Page 57 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

She had to be sure—had to understand precisely what the prophecy demanded before she carried out her role. And once she knew, once she was certain… the prince would not live to see another sunrise.

‘Do you feel better now?’ The cold resolve in her voice must have caught Alina off guard. The princess blinked, clearly expecting something else—tears, perhaps. Some display of grief or hesitation. How little she knew of wyverians.

‘I do not say these words to upset you,’ Alina said. ‘From a drakonian woman to a wyverian one, they are a warning. I do not know you, but I wouldn’t wish this destiny upon even an enemy. Least of all a woman that has done nothing to deserve such a fate.’

Mal allowed herself a faint smile. In her own stiff, reserved way, Alina was sweet. The drakonian princess’s gown was impossibly fitted, crimson silk clinging to her figure, covering every inch of her skin. Mal resisted the urge to reach for one of her hidden daggers and slash the restrictive thing to pieces.

‘Can you breathe in that corset?’ Mal asked, cocking her head. Alina’s eyes widened, surely confused by Mal’s lack of a reaction to the news that the Fire Prince had no interest in seducing her. Mal tried not to roll her eyes at the thought.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Alina replied.

‘Every single word. Your brother would never love someone like me… something about him putting babies in my belly, something else about a wing…’ Mal smiled deeply at the princess’s annoyed look. ‘Can I ask you something? From princess to princess?’

‘What?’ Alina’s teeth gritted together.

‘Why? Why could your brother not fall in love with me?’

Alina turned to her, looking almost startled by the question.

Mal had asked a question—one she had expected a practiced answer to, something distant, something polite. A deflection. Instead, when Alina finally responded, her words were so unexpected, so jarring, that Mal felt her body stiffen, a rare shock rippling through her as she took an instinctive step back.

‘My brother will never love you because of your eyes,’ Alina said. ‘Because he fell in love with eyes like yours. And they betrayed him.’

Fae magic is strong, but it is very different to ours. Theirs originates from nature, whereas our magic, our source, is from the very gods themselves. Neither is better nor worse. Both types are beautiful and unique. But I cannot help but worry that our alliance with the Fae might slowly turn to dust if we continue to act superior. It infuriates me the way the Council talks sometimes, as if their magic is the only one that counts.

Tabitha Wysteria

‘She’s going to be late,’ Haven breathed out the words in exasperation. The afternoon heat hung over the land of fire like a living thing, suffocating and relentless. Yet the drakonians, impervious as ever, showed no sign of discomfort. The arena, a colossal structure built from scorched stone, loomed ahead, requiring a good twenty-minute walk to reach its grand entrance. Even the servants, tirelessly flapping enormous fans in an attempt to temper the merciless sun, were unsuccessful. The heat remained unbearable, clinging to skin like molten gold.

The arena itself was vast, its size betraying its history. Once, long ago, it had been a battleground for dragon fights, a place where fire and fury had danced in brutal spectacle. Now, its purpose had shifted, but the weight of its past still lingered in the air, thick as the heat.

Haven was seated beside Alina Acheron, the drakonian princess draped in yet another ostentatious ensemble. Her golden horns were adorned with diamonds that caught the sunlight at every turn of her head, sending brilliant flashes across the shaded seating area. Her gown, an extravagant thing of deep red silk, reached the very top of her neck, clasped shut by thick round buttons that seemed as suffocating as the midday heat. Haven idly wondered what might happen if she undid them. Perhaps Alina would finally breathe. Perhaps she would even become tolerable.

‘Will the queen not be joining us?’ Haven asked, surprised to see the king surrounded by his court but Queen Cyra nowhere in sight.

‘I’m afraid my mother has been bedridden from a terrible headache.’

‘May she recover promptly,’ Haven replied.

Kai offered the drakonian princess one of his signature roguish smiles. Alina barely spared him a glance, her disinterest sharp enough to cut. Haven turned her attention to her brother, watching him closely. The moment Kai noticed the warning in her gaze, he exhaled dramatically and sat back, feigning interest in the state of his nails.

The seating area was shaded by grand awnings, their dark fabric shielding the noble guests from the worst of the sun. Servants moved through the aisles, carrying golden trays piled high with glistening grapes, cheeses, and goblets of rich drakonian wine. The sight made Haven’s stomach twist with longing. She had eaten little since their arrival, her appetite buried beneath the weight of everything that had transpired. Only the night before had she finally slipped into the kitchens, demanding food not only for herself but for her brothers as well. She knew Kage had been hoarding his portions, tucking themaway into a small pouch in his chambers, waiting patiently for the food to rot.

A low, rhythmic pounding interrupted her thoughts.

Drums.

The first to step into the centre of the arena were the two sisters from the House of Sand. They moved with an effortless confidence, their strides as sure as the shifting dunes they called home. Haven envied that confidence, the way they carried themselves with a certainty she wasn’t sure she would ever possess.

They wore loose, flowing pants, cinched at the ankles—designed to allow them to sink into the sand without leaving a trace. Their tops, made of the same soft fabric, were bound tightly around their chests, leaving their stomachs and arms bare, revealing the smooth muscle of warriors. They weren’t wearing their famousrasghitasthat covered their heads from the sun, but they had hidden their faces with theirkarash.

The drums quickened. The crowd leaned forward.

The eldest sister held a long wooden staff, its end sharpened into a wicked blade. With deliberate grace, she placed a hand against her forehead, trailing it down her face before extending her arm outward in a gesture of salute.

Then she moved.

Her body flowed with the rhythm, each motion perfectly timed to the deep, rolling beat of the drums. What seemed at first to be a dance quickly revealed itself to be something far more dangerous—a display of deadly precision. Every twirl of the staff, every sweeping motion, was a calculated strike, a demonstration of mastery over both body and weapon. Beside her, her sister Sahira, moved with an entirely different sort of power. Her dance was slow, sensual, hypnotic. The way she undulated, the way she spun and turned, left the crowdentranced.

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