Page 105 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

Hades said that we are cursed.

That he is cursed to love me forever.

That I am cursed to be reborn.

And Hadrian is cursed to suffer.

I’ve asked him to stop it. He’s a god, surely he can break it.

He laughed.

Tabitha Wysteria

It had taken Bryn Wynter and his army an age to scale the vast wall that cleaved the wastelands from the Kingdom of Ice.

The moment Kage had departed, a letter had arrived urging them to begin their march.

The journey through the scorched and barren land would be long, the path stretching endlessly towards the wall that marked the divide between the Kingdom of Fire and the marshlands where they were to meet the wyverians.

Bryn had not enjoyed the stillness. Not a whisper of a witch’s presence echoed in the silence.

They had passed through deserted towns and hollowed-out villages, places clearly once lived in, now abandoned with purpose.

Every corner was searched with cautious precision, every shadow inspected for traps or hidden threats.

But none emerged. No magic stirred. The witches had vanished like a receding tide .

The wastelands were, for the first time, truly empty.

The distant thunder of war had eventually reached them, battle cries swept to their ears on gusts of dry wind.

Thank the gods for their wolves, swift and relentless, allowing the wolverian warriors to eat up the miles far quicker than they ever could on foot.

And yet, Bryn remained unsure. Would they arrive in time?

He had not expected the onslaught they met upon joining the wyverian ranks. The moment his warriors crossed the threshold, the witches’ magic turned the field into a blood-soaked abyss. Spellfire and screams painted the air with horror.

Through it all, Bryn remembered Kage’s lessons, each one etched into his bones like runes carved in stone. He clung to them now, praying they’d keep him alive long enough to thank the wyverian prince properly.

Was Kage out there, amidst the chaos? A phantom of shadow and steel, striking down witches as green fire licked the sky? Bryn did not know. But he hoped.

And should fate allow them both to survive the slaughter, he hoped they would share the quiet warmth of a fire once more. No words would be needed. Bryn understood Kage’s silence. He cherished it.

Bryn caught sight of Mal Blackburn astride her shadow wyvern, both figures forged of smoke and nightmare.

The princess was a vision of dread and divinity, a silhouette born of darkness.

And yet, the witches beneath her seemed entirely unfazed, as though the sight of death incarnate did not chill their bones.

Raising her hands towards the ancient stone, Mal began to summon something deep and dreadful. At first, Bryn wasn’t certain what she intended, until the wall trembled, groaned, and then, in a deafening cascade of power, exploded into ruin. Still, the witches chanted.

Bryn didn’t care.

His blades were in motion, slicing through robed bodies and bloodied air, ducking beneath searing magic and retaliating with the ferocity of a storm.

Suddenly, he could no longer move.

His body turned to iron, rigid and unyielding, every limb shackled by invisible force.

He couldn’t even tilt his head to see if the others were trapped the same way.

His pale blue eyes locked on the wall. Their goal, so agonisingly close.

But as swiftly as it had crumbled, the structure reassembled itself, stone knitting with stone, untouched by flame or fury.

The witches’ chant swelled, a hymn of power and ancient bindings. Their eyes glowed with ethereal light, purple orbs burning like twin moons in an endless night. Bryn tried to move, just a twitch of his fingers, but the attempt sent lightning down his arm, pain blooming in jagged bursts.

His gaze sought Mal Blackburn again. She stood untouched by the enchantment, still commanding the skies as though the gods themselves had bent their will to her.

Panic tightened Bryn’s chest. What if this spell never lifted? What if they remained trapped, suspended between time and agony, statues left to decay under the watchful eyes of their enemies?

Closing his eyes, he sent a silent, desperate plea to the gods.

All at once, the chanting ceased, and Bryn collapsed forward, his body flung to the mud-slicked earth as though the spell that bound him had snapped without warning.

His cheek pressed into cold, wet soil, and he grimaced, smearing it away with the back of his hand.

He moved cautiously at first, testing each limb, wiggling fingers, curling toes, ensuring he was truly free .

But something was wrong.

Every witch and warlock had turned, their focus no longer on the battlefield but on the wall itself. Not a single glance was spared for the warriors around them.

Bryn didn’t hesitate. He surged to his feet, blade raised high.

A surge of magic struck him, a wave so forceful it tore the breath from his lungs and hurled him backwards. He crashed into the mud, the world shattering in pain as lightning flared through his limbs, seizing every nerve in agony. He wheezed, gasping for air that would not come.

When he managed to rise, he saw others trying the same. Wyverians and wolverians alike charging the wall in desperation, only to be flung back by an unseen force. Again and again, they fell, scattered like leaves before a storm.

Something ancient and dreadful had been awakened.

A chilling thought lodged itself in Bryn’s mind, heavy and unrelenting. What if no one could cross? What if the wall encircling the wastelands in its vast, merciless embrace was now sealed from all sides?

A prison, locking them within.

And the rest of the world… out.

…

Ash moved with quiet purpose, each step echoing softly as he approached the towering stone wall, once built to bar the witches from the rest of the realms, now twisted cruelly to serve the very same purpose against their would-be liberators.

What had once stood as a symbol of protection now loomed like a prison’s boundary, cold and unyielding.

He had left Adriana slumped beneath the hush of trees, unconscious and forgotten.

Someone would find her eventually, or she would crawl her way back to the world.

It mattered little. He had not intended to confront her so soon, not yet reveal that he knew her secret.

But he had needed to shake her, just enough to unbalance her long enough to act.

He couldn’t risk her claiming the wyverns, not now.

More importantly, he could not risk anyone crossing that wall.

They needed to stay inside.

Ash watched from a distance as soldiers hurled themselves towards the stone barrier, desperation etched into every motion. He paid no mind to the way their bodies were repelled by the warded magic, flung like leaves in a storm by the invisible force that held them captive.

All, save one.

Mal Blackburn descended from the skies on the back of her shadow-forged wyvern, Nyx cutting a silhouette of smoke and menace against the grey-tinged heavens.

She landed atop the cursed wall with sovereign grace, forcing the warriors below to still, their futile efforts paused by the weight of her presence.

Without a word, she leapt from her mount, her form melting back into its solid, corporeal self. She moved with purpose, unbothered by the stunned eyes upon her, unshaken by the futility that clung to the air like ash.

Ash had almost forgotten just how breathtaking she truly was.

He never should have found her beautiful.

Wyverians were nothing like drakonians. Their forms were slender, almost ethereal, with skin so pale it bordered on moonlight, black veins sometimes veining visibly along their arms like delicate ink strokes.

Their hair, dark as the void between stars, shimmered with a sheen that even night could not hope to match. And their eyes…

Ah, Mal’s eyes were something else entirely .

In time, Ash had come to realise that the very things meant to set them apart were what had drawn him in. The differences that should have bred revulsion instead lit a fire in him, an intrigue that bordered on worship. She was not merely a rare gem among stones; she was the storm that shaped them.

The way she moved, like a panther poised to strike, was equal parts grace and danger.

Every step was sinuous, every glance a silent challenge.

There was a sensual precision in her movement, sharp as a blade honed by centuries.

He could watch her for eternity and still be left wanting.

With Mal Blackburn, it would never be enough.

‘What did they do?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper, meant only for him. And this time, Ash would not hold his tongue. He owed her the truth, now more than ever.

‘They’ve sealed us in,’ he said. ‘The wall encircling the waste-wastelands has been enchanted. No s-soul within can leave, and no one outside may enter.’

‘That’s why we encountered no witches on our journey here, isn’t it?’

Ash inclined his head in a silent nod.

‘Why?’ she asked again. A single word, but he understood precisely what she meant.

‘With the wyverian and wolverian forces ca-caged within these scorched lands, the wi-witches are free to do as they please. No resistance. No obstacles. They’ve penned us in like a-animals, and now they roam un-unchallenged.’

Her voice turned sharp, laced with fury. ‘And you allowed this to happen?’

He didn’t flinch. He bore the accusation as he had borne so many wounds. One day, perhaps, she would understand. Perhaps she would even forgive him.

‘You won’t answer that,’ she sighed, the edge dulling into resignation. ‘Why can I cross the barrier?’