Page 160 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Vera’s voice cut through the haze. ‘What did you see?’ The witch was closer now, her gaze sharp, her expression stricken.

Wren pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. ‘Some visions,’ she rasped, ‘are like puzzles. Pieces thrown at ya, and ya gotta fit them together.’ She swallowed, her mouth parched. ‘But this time… this time, I saw da future.’

Vera edged closer, her hands curling into fists. ‘What future?’

‘A future in which da curse is not stopped.’

A long pause. Then, ‘And what did you see?’

Wren turned to her, the weight of the vision pressing heavy upon her chest.

‘There was nothing left,’ she whispered. ‘No one remained. We had all… fallen. Slipped into some kind of endless slumber.’

Vera inhaled sharply.

‘Except for one.’

‘Who?’ Vera asked.

Wren’s fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic.

‘Ash Acheron.’

…

Mal found her husband in the training yards, locked in what appeared to be a rather heated discussion with Hagan. From where she stood, leaning against the sun-warmed stone wall, she could see the way Ash winced each time he feigned the strength to lift his sword, his best friend barely concealing his amusement.

She smiled, watching the drakonian prince pretend he wasn’t still wounded, that his body wasn’t betraying him with every strained movement. Stubborn fool.

‘I really do believe you ought to listen to the Red Guard,’ she called, amusement lacing her tone.

Ash turned towards her, his golden eyes narrowing with mock affront. ‘You are s-siding with him?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘I am your hus-husband, must I remind you?’

Mal did not answer. Instead, she hurried to his side, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, as if the simple act could ward off the nagging voice in her mind screaming at her to go after the dagger. She ignored it. She would wait until the engagement party when all eyes would be on the celebration, when no one would notice her slipping away into the night.

Which meant she had one day left. One day to spend by his side. One day before everything changed.

‘Surely you are not foolish enough to try and lift a sword in your condition, are you?’ she asked against his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe, unbothered by the presence of his best friend standing mere feet away.

The teasing lilt in her voice was not lost on him, nor was the way his gaze darkened when it travelled over her black dress. His pupils dilated, his expression shifting with a promise Mal knew all too well—the kind that meant he would have hergasping his name into the depths of the night.

‘How about Hagan and I fight, and you watch?’ she suggested, arching an eyebrow.

Ash’s right eye twitched, and she laughed.

‘I promise not to break your best friend,’ she whispered, and the warmth of her breath against his skin sent a shiver through him.

Rolling her shoulders back, Mal studied Hagan as he began circling her. He wielded two drakonian short swords, their undulated blades gleaming beneath the sun. Unlike the lavishly adorned weapons of drakonian nobles, the Red Guard's swords bore no ornamentation—no embedded stones or intricate engravings, just steel honed for the sole purpose of war.

Mal had left her own sword in her chambers, and she could not use her powers here—not in the open, not in front of so many watching eyes. Too many had already seen what she was capable of at the wall, including Hagan. Ash had assured her that his friend would never speak of it, but trust was a delicate thing, and Mal was not willing to gamble with hers. The others had yet to speak of what they had witnessed her do. Perhaps the truth gleaming in her purple eyes was explanation enough. Or perhaps their silence was not born of understanding, but of distraction—minds too burdened by the looming shadow of the curse to dwell on what, or who, she truly was.

She longed to shadow-walk, to dissolve into the very air itself, but now was not the time. That, too, would have to wait until she left for the dagger.

Hagan lunged.

Mal twisted out of his reach, catching his arm and spinning him forward with such force that he crashed into the ground, his sword slipping from his grip. But he was quick—far quicker than she expected. Within seconds, he was back onhis feet. However, Mal was faster. One of his blades now rested in her hand.

Their swords clashed, ringing through the training yard like the roll of distant thunder. Mal could tell—Hagan was holding back. He was Red Guard, trained for war, and yet, there was restraint in his strikes, a careful calculation in his movements.

---