Page 13 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Then, one morning, as she stepped outside into the cool embrace of dawn, her breath caught in her throat. Another child lay upon their doorstep, golden-haired with yellow-hued eyes that glowed like embers. And atop his head—dragon horns, curved and regal.

How had a wyverian and a drakonian child found their wayinto the heart of Fauna, a kingdom neither of their kind called home? It was a mystery she would never solve, nor did she care to. As the infants slumbered within their modest cottage, her husband’s voice trembled with quiet apprehension, his worries woven into the hush of midnight. But her mind was set. They would raise them, love them as their own, shield them from a world that would seek to tear them apart.

And so, the years passed, and the boys grew.

They thrived beneath their father’s guidance, their hands calloused from tending the land, their bodies honed through toil and sweat. Yet, for all the love that bound them to their adoptive parents, an unspoken question lingered in their hearts—why did they look so different? Their mother, with skin as deep as the ancient trees, full lips, and thick curls, bore no resemblance to them. Nor did their father, whose emerald eyes and antlers spoke of the forest’s grace. Even their horns set them apart—nothing like the antlers of their parents, but sharp, lethal, and unmistakably foreign.

Their mother had warned them since childhood: no one must know what they truly were. The kingdoms were fractured, war still simmering beneath uneasy alliances. If discovered, they would be ripped from their home, returned to lands they had never known, forced to fight in a war not of their making.

Yet, the whispers came. The village had seen glimpses of them, fleeting shadows slipping through the trees, strangers amidst familiar faces. And so, one fateful day, the kingdom’s soldiers arrived, searching.

Their mother sent them into the forest, urging them to run. But the gods, it seemed, had already written another fate. Perhaps it had been their will all along, guiding the infants to her doorstep only to reclaim them when the time was right. The army’s march thundered through the woodland, and one of thebrothers made a choice. He stepped forward, surrendering himself so that the other might escape.

The drakonian boy fled, his heart heavy with sorrow, and returned to the only home he had ever known. But peace was fleeting. The army came again, sweeping through the village, taking with them every able-bodied soul. And when they laid eyes upon the drakonian among them, their shock was swift and cruel. He did not belong here. He, too, was taken.

Years unraveled like frayed thread.

The wyverian boy, no longer a boy but a man forged in blood and steel, became a warrior feared upon the battlefield. His blade, slick with witch’s blood, earned him infamy, and in time, the wyverian king took notice. He was granted the title of general, and with it, the hand of the princess.

Far across the land, in the Kingdom of Fire, the drakonian was stripped of his chained duties and crowned with a destiny long forgotten. He was the lost prince, son of Queen Aithne and King Sorin, heir to the infernal throne.

And so, the boys who had once been brothers became rulers in their own right.

Enemies.

The war reached its bitter end, and the Kingdom of Magic, once the domain of witches, fell to ruin. The surviving witches were cast into exile, banished to a land now lost to time. Yet the cost of victory was steep, for where once the eight kingdoms had stood united, only seven remained—forever divided, their bonds severed by war and fate alike.

The firelight flickered, casting wavering shadows along the cold stone walls as silence settled between them.

When Mal finished telling the tale, her father exhaledslowly, the weight of centuries resting heavy upon his broad shoulders.

‘We lived in peace once upon a time,’ the king said, his voice like a distant echo, lost in the corridors of history. ‘Eight kingdoms, powerful ones, said to have been created by the gods themselves. And yet, we stand divided, splintered by the sins of our ancestors. By what Prince Hadrian Blackburn did.’

Mal did not move, did not even dare to breathe as she listened.

‘He was to marry princess Aithne of the Kingdom of Fire, bound by oath, but instead, he gave his heart to a witch. He shattered his sacred vow, and in his betrayal, House of Flames sought vengeance, igniting a war that consumed the witches and our own kingdom alike.’

The words twisted like a dagger in the air, sharp with the ghosts of the past.

King Ozul rubbed his beard, his eyes fixed on the shadows shifting in the corners of the room, as if the specters of fallen kings and forgotten warriors lingered there, watching.

‘The king, Hadrian’s father, did not wish to turn against his own blood. But his son had dishonoured an oath—a union meant to forge alliances. Hadrian had chosen love over duty, and for that, the kingdom teetered on the edge of ruin. The king could not afford war, not then, not over the whims of a son too blind with love to see the damage he had caused.’

The king’s voice darkened. ‘So he did what was best. He allied with the Kingdom of Fire, denounced his own son, and waged war against the witches. And the other kingdoms, greedy for power, eager to strip the witches of their gifts, joined in the slaughter.’

Mal’s fingers curled tightly around the arm of her chair, but she did not interrupt. She was afraid that if she spoke, the fragilethread of this truth would snap, and she would be left with even more questions.

‘Ever since that war, the Kingdom of Fire and our own have lived in bitter hatred, unable to trust, unable to forget the betrayals that burnt both our lands. Though the witches were defeated, we lost something greater—our unity. And now…’ The king sighed, looking older than he had mere moments before. ‘Now, I have received a letter from King Egan of House of Flames. A proposal.’

Mal blinked. ‘King Egan?’

The king nodded. ‘Yes.’

A strange, cold sensation curled around her spine. ‘A proposal?’

Her father’s lips parted, but it took a moment before the words left them. ‘A marriage proposal, Mal.’

The world tilted.

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