Page 131 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

The way he said it—breathless, like a prayer—sent a shiver through her.

They finally emerged from the castle to where the dragon keepers had prepared their mounts, the crisp morning air buzzing with the scent of embers and sun-warmed scales. A handful of Red Guards had gathered, their armour gleaming in the golden light.

Kai stood a few feet away from Hagan, his expression assharp as the daggers he carried—a clear indication that his mood was as foul as a stormcloud gathering on the horizon.

Mal approached him, softening her tone. ‘Why are you here, brother?’

‘Surely you do not want to keep all the fun to yourself, do you, sister?’ Mal stuck her tongue out at him in response. With a smirk, Kai stepped closer and murmured, ‘Apparently the Red Guard are also permitted to ride dragons apart from the royal family.’

It made sense. If only men of royal blood could ride dragons, the skies would be left to Ash and the king alone. Of course the Red Guard would be given the honour—warriors had to be able to command the skies too.

Ash stood beside two dragons: one smaller and crimson as a dying star, the other large and golden, scales rippling like molten gold. He gestured, first to Mal, then to Kai.

Mal felt her chest tighten.

She had been foolish—so foolish—to believe that Ash would keep his promise.

To believe that the warmth he gave her in the sanctuary of their chambers would be offered in daylight.

Because now, before the eyes of the others, the Fire Prince had retreated into silence once more.

He was quiet. Distant. Unreachable.

Her hands curled into fists.

And then—a touch.

Fingers sliding into her black hair, threading through the strands like a whisper of wind through the trees.

Mal turned, heart hammering, and found herself staring into Ash’s molten gaze. He smiled—soft, sure, utterly hers. Then he bent his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his hand drifting down from her hair to rest at her throat, thumb caressing thepulse there.

All her anger melted into ash.

‘I promised,’ he whispered.

And then his lips found hers, and the world vanished into nothing.

…

Wren rested her chin on the rough wooden table, idly blowing at a crumpled ball of paper she had crafted in boredom. Across the dimly lit chamber, Kage sat hunched by the window, flipping through tome after tome, his dark eyes burning with irritation. He was sifting through endless pages, hunting for even the faintest whisper of the dagger’s whereabouts. Vera, draped over a chair with the air of a caged predator, watched them both with silent scrutiny.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Vera muttered, her fingers tapping against the armrest with barely restrained impatience. ‘I do not need babysitting.’

‘It’s not babysitting,’ Wren corrected, smirking. ‘It’s kidnapping.’

The crow perched upon the shelves took flight, its wings slicing the silence as it landed with a sharp caw in the centre of the table. ‘What’s it saying?’ Wren asked, tilting her head at the shadowy bird.

Kage, still engrossed in his book, did not spare them a glance .‘It wonders whyIam the only one actually researching when I am the least invested in finding this damn object.’ His voice was flat, unimpressed. ‘Instead of bickering like children, you might try lifting a book yourselves.’

‘I don’t much enjoy reading,’ Wren admitted, gnawing absently at her fingernail. ‘I spent most of me time outside with me brothaBryn. We neva really enjoyed stories that much, but me younga sistas do. Gwenyth and Gwyneira love a good story. They’d make me listen to a few but I neva could get da point of them.’

Vera arched an intrigued brow.‘Tell us a story then.’

‘Do not dare,’ Kage warned, his tone laced with quiet menace. ‘She just said she hates them.’

Wren’s eyes gleamed with mischief, her spine straightening as if challenged. She would not be silenced—especially not by Kage Blackburn. ‘Fine,’ she said, pleased by their begrudging attention. ‘I can tell ya da story of me brotha Eirwen and how he got his name.’ She leaned in, her voice dipping into the cadence of a storyteller, her accent wrapping around the words like a song sung by the wind. ‘Wolverians are always born as twins. Always.’ Her gaze swept between them, gauging their reactions. ‘Bryn and I were da first, then Gwyneth and Gwyneira, and last was Eirwen. But Eirwen’s twin… died.’

A pause.

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