Page 81 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

‘Why should I care what my skin looks like?’ she muttered. ‘I do not believe good skin is what keeps a marriage strong.’

Haven smirked, tossing the apple core onto the tray.

‘Every little helps, Mal.’

Perhaps. But not when the groom barely tolerated his bride. It was no secret that Ash Acheron had kept his distance. For two days, Mal had only glimpsed him in the training yards, where his sword was his only companion. He had not sought her out, had not spoken to her, had not even spared her a glance. Not that she had expected otherwise. Perhaps it was for the best.

‘The dress has arrived, your highness.’

Theannouncement sent a ripple through the room. Mal stepped from the bath, water gliding from her skin as she wrapped herself in the softest towel she had ever known. Haven followed, her usual mischievous smile softening into something almost tender.

‘I am sure it will be beautiful,’ her sister said.

The tailor, a small drakonian man with a golden mustache curled like fire’s edge, stepped forward, his chest puffed with pride as he lifted the gown from its silk-lined box.

Mal’s stomach turned to ice.

The dress was red. Not black.

Red.

A colour so deep, so rich, it gleamed like freshly spilt blood.

Her lips parted in stunned silence, but the words took a moment to form.

‘But it is… red.’ She turned, her purple eyes sharp as steel, locking onto the tailor. ‘The dress is red, like blood.’

The man’s face brightened with pride, utterly unaware of the mistake. ‘Yes, of course,’ he declared. ‘Drakonian women always wear red at their weddings. And drakonian men wear gold, to symbolise the flame.’

Mal bristled. ‘But I amnota drakonian.’

The tailor’s face drained of colour. He took a careful step back, as if suddenly aware of the storm he had stepped into.

Haven’s expression tightened. ‘I am sure there was a mistake in communication,’ she offered, though there was little certainty in her voice.

Mal’s teeth clenched.

‘I am not wearingthat.’

‘Mal…’Haven reached for her arm, her voice gentle, coaxing. ‘I do not think you have a choice.’

Mal’s jawhardened. ‘It is red, Haven. The only thing I asked for was a black dress.’

‘I know, my love,’ Haven whispered. ‘But you are to be married in a few hours, and we have no other dress for you to wear.’

Mal’s gaze dropped to the damned thing, now spread across the bed in all its crimson defiance.It was beautiful. A masterpiece of drakonian craftsmanship. The bodice was an intricately laced corset, the long sleeves reaching her hands but leaving her fingers bare. The fabric cascaded in layers upon layers of deep, rich red, small diamonds sewn in delicate patterns catching the light like embers caught in the wind.

It was a dress meant for Alina. For a drakonian queen. For a bride who wanted to belong here. And yet—it was now hers.

Mal stepped into the gown, the air in the room stilling as they fastened the last of the buttons. She did not resist when they placed the red roses in her hair. Nor did she flinch when the veil—tailored perfectly around her horns—was settled into place.

She turned to the mirror and the room fell silent.

‘My skin looks even whiter,’ she muttered to Haven, keeping her voice low so that only she could hear. Her sister smiled.

‘You look beautiful.’

And she did. The dress fit her perfectly. A vision of regal elegance, of careful refinement. And yet—the red made every part of her wyverian blood stand out. Her black hair seemed darker. Her horns, sharper.Her skin, ghostly pale, almost unnatural. And her eyes—her purple eyes—glowed like amethysts set against fire.

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