Page 101 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

‘You are as rotten as I am,’ he whispered, the fire extinguishing in an instant, leaving only a hollow chill in its wake. ‘We are vile, Vera. Twisted things fashioned by a cruel world. And we cannot be remade.’

‘No,’ she said, stepping forward, calm and unyielding, ‘but I was always the vilest of us all.’

In the blink of an eye, her magic erupted, slamming into him with the force of a hurricane.

At the same moment, Wren's right eye fluttered open, sharp and wild, her fingers already curled around the hilt of a hidden dagger. In a flash of silver, the blade bit deep into Hagan’s leg, and blood gushed forth in a furious torrent.

His scream was not of pain, but of fury.

Within moments, shadows stirred and the witches that had stayed behind in the temple with Hagan materialised around them, summoned by the cry of their wounded master, prepared to kill for him.

But Vera was ready.

‘Did you truly believe you could win?’ Hagan purred, his voice a poisonous balm as his hands shimmered with a sickly green light. Wren staggered upright, stumbling towards Vera with desperation etched across her face.

Vera summoned her magic, fingers alight with power just as Arden came crashing through the wooden door, fury in his wake. Three blades sliced through the air like silvered shadows, brushing past Vera’s ear before embedding themselves deep into Hagan’s chest.

Time seemed to stop.

Hagan stilled, lowering his eyes to the blades now protruding from his flesh.

He laughed, low and unholy, before pulling them free one by one, savouring the pain.

He licked the blood from the final blade with serpentine delight, raising its glistening edge and pointing it towards the trio.

All around them, witches pressed in like wolves, while Hagan himself stood before the only exit, the storm in his stare swirling with malice.

He glanced down at the blood now spattering the marble beneath his boots, red on white like a painting of death. Vera stiffened, her hands poised to strike, magic thrumming at her fingertips, ready to erupt.

‘No matter what I do… you will always hate me,’ he said softly, though there was no sorrow in his voice, only the desolate calm of one who had accepted his fate.

There was no time to respond.

Wren let out a guttural cry as her body arched unnaturally, her limbs twisting, bones fracturing with sickening cracks. Her scream was muffled by Arden’s as the magic tore through her, breaking her from the inside out.

And all Vera could do was stand there, frozen in place, forced to bear witness as the girl was dragged towards Hagan, step by agonising step.

‘If you’re going to hate me,’ Hagan said, voice low and void of remorse, ‘then I may as well give you reason to.’

With a flick of his fingers, he forced Wren to her knees, though her legs were mangled so cruelly that her joints cracked out of place with a sickening pop.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, her lips sealed by magic, unable to release the screams clearly locked inside her chest. Arden struggled to move, muscles tensing in futile rebellion, but he was frozen in place, held by Vera’s magic.

She could not let him go.

If she did, if Arden were to charge forward now, it would only make things worse for Wren. She knew it. And the girl would never forgive her.

Hagan knew it, too. His smile grew wider, more grotesque in its pleasure.

Vera had seen him wield blood magic before, one of the darkest, most abominable branches of witchcraft.

It was said that those who practised it risked losing their soul.

But Vera had always suspected that Hagan had been born without one.

‘Enough,’ she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with fury.

‘Why?’ Hagan tilted his head, his eyes alight with mockery.

‘If I release her, will you forgive me? Will you love me?’ He saw the truth in her expression, read the ache, the refusal, and nodded as though confirming something to himself.

He had always known, deep down, that the affection he craved from her would never come.

That her heart was a locked gate he would never be permitted to pass through.

She had promised their mother once, in whispers and in tears, that she would protect him. And gods, she had tried.

‘Veee…ra,’ Arden growled, barely able to speak beneath the weight of her magic.

The rage twisting his features was no longer just fury.

It was betrayal, raw and unmasked. It thickened the air like smoke, saturating the space between them.

And as his attention moved from Vera to Wren, she knew that he would never forgive her.

Wren’s tears fell like silent prayers, her sobs caught in her chest as her limbs trembled, twisted at unnatural angles. The grotesque bend of her bones made Vera’s stomach churn, her throat tighten with the threat of sickness. She had never wanted this, not like this.

‘If you kill her, I will never forgive you.’

The words slipped out like a blade drawn from its sheath—sharp, unbidden, irreversible.

And in uttering them, Vera realised she had sealed Wren’s fate.

Hagan did not crave her forgiveness. He had long since abandoned the notion of love.

Perhaps, once, he had yearned for it. But whatever soul had perhaps once inhabited him had long since shrivelled into something cruel and monstrous.

‘You wrinkle your nose at blood magic,’ he mused, his tone silk wrapped around steel. ‘But the things we could do with it, Vera… ’

His fingers curled ever so slightly, and Wren coughed blood, the crimson streaking her lips like war paint. Vera flinched.

‘I can control her blood. Twist it. Break her, vessel by vessel.’ As if to demonstrate, two more sharp cracks sounded, bones splintering under invisible force. Wren’s back arched with a sickening jolt, her spine contorting unnaturally.

‘I can stop her heart mid-beat. Starve her brain of breath and thought.’ He twisted his hand again, and Wren wheezed, her eyes bulging, the vessels within them straining and splitting. Her life was being unstitched, one thread at a time.

Vera stood powerless, frozen as she watched death slowly take hold of the girl who had only ever tried to bring light into a fractured world. This was just another show, another of Hagan’s cruel performances, like Allegra all over again. The memory burnt behind Vera’s eyes.

Wren’s breathing grew shallow, unsteady. Her gaze, those pale blue eyes now glazed with agony, found Vera. Pleading. Desperate. A silent cry echoed through her expression: please… end it, or save me.

The temple doors swung open with a thunderous hush, severing Hagan’s grip on Wren as if the very air had sliced through his spell.

Vera released her hold on Arden, and in the blink of an eye, the Fae was at Wren’s side, cradling her as though he might anchor her soul to the world for a few heartbeats more.

But it was written in the tremble of her breath.

Wren was slipping away. She would not survive this.

Vera’s brow furrowed as two figures stepped into the temple, their presence cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.

They entered not with urgency, but with the eerie calm of wanderers who had simply chosen this ruined sanctum as the next step on their path.

For the briefest heartbeat, something in Vera’s chest warmed at the sight of them, an old comfort resurrected from memory.

Kage Blackburn moved with his usual calculated elegance, each stride long and deliberate, his expression carved from stone.

That ever-present scowl rested upon his face like a crown, his neck held high with effortless grace.

The world, it seemed, bent to his pace, never the reverse.

There was something in his sharp gaze now. Curiosity, or perhaps recognition.

Freya paused near the threshold, her presence anchoring the space like a spell. Her frost-blue eyes locked onto Hagan with an unreadable gleam. There was no greeting, no kinship. Only something colder. Deeper.

Hagan raised his hand to strike.

Freya merely tilted her head and lifted two fingers in a small, dismissive motion.

‘Leave,’ she commanded, and her magic exploded with quiet power, flinging the warlock backwards like a ragdoll.

He hit the wall with a sound that made Vera gasp, though her feet remained rooted to the marble beneath her.

Kage crossed to Wren’s side, his body still and poised, until Arden surged up with blade in hand, pressing the steel against Kage’s throat with deadly calm.

‘Touch her,’ Arden hissed, ‘and you’ll not leave with your hand intact.’

‘He won’t hurt her,’ Vera said at last, her voice hoarse, her limbs frozen by grief and guilt.

Arden’s emerald eyes turned to meet hers, the promise within them sharp as the dagger he held. A vow of retribution. One day, he would make her pay. For what she had done. For what she had failed to do.

Vera did not flinch. She would accept it.

Just not yet.

‘She’s dying,’ Kage said against the blade, which Arden reluctantly withdrew from his throat. ‘She doesn’t have long.’

Arden let out a snarl, clutching Wren tighter to his chest as though by holding her closer, he could tether her to life.

Kage turned to Freya, and something unsaid passed between them, something Vera didn’t quite catch. She filed it away in the back of her mind, though the weight of it pressed against her ribcage like an echo of unfinished plans.

Wren is dying, and you’re still scheming, she thought bitterly. Perhaps Hagan had been right after all, perhaps there was no redemption left for her. Perhaps she truly was beyond salvaging, every shard of her soul tainted. But it was far too late now to wrestle with morality.

She cast a glance towards Hagan, still splayed against the wall, pinned by invisible forces like a fly trapped in amber. Then she edged nearer to where Freya stood like a sentinel of fate. How had the valkyrian subdued the warlock none had ever bested?

‘She needs a healer,’ Arden barked. ‘Vera, do something!’

‘I’m not a healer,’ she snapped, though her voice was distant, dulled by the horror before her. Her eyes skimmed over Wren’s mangled form, and her stomach twisted. ‘No healer could fix that .’

‘This is your fault,’ Arden snarled.

Of course it was. And Vera would have a lifetime, if she survived this day, to drown in the guilt of it.

‘Can you save her?’ Kage asked, turning to Freya. That unfamiliar softness in his expression made Vera pause. Even in a room where monsters clashed and blood stained marble, hope still shone behind his black eyes.

‘Are you sure?’ Freya asked quietly. ‘She will not be Wren Wynter. She will not remember her brother, or any of you.’

‘It’s better than death,’ Kage replied without hesitation .

‘Are you so certain of those words, Kage Blackburn?’

‘I am,’ he said, and the conviction in his voice sent a ripple through the air. ‘Do it. I’ll do as you asked me on those cliffs. I swear it. But save her.’

Freya’s lips curved barely, but enough to make Vera flinch. Whatever promise had been made between them, it reeked of danger. Vera half-lurched forward, as if she could undo it, call the bargain back, but it was too late.

Freya bent low and lifted Wren into her arms, her face serene as Arden rushed forward, blade drawn again. With a flick of her head, the Fae dropped unconscious, felled without so much as a touch.

‘What are you?’ Vera breathed, eyes wide.

Kage turned towards her with a look that silenced the question before it could hang any longer in the air.

Freya walked out, carrying Wren’s broken body like a cradle of starlight. The moment her shadow slipped beyond the temple doors, the spell tethering Hagan to the wall shattered.

And chaos unfurled like a storm unleashed.