Page 7 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

If only you knew the truth, Mal thought bitterly.

She stepped away, unwilling to let her sister feel the storm of emotions surging within her, unwilling to let Haven’s warmth unravel the tangled thoughts that clawed at the edges of her mind. Instead, she peered over the ledge once more, watching the wyverns rip and tear, watching blood soak the earth in dark rivers.

She despised the thought of harming those too weak to fight back. The sight of helpless creatures, screaming, powerless against their end, churned her stomach.

And yet…

There was another part of her. A hidden, twisted part that wanted to hurt.

Not the defenseless.

No.

She craved the destruction of those who preyed upon the weak. She longed to feel the weight of her sword slicing through flesh, to see crimson bloom across her fingers, to hear the gasping chokes of those who deserved it. She could picture it so clearly—her blade carving through the throats of enemies, the warmth of their blood seeping between her knuckles.

Something was wrong with her.

It made sense.

Mal Blackburn should have never existed.

She was a mistake—an anomaly in the carefully woven legacy of her people. For centuries, the rulers of the Kingdom of Darkness bore only three children. Always three.

The heir, trained from birth to wield power with wisdom and unwavering command.

The warrior, sculpted into a living weapon, a blade sharpened for the kingdom’s enemies.

The truthbearer, the watchful eye, the voice of reason, the one who saw beyond veils of deception.

And yet, Queen Senka had fallen pregnant a fourth time.

A curse, some had whispered.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Mal was cursed. It would explain why her eyes—those cursed, unnatural eyes—were not black like the rest of her kin.

The moment her eyes had opened at birth, the echo of the world’s gasp at the intensity of those purple eyes could still be heard through the cracks in the walls.

Her family had never treated her differently. But that did not matter. She felt it. The distance. The weight of her own existence pressing down on her like an iron chain.

She had no place here. No purpose.

As a child, she had whispered her prayers to the gods,pleading for answers. For purpose. For truth. She had begged them to tell her why she had been born like this.

The gods had never whispered back.

‘We ought to return,’ Haven said, her dark gaze flickering to Mal’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t keep visiting the Seer.’

Mal did not bother to hide the fresh wound—the cut from where the Seer had spilt her blood, staining the ground with secrets.

‘I needed to know if the rumours are true.’

Haven’s expression did not shift. ‘Which ones?’

Mal’s chest tightened.

The rumours about your eyes, or the whispers of war?

That was the unspoken question lingering between them.

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