Page 157 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Zahian’s smirk vanished. His fingers idly toyed with the bitten fruit in his palm, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. ‘After what we did to them?’ He shook his head. ‘If the witches return, princess, it will not be peace.’

His red eyes gleamed, burning like the embers of a dying fire.

‘It willbe war.’

…

The scent of burning incense clung to the dimly lit chamber, curling through the air like ghostly tendrils as Hessa lounged carelessly across Kage’s bed. It was an intrusion that made his skin itch—not the sight of her submerged in a steaming pool hours earlier, naked and languid, but this. This casual claiming of his space, this invasion of his carefully maintained solitude.

‘They say that the gods created us because they were bored,’ Hessa mused, stretching like a feline against the sheets, her dark eyes dancing with amusement as she studied Kage’s stiff posture. He stood at the room’s edge, watching the absurdity of it all—the number of bodies crammed into a space that was never meant for company. Wren sat cross-legged on the floor, methodically sharpening three short daggers she had concealed in her pocket. Vera, ever at ease, drummed tattooed fingers against the wooden table, her expression unreadable. Sahira, Hessa’s sister, perched lazily on that same table despite Kage’s earlier protests that there were perfectly good chairs to use.

But it was Mal that held his attention the most.

His sister sat apart, her posture tense, her gaze locked onto Vera with quiet intensity. Kage had seen the way she had returned to the castle earlier, her fingers entwined with the Fire Prince’s, her laughter trailing behind her like the soft chime of temple bells. He had never seen her look so…free. So utterly unburdened.

Perhaps that was what unsettled him most.

‘Why do these meetings always take place inmyroom?’ Kage finally muttered, his voice edged with irritation as he cast a glance around at the unlikely gathering.

‘Because, apparently, I am a prisoner,’ Vera drawled, not evenbothering to look up.

‘You are not a prisoner,’ Mal countered sharply. ‘We are simply keeping a careful eye on you.’

Vera arched a brow. ‘Because you do not trust me.’

Mal’s expression did not soften. ‘You are a witch,’ she said, her voice laced with quiet venom. ‘And witches—your sister—tore my wyvern from the skies, left her broken and lifeless. So no, I do not trust you. In fact, I would very much like to carve your heart from your chest, inch by inch, and watch as you drown in your own blood.’

Vera’s lips curled, the glint in her eyes more amusement than alarm. ‘Is that a threat, princess?’ she asked, her voice low, edged with something both dangerous and knowing. ‘Why don’t you, then? Take that vengeance you hunger for.’

Mal leaned in, her presence a storm cloud before the downpour. ‘Because I need you. But trust me, witch. The moment I no longer require you to breathe, I shall end you and the rest of your kin.’

Vera merely sighed, shifting her gaze to Hessa with a languid ease, as though she had grown weary of the conversation, as if the weight of Mal’s threats was nothing more than the whisper of an autumn breeze against her skin. ‘They also say the gods created witches first,’ she said. ‘Gifted them with magic to see what they could shape with it. There’s an old tale that claims it was the witches who first breathed life into the great wolves of the Ice Kingdom. The gods, fascinated by their creations, grew envious and sought to craft something greater.’ Her gaze flickered to Wren then, a knowing smile playing upon her lips. ‘That is why, they say, the gods made dragons, wyverns, and all the other creatures of this world. Each god fashioned their own beast, convinced that their creation was superior. The Sun God, arrogant above all, made his own children believe there were no othergods at all.’

Mal let out a dry, humourless snort. ‘Tell that to the drakonians and phoenixians.’

‘They are the only two among the eight kingdoms who still cling to a single god,’ Vera said, tilting her head as if she found the notion amusing.

Mal’s patience was thinning. ‘Why are we having this conversation?’

Vera’s smile turned sharper, more pointed. ‘Because your god—the one who created the wyverns—is the God of the Dead.’

Silence blanketed the room, thick and heavy.

Vera leaned forward slightly, her voice dipping into something almost melodic, almost cruel. ‘Fitting, isn’t it?’

Mal mirrored her motion, her own voice a whisper of steel. ‘Would you like to meet my creator then?’

Laughter bubbled from Vera’s lips, rich and full of mockery. ‘Not yet, princess.’ She sat back, stretching her arms as if this were all a grand performance staged for her amusement. ‘One day, probably sooner than I’d like, I shall meet my own. But until then, we have far more pressing matters. If we do not handle this curse,’ she lifted her tattooed fingers and tapped them against the table, punctuating her next words, ‘we will all be meeting our gods far sooner than we’d prefer.’

Hessa rose from the bed, the brown silk of her robe slipping from her shoulders as she reached for the book Wren and Kage had stolen from the library. With a practiced flick of her fingers, she leafed through its brittle pages, pausing when she reached the section detailing the Desert Kingdom. Her finger, adorned with rings of beaten gold, tapped against an intricate illustration—a dagger, its bone hilt carved with ancient symbols, its curved blade gleaming even in ink.

‘That,’ she declared, her voice rich withcertainty, ‘is the weapon we seek. The blade that will end the curse.’ She turned to the gathered company, her kohl-lined eyes dark with expectation. ‘My sister and I journeyed here believing the weapon might rest within this kingdom or with one of the guests attending the royal wedding. But we have found nothing.’

Kage stepped closer, his gaze narrowing as he examined the dagger’s depiction. The hilt was unlike any drakonian weapon, its embellishments unmistakably desert-born. Strange markings, the protective sigils of the sand folk, coiled down its length, wrapping around the white circular stone set into its pommel—a talisman of their people, a mirror of their unearthly pale eyes.

‘This is a traditional desert dagger,’ Kage said, running his finger along the text. ‘Why would the knife destined to break the curse belong to your kingdom?’

‘Because,’ Sahira said, her voice thick with exasperation, ‘when Prince Hadrian Blackburn was engaged to Princess Aithne Acheron, every kingdom sent them gifts of great significance. The records detail them all, and only one weapon was bestowed upon them—a dagger, gifted by the Desert Kingdom.’

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