Page 192 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

His body remained rigid, his face a battlefield of grief and anger. Then his gaze dropped—to Haven, who lay forgotten, crumpled on the blood-soaked stone.

Another explosion rocked the castle, sending Wren stumbling into Kage’s chest. The witches were fighting back. If they didn’t leave now, they wouldn’t leave at all.

With shaking fingers, Wren whistled and a blur of silver and white barreled through the wreckage—her wolf, snarling, fangs bared, a creature of speed and savagery.

She climbed atop its powerful back, then reached for Kage. ‘Please, ya cannot stay here.’ Her hand trembled, stretched towards him—a lifeline.

His eyes remained on Mal.

His shoulders sagged. Like a man defeated.

But Wren would not let him fall.

Another spell struck—stone shattered, raining down in heavy chunks, the castle groaning under its own ruin.

Finally,finally, Kage turned.

His face—so lost, so broken.

But when his gaze met hers, he took her hand. And Wren pulled him up onto the wolf’s back, gripping him tightly, as if holding him together.

They would flee. For now.

But this was not the end.

No.

This was only the beginning.

There is a reason why the curse was not immediate, why it would only happen in a hundred years. It never really mattered if anyone believed in it or not. The curse was done out of anger, yes. But foremost, it was done out of love. Out of my love for the eight kingdoms. I did not have enough power to make it last longer; a hundred years would have to do.

The curse was created to keep something imprisoned.

Tabitha Wysteria

Ash was bound, an invisible force locking him in place, his body unyielding to his own will. He could feel the weight of it, pressing into his bones, suffocating him without touch, without chains. He was a prisoner of magic, his breath caught between fury and despair.

Then—shattering.

Nyx descended like a specter of wrath, her talons tearing through stone and spell alike. Hagan’s hold snapped like brittle glass. The sudden release sent Ash lurching forward, agony lancing through his side, yet he did not falter. He had no time to. His sword lay discarded where the witches had cast it aside, gleaming dully beneath the ruin of the Grand Hall. He lunged for it, his fingers curling around the hilt like it was the onlything tethering him to life. It burnt to be held again.

With a single breath, the blade ignited.

Red-hot fire roared along its length, from tip to hilt, as though the weapon itself had awakened from slumber, eager for vengeance.

The Grand Hall was a graveyard now—bodies draped across the marble, remnants of life spilt across the stone in rivers of red. The echoes of battle had faded, leaving behind only Mal. Mal and the witches.

Ash glanced towards his father. King Egan lay broken, crumpled like an abandoned relic. The wall that had held him aloft was shattered, his body reduced to nothing more than a ruin. And his head—gone. Taken by the chaos, swallowed by the night.

Ash had never truly known his father, had never sought his warmth, but he had respected him. Had loved him in that distant, complicated way a son loves a king. And now, with the last of his bloodline snuffed from the world, he was the only Acheron left.

The weight of it threatened to crush him.

Mal lifted her hands. Darkness surged at her command. It moved like ink bleeding into water, spilling across the room, crawling up the walls and into the rafters. A ripple of unease spread through the witches. Even the boldest among them hesitated, their spells faltering, their faces shifting with something akin to fear.

The air shifted. Grew cold.

Ash staggered back as the dead began to rise.

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