Page 50 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

Vera had waited a lifetime for the chosen one—the soul who would break the curse, the one destined to save them all. Could it be that her silent prayers had, at last, been answered?

The Grand Hall swelled with life. Wine flowed in glistening rivers from golden goblets, and the scent of drakonian tarts filled the air. A delicacy served as the first course, their sweetness meant to linger on the tongue and change the way one savoured the meats that followed. Vera’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight of the untouched trays still waiting to be carried out. She ignored the hunger, the ache of exhaustion in her limbs, and pressed forward, slipping into the crowd of servants.

Then she saw them.

The House of Wild stood to her right, a sudden and unwelcome presence.

The Kingdom of Fauna had once been bound to the witches, allies since the world was young. Their histories were woven together, their fates intertwined like the roots of ancient trees. But when the witches fell, the Fae turned their backs, leaving them to wither and die. The betrayal still burnt like a wound that refused to close. To this day, the witches could not comprehend how those who had once been their closest kin had abandoned them so utterly. Witches and Fae had always viewed the world differently than the other kingdoms. They did not simply exist within it—they were tethered to the land, part of its very breath and bones. And yet, when the time had come,that bond had not been enough to save them.

The Fae king had five daughters, though Vera spotted only three among the revelers. The eldest—soon to be queen, according to whispers that fluttered through the maid’s corridors—stood regal and statuesque. Her skin was dark, her hair white as fresh snowfall. Unlike the drakonians and wyverians, who bore horns upon their heads, the Fae princess possessed antlers—majestic, long, slender, and tall, a crown of the wild. Her younger sisters bore smaller, less imposing antlers, their rank made visible in their very bones.

Vera edged away.

The Fae could sense magic. It was why no witches lived within the Kingdom of Fauna; their deception could never last there. If the Fae princess—Flora Hawthorne, as she was called—looked too closely, what would she see? As if drawn by the thought, Flora lifted her gaze, locking onto Vera with an eerie curiosity. The weight of that look settled on her shoulders like a shackle. Panic clawed at her chest, and she turned swiftly, slipping deeper into the crowd, away from the creatures of the forest.

Her magic stirred beneath her skin, restless and insistent. It pulled at her like an impatient child, begging to be unleashed. She silenced it with a sharp tug at her braid and turned her focus to the grand throne at the head of the hall. Queen Cyra sat poised upon it, her expression carved from cold stone. One glance from her could freeze a man in place. Her gowns, though elegant, were never as opulent as her daughter’s, a deliberate choice. The queen ensured that all eyes were drawn to the princess, her dresses a spectacle of embroidery and jewels, her hairstyles elaborate works of art.

The queen caught Vera’s eye and tilted her head just slightly, an almost imperceptible motion to any other observer. But toVera, it was clear.

The queen wanted to speak.

Vera had earned her place among Cyra’s most trusted servants, had woven herself into the queen’s circle so tightly that she was now summoned weekly to deliver information. The queen believed her to be a faithful spy.

What she failed to realise was that her loyal informant was, in truth, a witch feeding her lies wrapped in truths.

The thought sent a wicked smile curling at the edges of Vera’s lips.

It lasted but a moment.

Something shifted in the air. A presence. A gaze burning into her from across the room. Someone had seen the silent exchange between queen and maid. Someone who was watching too closely. Someone who could ruin everything.

Mal Blackburn’s purple eyes narrowed, glinting with suspicion.

I should not fall for Hadrian Blackburn. He is a wyverian prince that one day will become the King of Darkness. I am daughter of a Council witch. We both have important duties to our lands and our people. He will have to marry a princess to strengthen his kingdom in a moment in which no one seems safe any more. I will take my mother’s position on the Council. We could never be together.

And yet…

Tabitha Wysteria

The royal wedding festivities would stretch across an entire week, each day marked by an event designed for the entertainment of noble guests. Yet, amidst all the grand celebrations, the most anticipated affair was undoubtedly the Champions’ Battle. In this contest, both bride and groom would select a champion to fight on their behalf, a symbolic display of their House’s strength. What was traditionally a mere formality for good fortune carried an entirely different weight this time—two Houses would stand against one another, and the victor would prove which bloodline was truly the stronger.

Tonight, however, was the first step in this intricate dance of power and union—the formal introduction of the betrothed, signaling the official start of the festivities.

Mal had been wrestled into one of her most extravagant gowns, a flowing cascade of black fabric so layered and delicate it moved like a storm cloud in motion, swelling and shifting with every breath she took.

‘Stop pulling at the hem,’ Haven chided, coming to stand beside her.

‘I’m uncomfortable,’ Mal muttered, tugging at her sleeve. She despised the restriction, the weight of the gown against her limbs. Her usual attire left her legs and arms bare—free to run, to fight, to move as she pleased. But this dress, with its elegant suffocation, was clearly meant to restrain her.

The Grand Hall was divided, as if by unseen lines of tension. The wyverians stood to one side, drakonians to the other, while the twin thrones of fire and flames remained the focal point between them. One by one, ambassadors of each House would ascend the two steps leading to the thrones, offering their blessings—first to Mal, then to Ash. Once the formalities were complete, the real revelry would begin. Music, feasting, dancing. A kingdom’s joy, carefully orchestrated.

Yet Mal’s focus was elsewhere.

She had seen it—the silent exchange between Queen Cyra and the young drakonian servant. And even though she didn’t know what it meant, an invisible noose tightened around her throat, a creeping sensation of unease coiling like a snake. Her gaze drifted away, desperate for something else to anchor herself to.

It landed on the Fire Prince.

Ash stood on the opposite side of the throne, his sister Alina beside him, swathed in a resplendent gown of crimson and gold. The dress was nearly comical in its excess, adorned with so many gemstones that Mal wondered if the princess could move at all beneath their weight. Alina’s face was a portrait ofirritation, her annoyance barely concealed.

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