Page 125 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

His throat closed, his muscles locked in place. He could not breathe, could not move, could not—

A hand slipped into his.

Steady. Unshaken.

Ash turned his head, breath hitching as Mal stood beside him.

She squeezed his trembling fingers, grounding him. A silent vow. A quiet shield. A lifeline.

‘We have gathered together today to ask for forgiveness,’ Mal announced, her voice smooth as silk, unfaltering. ‘My husband is the Fire Prince, and his temperament is sometimes as you all know, a strong twirl of flames. But he is so very sorry for his actions.’ She turned to Zahian, offering a smile that was neither warm nor cold, merely calculated. ‘He welcomes prince Zahian Noor with open arms and congratulates the couple.’

The room erupted into applause, their cheers rolling through the hall like a breaking tide.

Zahian ascended the dais and extended a hand. His lips curved with amusement.

‘All is forgiven, brother.’

The way he said it made Ash want to break something.But his body remained frozen, a statue of cold, unyielding stone.

Mal, sensing his stillness, gripped his arm and pulled him away from Zahian and the crowd.

‘My husband is tired. He must rest.’ The lie was blatant, but no one challenged it. They nodded, murmuring amongst themselves, already eager to whisper behind his back.

Ash did not care.

Because as Mal led him from the Hall, her hand was still holding his.

Mal guided him back to their chamber, closing the door behind them with a quiet finality. She lingered there for a moment, her back pressed against the wood, arms wrapped around herself as if seeking warmth from something unseen. Ash did not turn to face her. He could not bear to see the purple eyes that had witnessed his undoing. He imagined her gaze sharp with judgment, her lips curled in amusement at his failure. Perhaps she would laugh. Perhaps she would hate him—hate that she had been bound to a prince who trembled before a crowd, a man unworthy of his crown.

He strode to the balcony, bracing himself against the stone railing, drawing in the salt-laced wind with deep, ragged breaths. The sea stretched endlessly before him, dark and restless beneath the glow of the midday sun. He closed his eyes, willing the air to cool the firestorm inside his chest. But then he heard her footsteps, light and unhurried, as she came to stand beside him.

Mal leaned against the balustrade, her hair spilling forward like ink, veiling half her face. She looked like a creature of the night itself, woven from shadow and whispered myths, untouched by fear.

‘My father kept me caged within stone walls for most of my life,’ Mal said, her voice quiet butunwavering. ‘I was a happy child, but my happiness was confined—trapped within the castle's towering gates, hidden from the eyes of the world. Too many wished to lay their gaze upon the princess with the witch’s eyes. Some would fall to their knees in trembling reverence, whispering prayers of dread, claiming I was a god sent to punish them all. Others would spit at the very mention of me, their curses carried by the wind.

‘So they concealed me, tucked me away from the prying eyes of the world, as though hiding me would change what I was. But secrets have a way of slipping through cracks, and the world always knew. They whispered of the girl with cursed eyes, of the omen born within the House of Shadows.’

She exhaled, steadying herself. ‘A part of me feared stepping beyond those walls, feared the weight of the stares, the judgment that would come—not for my actions, nor my words, but for the simple existence of my eyes. I told myself it did not matter, that I was indifferent to the hushed voices and sidelong glances. But deep inside, the thought of being cast aside, of being seen as something unworthy, something unholy, for a thing I could not change…’ Her voice trailed, her breath a whisper of uncertainty before she straightened her spine.

‘But I learnt that fear is nothing but a specter of the mind. And I realised that I am stronger than the smallness of their scorn. Stronger than their trembling voices, their wary glances. Yes, they watched, they whispered—but their fear is not mine to carry. It is nothing I cannot bear.’

His body, rigid with shame, slowly uncoiled as the sound of her voice wove through the air like a balm against his fraying nerves. He turned slightly, studying the princess who gazed at the horizon as if nothing in the world could touch her. She spoke as if she had already conquered the fears that still gripped him.

‘You might discover, Fire Prince, that what you fear is notas scary as you’ve imagined.’ She then turned to look at him, holding his gaze. ‘Or perhaps it is. But you are stronger.’

Ash swallowed, forcing words past the knot in his throat. ‘A k-king…’ his voice faltered, but he pushed through, jaw clenched. ‘A k-king cannot f-fear s-speaking in public. A k-king cannot s-stutter. A king must be strong.’

Mal tilted her head, considering him. ‘A king,’she said, ‘can be whatever he chooses to be. That is what makes him a king. And strength, Fire Prince, comes in many forms.’

She turned away, opening the doors and summoning a passing maid. She ordered food for them both, declaring they would dine in their chambers. Then she seated herself at the breakfast table, the breeze threading through her wild curls. She looked unburdened. Untamed. A woman who had never let the world break her, even when it had tried.

The knock came minutes later, and the door swung open to reveal a small procession of servants carrying golden trays laden with food. Ash watched, expression unreadable, as Mal reached for a roasted chicken leg with all the grace of a warrior unsheathing a blade. She bit into it unceremoniously, utterly unbothered by the delicate etiquette of queens and princesses.

Ash’s gaze flickered to the plate before her—a spread of charred meat, seeping dark juices. Rotten. The kind of food wyverians thrived upon.

Mal caught his stare and smirked. ‘To each their own,’ she said, swallowing. ‘I imagine drakonians have their own… repulsive delicacies. We were raised on stories that you feasted on infants.’

Ash’s stomach lurched. ‘That is revolting.’

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