Page 48 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Her gaze snapped to Hagan. Had he been following her?Spyingon her? The thought burnt hotter than the shame of being caught.

‘Prince Kai Blackburn is our guest, Hagan,’ she said coldly, straightening her shoulders. She probably looked absurd—her soaked gown clinging to her, her hair dripping seawater—but she would not be cowed. ‘The prince petitioned to see the castle and the grounds. I, as the princess, had an obligation to fulfill my duty.’

Then, without another word, she stormed off, the sand shifting beneath her feet as she tried—and failed—to move with regal grace. But before she left, she turned, her voice carrying like a quiet command.

‘Do bring back the dragons to the keep, Hagan.Thatis a command.’

And then, with one last, lingering glare at Kai, she turned on her heel and vanished into the night.

The desert folk and the witches have always had a strong alliance. They have always admired and loved our magic. We have always respected their fighting skills and sense of unity. The only other kingdom I grew up knowing was the Desert Kingdom. My mother would travel quite often to the land of sand on behalf of the Council and she would bring me along. My best friends are desert folk. Strange how I do not have many witch friends at all. I adore my home, but witches and warlocks have lost their purpose. They have lost the significance behind our magic. They have lost their touch with the gods. And because of it, everyone will turn their backs on us.

I cannot say I blame them.

Tabitha Wysteria

The first House to arrive was the illustrious House of Sand, heralded by the rhythmic undulation of colossal serpents whose scaled bodies stretched skyward, their sinuous forms towering as high as the castle’s third floor. Upon these magnificent beasts rode the king’s daughters, sent as emissaries to witness the union of two great houses. The two princesses slid off the creature’s back, their heads covered by arasghitaand their faces hidden beneath their famouskarash.

‘Rasghita in the Sandhii language means a cover for the head and karash is a cotton cloth they use to protect their faces asthey travel through sand.’

Mal barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Her brother, Kage, had launched into yet another lecture, his voice a steady cadence of well-rehearsed knowledge, a walking compendium of facts they all already knew. Hours upon hours had she spent in the vast expanse of their library, poring over tomes that chronicled the customs of distant lands. Some kingdoms had intrigued her—the House of Sand, with their elusive fortresses tucked away in the endless embrace of the desert, had always held a certain mystique. Others, however, had bored her beyond reason. Strangely, the kingdom in which she now stood, the one she was meant to entwine her fate with, had never once stirred her curiosity.

‘Do they speak the common tongue?’ Mal wondered aloud just to irritate her brother. ‘And do you think they will let me ride their serpent?’

Kai chuckled.

‘Everyone speaks the common tongue,’ Kage replied, clearly annoyed by the silly question. ‘Most importantly, do you remember your lessons in Sandhii?’

The assembled royals stood in regal formation at the castle’s grand entrance, awaiting the arrival of the noble houses. The drakonians positioned themselves at the forefront, ensuring they were the first sight to greet their esteemed guests. Meanwhile, the wyverians lingered in the shadows near the doors, their figures stiff and silent, their narrowed eyes squinting against the merciless glare of the sun. The searing heat of the Kingdom of Fire was a cruel and unrelenting adversary to them, one to which they would never truly acclimate. No matter how many days passed, the sun greeted them as a tormentor, each step beyond the refuge of shade a fresh assault upon their pale skin.

Not that they were literally burning, of course, but Malenjoyed bemoaning their suffering all the same.

The princesses of House of Sand had reached the drakonian royals, their voices weaving polite greetings as the formalities commenced. Mal craned her neck to study the drakonian prince. He acknowledged the pleasantries with the barest nod, his expression a carefully sculpted mask of indifference. His lack of amusement, his sheer disinterest in the spectacle before him, stirred something in Mal—a mingling of satisfaction and irritation, an inexplicable contradiction that left her unsettled.

‘How many are there in total?’ Mal asked, her gaze fixed on the approaching figures.

‘Five,’ Kage replied smoothly, his voice as measured as ever. ‘The two before you are Hessa and Sahira, the eldest daughters of the Desert King.’

Mal tilted her head, watching the women with idle curiosity. ‘Strange that he could spare them,’ she mused, ignoring the sharp glance Haven shot her. ‘It would seem he has something in common with the Fire King—neither seems particularly fond of female company.’

‘Quite the opposite,’ Kage corrected. ‘In the Desert Kingdom, royal daughters are raised as warriors. They belong to the royal guard and begin training as soon as they can walk. Some say they are the most ruthless fighters in existence, and their skills are so coveted that they are often hired as mercenaries. If the Desert King sent his daughters instead of his sons, it means he expects trouble.’

Kai huffed, his lips curling into a smirk. ‘How very comforting.’

The two princesses drifted away from the drakonian royals, their movements deliberate as they strode towards the castle. Mal watched them with quiet curiosity. She had read of the desert folk in countless books, traced their tales through theyellowed pages of old tomes, but never had she seen them with her own eyes. Their skin was a tapestry of white, red, and brown, a shifting blend of hues that Kage had once explained mimicked the very sands of their homeland, allowing them to vanish like mirages on the dunes and confound their enemies. Even their garments followed this same harmony of tones, their hair swept in hues of dust and dusk. Yet here, in the Kingdom of Fire, where the world was painted in bold strokes of gold, deep crimson, and the occasional burst of searing green, they stood out starkly—like ink spilt upon a sunlit scroll.

‘Sandhalla,’ the taller of the two spoke, her voice a whisper of wind over sun-scorched dunes. She placed a hand to her forehead, dragging it down the length of her face before extending it outward in greeting. The wyverians mirrored the gesture. ‘Ma nama Hessa,’ she introduced herself, then turned slightly, gesturing towards her sister. ‘Sahira sastaa.’

The princess called Hessa turned then, her piercing white eyes—like bleached bone under the desert sun—fixating solely on Mal. There was something in that gaze, something searching, measuring. ‘Yaa da anian bar Sahraa.’

Mal did not flinch, nor did she let her expression betray her understanding, though she knew they expected confusion. She had spent too many afternoons listening to Kage teach her the Sandhii language, deciphering the way their words wove like shifting sands.You are the union between kingdoms. The desert folk had no word for kingdoms—they saw all lands as different parts of the Sahraa, the desert, the endless expanse. And yet, they believed in this marriage, in the delicate bridge it sought to build across generations of war.

‘Sahraa qamh haiklii.’

It was the first phrase she had learnt in Sandhii, one she had held close to her heart.A grain a desert does not make.

Kage’s voiceechoed in her memory, his patient explanation lingering like a mirage on the horizon.The desert folk believe in unity. There are different tribes scattered across the sands, but they know that alone, they will perish. A single grain does not create a desert; it takes thousands. Their entire existence is built upon this belief—that survival is only possible together, that no one stands alone.

Hessa’s eyes glimmered with intrigue. ‘Yaa spaak Sandhii na?’You speak Sandhii?

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