Page 124 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

But what would we be without it?

Tabitha Wysteria

The Grand Hall shimmered with golden candlelight, the air heavy with unspoken tension as nobles and emissaries gathered in expectant silence. Ash had spent the morning in the training yards, hammering steel against steel, pushing his body to exhaustion in the futile hope that sweat and muscle might drown out the turmoil in his mind. It hadn’t worked.

He had asked for Alina, desperation laced in his voice, but the servants had only shaken their heads. No one had seen her. Instead, a folded parchment had been pressed into his palm that morning—her handwriting, elegant and steady, the words he could never form himself laid out in ink. She had stayed up late,writing by candlelight, crafting the speech his tongue refused to give him.

Tomorrow, he would ride out to the borders. The whispers of witches had grown louder, slithering through the kingdom like a slow-building storm. Ash would see for himself if the warnings were true.

He exhaled sharply, turning to the mirror. The suit he wore—a ceremonial drapery of gold and red—felt suffocating, a gaudy prison of frilled sleeves and stiff collars. He longed for the weight of his armour, the cold bite of steel against his skin. How did Alina endure such impractical finery every day?

‘Stop twitching.’ Hagan’s voice was edged with mild irritation as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His gaze roamed around the empty chamber before settling back on Ash, a frown pulling at his lips. ‘Is your wife not here to accompany you downstairs?’

Ash ignored the question, though he felt the weight of it settle in his chest.

He had made sure to be gone before Mal awoke. He had left while the sky was still painted in shades of orange and silver, before the world had stirred, before he could catch a glimpse of her at the breakfast table, sitting in her nightgown, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, sleep-soft and wild. He had fled before she could ask him questions with that quiet curiosity, before he could give in to the aching pull in his chest that begged him to lift her into his arms and carry her back to bed.

‘It is time,’ Hagan said, his voice a command rather than a suggestion.

Ash forced his feet forward, his boots striking against the stone with a steady rhythm as he descended into the Hall.

The moment he entered, every pair of eyes lifted to him. The air thickened, anticipation curling through the room like risingsmoke. Instinctively, Ash squared his shoulders, straightened his spine—a soldier’s reflex, a warrior’s armour. He would not falter. Not here. Not in front of them.

As he moved through the parted crowd, his gaze found Mal. She was standing off to the side, her purple eyes trained solely on him, unwavering. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

He took his place at the centre of the dais, turned to face the sea of watching faces. A glimmer of movement in the crowd caught his eye—Zahian Noor, smirking as if he had been promised a spectacle. Ash clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to break the prince’s nose a second time. But Zahian was nothing, insignificant compared to the absence that gnawed at him.

Where was Alina?

The room fell silent.

A bead of sweat traced a slow path down Ash’s temple, and he wiped it away. The faces before him blurred into an indistinct mass. His fingers clenched behind his back, nails digging into his palm. The words, where were the words?

His mind turned to stone.

The parchment in his pocket burnt against his skin, but he could not remember the first line. The script Alina had written for him, the lifeline she had given him—it was gone, slipping like sand through his fingers.

His mouth went dry. His chest tightened.

And then the fear took hold.

What if they laughed? What if they saw?

His hands trembled. He curled them tighter behind him, willing the shaking to stop. Why couldn’t he do this? Why did his own body betray him in ways no enemy ever could?

His heart pounded.

Breathe.Just breathe.

He opened his mouth, tried to force the words out. He would be a mockery of a prince if he couldn’t give a simple speech.Unworthy.

‘Today… I c-come t-to y-you all…’ The moment the first stammer cracked through the air, he knew.He knew.

A ripple passed through the crowd. A shifting. A stirring. They had heard. They had noticed.

His failure was on display.

What would his men think? Would they still follow him? Would they still trust him to lead? Would his people still want a king who could not even speak?

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