child of their own, fate had never blessed them with one. Yet, as the months unfurled, so too did the whispers of unease. The boy was not like the others in their village—he did not belong to these lands. He was wyverian, a creature of legend and war. And still, despite her husband’s quiet concerns, the woman’s love for the child grew, fierce and unwavering.

---