Page 33 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

A murmur of dismay rippled through the servants. The head maid inhaled sharply, composing herself. ‘And your hair?’ Her voice wavered as her gaze landed on Mal’s unruly mane, still tangled from the long ride, wild as the wind that had carried her to this foreign land.

Mal lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘I brush my own hair.’

The head maid’s lips pressed into a thin, horrified line. ‘Surely you will require someone to draw your baths, your highness.’

Frustration prickled beneath Mal’s skin. Were the women of the Kingdom of Fire entirely useless? It seemed so. In her homeland, she had been raised to fend for herself—to dress without assistance, to build a fire, and to fight as well as, if not better than, her brothers. She was tempted to voice her irritation but stopped short when she caught sight of Haven standing in the doorway.

‘I was just about to explain that I require no additional services,’ Mal replied, her voice as firm as steel.

Before the head maidcould voice further protest, Haven stepped forward, offering the servants a practiced, saccharine smile. ‘The princess is weary from travel. She will gladly accept the assistance of a personal maid.’

Mal turned sharply, her mouth parting to object, but she caught the way the young maid assigned to her exhaled in quiet relief, her fingers loosening where they had been clenched into the folds of her apron.

‘I don’t need—’

Haven leaned in, her voice a whisper laced with warning. ‘These are their customs, Mal. If they cannot serve, they will be discarded. Tossed away like broken toys.’

The weight of her words settled deep in Mal’s chest, heavier than the golden chains they had draped around her throat upon arrival. She swallowed, glancing once more at the maid who now stood before her, waiting—hoping.

The head maid swiftly ushered the servants out, leaving only the young woman behind. Haven cast Mal a pointed look before turning on her heel and disappearing towards her own chambers.

Mal exhaled sharply, blowing stray strands of hair from her face—a terrible habit, one that surfaced when nerves crept beneath her skin.

‘I shall draw you a bath, your highness,’ the maid said, her voice quiet, careful.

Mal parted her lips, instinctively prepared to refuse, but then her sister’s warning echoed through her mind, a whisper of duty and consequence. She swallowed her protest and instead nodded, forcing the words past her pride. ‘Thank you.’ The maid blinked, startled, as though she had not expected gratitude. Mal tilted her head, intrigued. ‘What is your name?’

The girl hesitated, her hands momentarily still in theprocess of gathering the towels. As if the question itself was foreign, unexpected. Mal found the notion irksome—had no one in this gilded, fire-touched palace ever thought to ask? The realisation coiled inside her, unwelcome and distasteful.

‘My name is Vera, your highness.’

Mal exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. ‘You don’t need to say your highness every time you speak to me, Vera.’

The maid’s posture stiffened, her fingers tightening around the linens she held. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but resolute. ‘But it is the way I must address you, your highness.’

Mal sighed but gave a reluctant nod. Picking a fight with her sister over making a maid cry was not something she wanted to add to her list of grievances. She watched the maid prepare the bath, an enormous tub decorated with gilded drawn dragons in an area that had been separated from the rest of the space with curtains of a material Mal had never seen before.

‘It is silk, your highness,’ Vera said, running delicate fingers over the fabric as though it were a whisper made tangible.

Mal traced her own hand over the smooth material, marveling at its softness. ‘It feels like water,’ she admitted, the sensation foreign beneath her calloused fingertips. Yet, her thoughts were elsewhere, caught on the way Vera kept stealing glances at her—small, fleeting flickers of curiosity, always darting back to her face. To her eyes.

None had gasped, none had recoiled. Not yet. Which meant they had already heard of her—the princess with the unnatural gaze, the wyverian girl cursed with witch’s eyes.

Vera’s hands were gentle as she helped Mal slip out of her travel-worn dress and boots. When the maid guided her into the bath, warm water lapping at her skin, an unfamiliar tension settled into Mal’s shoulders. It was a strange sensation to be tended to like this, to surrender even thesimple act of washing to another’s hands.

‘You are tense, your highness,’ Vera observed, working fragrant soap through Mal’s dark locks, fingers pressing into her scalp with careful reverence.

Mal shut her eyes, exhaling. ‘I’ve never had someone wash me before.’

A startled gasp. ‘Never?’ Vera’s hands stilled for half a breath. ‘That is extraordinary, your highness. I have never heard of a princess bathing herself.’

Mal tilted her head, studying the girl through half-lidded eyes, trying to place what was just slightly off about her. ‘Where are you from, Vera?’ A silence stretched, thin as a blade. ‘You are not drakonian.’

Vera’s fingers trembled—just for a breath, a heartbeat—but Mal did not miss it.

‘What do you mean, your highness?’

Mal’s gaze lingered on the girl’s dragon horns, curiosity sparking. There was something about them—something that felt off—but she couldn’t quite place what it was. They looked no different from the others she had seen. Her bright orange hair, like flickering flames, was another drakonian trait, similar to the golden locks most of their kind possessed.

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