Page 61 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

He should have felt pride. He should have let their voices lift him. Instead, he found himself scanning the arena, golden eyes searching the stands, the shadows. Where was Mal Blackburn?

The Champions’ Battle was moments away, and both were to step forward, announce their chosen warriors, and let the fight commence. But Mal had made no selection—Ash had known she wouldn’t. She would fight herself. He had steeled himself for this, readied his mind and his blade. But how was he supposed to fight her if he couldn’t even see her?

Ash reached the end of the fiery corridor and halted. He turned, bowing first to his father and court, then to the wyverians. His gaze shifted to Alina, seated beside Haven, her brown eyes pinned solely on him. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her not to worry. This wasn’t a battle to the death—just a game, a display of skill, a performance for the masses. And yet, in the pit of his stomach, he wasn’t certain of anything anymore. He had glimpsed Mal’s strength before, had seen what she could do even without a weapon in her hands. And something told him—he had not yet seen the full measure of her.

The ground trembled beneath him.

A low, thunderous growl rumbled through the arena, deep enough to unsettle the very air.

Then came the roar.

A sound so ancient, so deafening, it split the sky.

Screams rang from the far side of the stands. Ash spun towards them, his chest tightening as his eyes widened at the sight before him.

Descending from the heavens, wings stretched wide as banners of war, came Mal Blackburn on the back of her wyvern. The creature’s powerful limbs sliced through the sky, each flap of its massive wings sending dust spiraling into the air. It landed with a force that shook the entire coliseum, perching atop the highest tier before making its descent, forcing nobles and warriors alike to scatter out of its path.

Mal did not flinch.

She rode the beast like she had been sculpted from the same raw, untamed wilderness. Her purple eyes gleamed—dangerous, assessing, predatory. And then—her lips curled, not into a smirk, but something sharper.

A snarl.

The wyvern stalked towards him, its massive head dipping, its breath washing over Ash in waves of blistering heat. Another would have staggered back.

Ash did not move.

Then, with effortless grace, Mal jumped.

She landed without so much as a stumble, her bare feet meeting the sand with a whisper, as if the very earth had softened to receive her. She wore no armour. No metal shielded her from the blade of an enemy, as though she knew no sword could ever reach her. And if it did? Perhaps she would welcome it.

Mal Blackburn walked towards him, hips swaying with a slow, deliberate ease, the kind that made the air grow thick and unsteady. Like a feline prowling before the kill. Her dress—a whisper of white cotton—barely covered her at all. Stomach exposed, legs bare, collarbones kissed by the last golden rays of the sun.

Ash would not let himself be distracted.

Then, she reached for her weapon. A wyverian blade. Not like his—a drakonian’s sword, broad and brutal. Hers was thin, weightless, sharp as the edge of a breath. Forged in blue fire, kissed by something ancient, something deadly.

She did not speak.

She did not bow.

She was ready.

So, Ash unsheathed his own blade, lifting it to his lips and breathing onto the steel. Fire erupted along its length, molten and hungry. A murmur of admiration rippled through the stands, but Mal? Mal did not blink.

A hush settled over the arena.

Two figures stood facing each other—one a beacon of light, the other a shadow poised to consume it. One a beam of light, another a swirl of darkness.

Ash smirked.

Mal lunged.

She moved faster than lightning. Faster than breath. Ash barely caught the strike in time, his sword meeting hers in a resounding clash that echoed like thunder. Sparks erupted between them, fire kissing steel, shadow consuming flame.

The sun dipped lower. The sky bled from soft orange to deep crimson, like a wound torn open across the heavens. If night fell, if the darkness took them completely—

How could he hope to fight against somethingborn from the abyss?

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