Page 2 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)
The day I met him, my whole life changed.
I’m no longer sure whether it was for better or for worse.
I fell for him, quickly and painfully. I was drawn to him like a bee to honey.
Then I met Hadrian. And that’s when I realised what true love was meant to be.
Pure and gentle, filled with passion and care.
He never forgave me for choosing Hadrian.
Tabitha Wysteria
The world had fallen into silence.
Mal Blackburn dismounted the enormous wyvern the moment its clawed limbs touched down, its body a magnificent conjuration of shadow and smoke.
The beast, known as Nyx, released a guttural roar as its talons sank into the scorched soil.
A land where life had long been bled dry, and the only colour that remained was the shade of death.
This was a land born of decay, where no light dared linger, and when night descended, the moon itself would bleed crimson, casting its glow like a blood-soaked shroud over the desolate world.
Most trembled at the very mention of such a place, a realm twisted by fear and inhabited by beings shaped from sorrow and despair.
But for Mal Blackburn, the withered earth beneath her boots was familiar, comforting.
Closing her eyes, she drew in the eerie stillness of the air.
She was home .
Nyx turned, her smoky body gliding towards the Forest of Silent Cries, which loomed to their right like the whisper of a forgotten nightmare.
Mal regarded the forest with intrigue, recalling her steps through its hollowed halls only days before.
It was there she had learnt the truth of her world, unveiled by none other than Tabitha Wysteria.
A question stirred on her tongue. Where was the witch now?
But before she could speak it aloud, a hand, warm and firm, caught her arm.
‘Don’t.’
She turned to face her husband. The man once called the Fire Prince.
Though now, Mal was not entirely certain what Ash Acheron was.
Perhaps he didn’t know either. He was no longer a prince.
Technically, he was king, having inherited a blood-stained crown when witches murdered his parents.
But Mal had pierced his heart to lift the curse that bound them, and in doing so, had birthed something unnameable within him. Something ancient. Something strange.
‘I’ll be fine, Ash,’ she said, her voice gentle. ‘Trust me.’
His golden eyes softened at the echo of her words, words she had once spoken just before she drove a blade into his chest. And yet, in those words lay truth, and something unspoken passed between them.
There were still fractures in the space they shared, the aftermath of betrayal not so easily swept aside.
She had married him with murder in her heart.
Perhaps the fragile thing blooming between them now would wither, and they would each vanish from the other’s life.
The thought clawed at her chest. A world without Ash Acheron was not a world she could easily imagine.
Ash’s grip loosened, but rather than retreat, his fingers slipped through hers, intertwining them in a quiet promise. Together, they stepped into the Forest of Silent Cries, where the hush deepened and the veil of the dead wrapped close around them.
Mal glanced up at the towering trees whose blackened leaves hung unmoving, untouched by even the whisper of wind.
Her brow creased as she studied the stillness.
Where were they? By now, the dead should have stirred, should have approached with curiosity, if not caution, at the sight of the wyverian princess treading where no living soul was permitted.
‘Mal,’ Ash whispered, his breath brushing her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
She followed his gaze. Whatever he had seen, he gave no clue—his face unreadable, as ever. Ash wore his emotions like armour now, and she could not blame him. He had lost everything: his family, his kingdom, and the woman who had pledged herself to him had betrayed him with a blade.
‘What is that?’ she asked, her voice barely above a breath. A strange shape lay ahead, a crumpled figure on the ground. As she moved towards it, white-barked trees loomed around her, and from their shadows emerged hollow eyes, skulls peering out with a reverence edged in dread.
She dropped to her knees beside the broken body lying forgotten in the soot-black soil. Tabitha. Her name echoed like a funeral bell in Mal’s mind. Her neck was twisted at a grotesque angle, her limbs discarded like a puppet cut from its strings.
‘Do you know who did this?’ Mal asked softly, though her voice carried weight, heavy as the grief rising in her chest. She did not look away. Not yet.
Ash’s expression remained composed, but Mal could see the subtle strain pulling at the edges of his stillness.
He was wrestling with something, uncertain what to say.
Rather than speak, he turned his gaze towards the looming silhouette of the castle in the distance.
The dead, huddled within the shadows of the forest, followed his stare, as though they too feared that voicing the truth might summon whatever horror had slain Tabitha Wysteria.
Suppressing the tremble creeping along her limbs, Mal released Ash’s hand and pressed her fingers into the dark earth. ‘Help me bury her,’ she said quietly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest.
He studied her for a moment, unreadable as ever, then joined her.
Together they dug, clawing at the blackened soil with their bare hands.
Mal glanced up as the dead slowly emerged from the woods, drifting like wraiths to join them.
Wordless, they gathered in a solemn half-circle, and some bent beside her, digging silently until the earth yielded a grave.
When the task was done and the soil once more smoothed, one of the dead placed a skeletal hand on Mal’s arm, shaking their hollow head in warning. Whatever had taken Tabitha’s life still lingered—silent, watching, waiting.
‘I have to go,’ Mal told them softly. ‘My family may need me.’
There was a glimmer in Ash’s eyes then, quick as lightning, gone before she could catch its meaning.
Perhaps the mention of her family had stirred something in him, a memory of his own blood, now lost. Or perhaps he knew something she did not, something he wasn’t ready to share.
She didn’t press. This Ash—the one who had risen from the ashes of death—unsettled her in ways the old Ash never had.
And she still wasn’t certain if the man she loved was buried within him at all.
They left the forest in silence, the stillness clinging to them like cobwebs as they ascended the path to the castle.
Mal lifted her eyes to the fortress carved from the mountain’s spine, its towers piercing the sky, its blackened walls as grand and formidable as ever.
How she had once longed for this place, with its marble corridors and wide, glassless windows that allowed wyverians to leap onto the backs of their beasts.
But now, as she turned to Ash, she realised that stone walls did not make a home. A person did.
They neared the entrance. Mal strayed from the path and approached the roaring wyvern stationed to the side. Daku. Kage’s wyvern. The last time she had seen him, she had ridden his back on her way to steal the very dagger she would later drive into her husband’s chest.
‘Sedare, Daku,’ she said, reaching out to stroke the beast’s scaly muzzle. ‘What’s got him so restless?’ Her eyes swept the courtyard. ‘Why hasn’t my brother come to meet us?’
Another roar cleaved through the grey skies.
Mal’s heart lifted at the sight of Nyx, her own wyvern, spiralling down through the air.
Daku screeched, his voice triumphant. The joy of reunion shimmered between the two creatures as they bellowed their greetings—loud, wild, almost violent to any ear unfamiliar with them.
But Mal knew. These were not war cries. They were kin.
‘Mal.’
Ash’s voice brought her back. His look was clear, focused and insistent. The time for sentiment was over.
With one last glance at the wyverns, she turned and followed him towards the great stone doors, now yawning open as though summoned by ghosts. She hesitated only briefly before stepping into the castle.
Inside, little had changed. The obsidian walls rose like cliffs around them, their edges softened only by the cool, shimmering light of wyverian-blue flame.
Usually the halls would be alive with footsteps, with servants moving briskly about their work.
Now, there was only silence. Someone had lit the torches, creating a corridor of flame to guide them. The message was clear.
Mal followed the light.
It led them to the main hall, a vast chamber once filled with warmth and laughter.
A place where Queen Senka would lounge across her favourite settee with a book in hand, occasionally inviting one of her sons to play cards.
A place where the family dined each evening, sharing food, teasing one another, revelling in the rare ease of simply being together.
Mal came to a standstill at the threshold.
The towering black wooden doors loomed before her, sealed shut in solemn silence.
No murmur, no whisper escaped from beyond their heavy frame.
These doors were rarely closed, only drawn tight in the evenings, when the royal family withdrew to share the quiet intimacy of their own company.
At all other times, they stood open, allowing the gentle passage of servants through the heart of the household.
Now, their closure sent a shiver along her spine. Her heartbeat quickened as she laid a hand against the cool, polished wood, breath catching. What, she wondered, awaited her on the other side?