Page 21 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

To join the Council, I must face a series of tests.

They never say what they’ll be, but we’ve all heard the rumours.

I’ve studied every kind of magic, history, and poison…

I’m ready for the first trial. I’m particularly drawn to the path of a healer.

They are held in high esteem among us, as not all witches possess such a gift.

I wouldn’t mind earning that place among my own—healing others, saving lives…

it sounds perfect to me. I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this.

For the moment I pass every test and they grant me a seat on the Council.

Tabitha Wysteria

Vera swept through the marble corridors of the drakonian castle with a purposeful stride, no longer cloaked in the disguise of a humble maid.

She no longer needed to conceal the truth of what she was.

Her purple eyes, once hidden in shadow, now gleamed openly beneath the torchlight, unmistakable in their power and defiance. A witch, unveiled at last.

She had walked these halls countless times before, but never like this. Never with such open disdain and sovereignty.

In the aftermath of the massacre, many drakonians had fled in desperation, slipping away under cloak of night.

Hagan had unleashed his forces to drag them back.

The city of Spark was his now, its throne room stained with fresh blood, its royal family toppled.

But Vera, unlike Hagan, understood that seizing a castle did not mean conquering a kingdom.

That subtle truth had evaded him, and he would not hear it, no matter how loudly it was spoken.

The grand doors of the throne room parted at her will, creaking open with an eerie groan.

She strode inside, her posture regal, her chin lifted in defiance, and her gaze unwavering as it landed upon Hagan sprawled across the throne as though he had been born upon it.

A golden goblet twirled between his fingers, filled with the wine of stolen feasts.

A young drakonian woman perched naked on the armrest beside him, her skin pale and shivering.

Not from cold, but from something far deeper: terror.

‘You might want to reconsider drinking that,’ Vera said flatly, her tone edged with contempt. ‘It could be poisoned.’

A glint of something dark passed through Hagan’s amethyst gaze, something cruel, wicked, and burning. ‘They could try,’ he said, his voice silk spun over steel. ‘But I imagine they understand well enough that one cannot poison a warlock. Nor a witch.’

His attention drifted away from her, settling instead on the quivering line of servants pressed against the stone walls.

Survivors, or what was left of them. After the bloodshed—the slaughter of nobles and guards, of courtiers who begged for mercy in the night—these few had been spared only to serve.

Hagan’s smile curled, vicious and amused. ‘Perhaps we might test your theory,’ he said idly, nodding towards a trembling young girl clutching a golden tray. ‘Come here.’

Vera recognised her instantly as the daughter of one of the High Ladies. She had once been regal, proud. Now she wept where she stood, her sobs muffled by her own desperation.

‘Hagan, I need to speak with you,’ Vera said, weariness lacing her tone. She watched as he ignored her, delighting instead in the girl’s misery. ‘I don’t have time for your theatrics.’

The girl was shoved forward by an unseen force. His magic, casual and cruel. He offered her the goblet, which she took with shaking hands.

‘Drink,’ he whispered, his voice low and gleeful.

The girl’s terror was so complete she lost control of her body, the wine trembling in her hands as she soiled herself. Hagan’s smile only grew wider.

‘Oh, for Hecate’s sake,’ Vera muttered, striding forward and snatching the goblet from the girl’s grasp. She threw back the wine in one go, barely flinching at the foul taste, then hurled the cup at Hagan with a sharp flick of her wrist. ‘Will you stop this nonsense?’

The girl stood rooted to the floor, paralysed. Vera frowned. This should have been the drakonian’s moment to flee, to vanish into the shadows. But she lingered, frozen in place. And though Vera knew she ought to feel something, she felt nothing at all.

Pity had long ago been carved from her heart.

She turned away from the girl who had once kicked her across the kitchen floor for dropping a fork, and left her to face whatever fate awaited. Vera had done more than enough.

‘We need to talk,’ Vera repeated coldly, her gaze returning to Hagan, who lounged across the drakonian throne like a serpent coiled around its prey. She deliberately ignored the naked girl draped over the throne’s arm, her fiery hair clenched between Hagan’s fingers like a trophy.

‘You cannot continue slaughtering innocent drakonians on a whim,’ she added.

‘Innocent? ’ Hagan hissed, his voice slithering through the chamber like smoke. ‘They are not innocent. We’ve lived our lives cowering in the shadows, hunted like beasts, because of them.’

His grip on the girl’s hair tightened. She winced but made no sound, save for a single tear that slipped down her cheek. Sensible creature, she knew better than to scream.

‘Beating an old man half to death or strangling some noble’s daughter in a hallway isn’t exactly heroic,’ Vera muttered, arms crossed. ‘You can’t claim to have conquered a kingdom if you leave no one alive in it to rule. And that was never the plan.’

‘Was it not?’ he asked, tilting his head. His voice had dropped to a silken murmur, always more dangerous than his rage.

Vera exhaled. Hagan’s moods were like storms: unpredictable, brief, and devastating. ‘We need to be strategic.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We need to burn this kingdom to ash. We need to slaughter every last drakonian. And when we’ve finished here, we’ll move on. One kingdom after the next, until there is nothing left but silence and soot.’

A strangled gasp tore the air. Vera’s eyes flicked sideways just as the servant girl standing beside the throne clawed at her throat, choking. Her feet lifted from the floor, suspended by an invisible force, Hagan’s magic curling around her like a noose.

Vera didn’t flinch. Part of her wanted to speak, to offer comfort. But she couldn’t summon the energy for it. Not now. Not for this.

‘Hagan,’ she said flatly.

He leaned forward with interest, watching the girl struggle for breath.

‘Hagan.’

There was a soft thud as the girl collapsed, lifeless, to the marble floor.

‘What?’ he snapped, irritation blooming like rot beneath his skin .

‘We’ve spoken about this.’ Vera’s voice dropped, tired now. ‘About blood magic.’

His gaze cut towards her, sharp and knowing. It was a look she had seen before, too many times. He hated being corrected. He loathed reminders of any limits to his power. But blood magic… blood magic was different. It was ancient, volatile, and it was already consuming him.

‘You know it’s forbidden, Hagan.’

‘That kind of magic put us here,’ he said, gesturing with outstretched arms to the throne room, the castle, the conquered city beyond.

Then, with a devilish smile, he yanked the drakonian girl sitting on the armrest into his lap, running his fingers over her skin.

‘You’re squeamish now, Vera. But I don’t recall you sobbing when you slit the queen’s throat. ’

‘That was different,’ she replied.

‘Oh?’ he purred. ‘Do enlighten me. How exactly?’

Vera bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to speak. She would not be drawn into his games. She knew how he twisted truths to serve his purpose.

Hagan’s grin widened. He had no need to speak further; her silence said everything. No matter how she tried to frame it, no matter what excuses she wove, she knew he was right.

Killing was killing.

And blood always stained, no matter whose hands spilt it.

The great doors to the Grand Hall creaked open with a groan that echoed off the marble walls.

Vera turned her head as her sister entered, the sound of footsteps far too familiar.

She did not look down at the lifeless body at her feet.

What would have been the point? The girl was dead.

A death Vera could have prevented. A death she had chosen not to stop.

She was as corrupted as Hagan. As hollow. As ruined.

Dawn swept into the chamber like a whisper of moonlight, all ethereal grace and quiet menace.

She was as striking and deadly as ever, her wild mane of white hair cascading in unruly waves about her slender frame.

Like Vera’s, it shimmered like winter frost, but where Vera’s hair hung in neat lines, Dawn’s was wild, untamed, like a ghost made flesh.

They could have been twins, their similarities unnerving: the same umber skin, the same purple eyes that marked them for what they were.

But where Vera’s features had grown sharp and wolfish over the years, carved by rebellion and fire, Dawn’s were softer, rounder and gentler, almost childlike.

Their mother used to say: Allegra was the wisest, Dawn the kindest, and Vera the…

Vera's thoughts fractured as her gaze met Dawn’s, and something unsaid passed between them. The flicker of fear. Of doubt. Something was wrong, more wrong than usual.

Hagan had slithered his way into the trust of their kind, gathering witches and warlocks beneath his banner like a storm sweeping through dry grass.

He had made himself their voice, their judge, their fury.

Vera had stood beside him, shield raised and blade drawn.

She had justified his decisions again and again.

But now…

‘We are ready,’ Dawn said simply, her voice void of emotion.

Vera moved to her swiftly, catching her wrist with a firm grip. Her fingers pressed in tight, the question unspoken in her eyes. What are we doing? Why are you letting this happen? But Dawn looked away, the way she always had when things became too real.

‘Where are you going?’ Vera asked, turning on Hagan as he rose from the throne and descended the dais with that insufferable smirk etched across his cruel features.

He didn’t answer at first. The drakonian girl followed behind him, her bare feet whispering across the marble floor, an invisible chain taut around her throat.

Vera’s stomach coiled.

‘Let’s go, Dawn,’ Hagan drawled, pausing beside Vera. His eyes drifted down to where Vera’s hand still clasped her sister’s wrist. The amusement in his face was unmistakable.

Vera let go.

He chuckled darkly, a sound that tasted of rot and fire.

‘We’ve got drakonians to kill,’ he said. ‘And a fucking city to burn.’

…

‘Vera.’

The voice broke the silence like a ripple across still water.

The castle had become a husk, emptied of its former grandeur, echoing now with only ghosts and distant screams. Hagan had taken most of the witches with him, off to wreak whatever chaos he believed would fulfil his purpose.

The drakonian servants had scattered like leaves in a storm, some likely hiding, others fleeing into the night.

Vera had left several doors ajar with a whisper of magic, a quiet kindness she pretended not to acknowledge.

Looking up from her place amidst the dusty archives of the late queen’s chambers, Vera was startled to find her sister, Allegra, framed in the doorway.

The scent of dried blood still lingered, no matter how often the room was scrubbed.

The queen’s body had been removed days ago, but the air had not forgotten.

Allegra stepped into the chamber, her eyes flitting over the disordered papers sprawled across the desk. She moved with the quiet authority of someone who had always known her place in the world.

‘We need to talk,’ she said plainly, her focus already sliding away from the documents. ‘It’s about Hagan.’

Vera’s shoulders tensed. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s becoming a problem.’

‘Becoming?’ Vera echoed, arching a brow.

Allegra’s sigh was soft but telling. For years, their people had followed Hagan without question, but Vera, Vera had never trusted him. Not truly. ‘Do you know what he’s doing right now?’

‘I’m not sure I want to.’ Vera rose from her seat and crossed the room to a cabinet, retrieving two glasses and an unopened bottle of syrupy drakonian wine. The stuff was foul, but it served its purpose. Back when she had posed as a maid, she’d never been allowed near it. One of many rules.

‘He’s out there,’ Allegra said, taking the offered glass and sitting down. ‘In the streets. With the witches. Burning everything to the ground. Killing anyone in his path. He says it’s what the drakonians did to us, with their dragons, a hundred years ago.’

‘He’s not wrong,’ Vera replied as she leaned against the edge of the table, taking a sip and wincing at the cloying sweetness.

‘That’s not the point,’ Allegra snapped. ‘This was never what we wanted. We swore to dismantle the Houses, not slaughter the people.’

‘I know.’

Allegra’s sharp look cut through the smoke-scented air. ‘Then what do we do, Vera? Because reasoning with him has become impossible.’

Vera was silent.

‘We may have to…’

‘Don’t.’ Vera raised her hand, stopping the thought before it could be voiced. ‘You know that isn’t an option. There must be another way. We don’t kill our own.’

‘This is different.’

‘We promised .’

Allegra shook her head, her expression a mixture of frustration and sorrow. ‘What we promised our mother no longer matters. Hagan is spiralling. His fury blinds him. If we let this continue, if we let him continue, there won’t be anything left to save.’

‘Not like that,’ Vera insisted. ‘We’ll find another way.’

Allegra rose, glass untouched. ‘Then do it quickly,’ she said. ‘Because if he were any other warlock, you’d have let me end him by now.’

Vera flinched, her jaw tightening. Allegra wasn’t wrong. But Hagan wasn’t just another warlock.

‘But he’s not, is he?’ Vera said. ‘He’s… what he is. And because of that…’

Allegra didn’t wait for her to finish. She turned and strode from the room, the heavy doors groaning as she slammed them shut behind her.

Vera stood motionless, the silence settling like ash around her.

She knew, had known for some time, that the tide was turning.

That Hagan’s reckless use of blood magic and his obsession with vengeance had begun to fracture their unity.

A time would come when she could no longer shield him, when even she would be forced to choose.

But not yet. Not while she still had breath enough to keep the promise.

She crossed the room to the window, her gaze falling upon the smoke coiling into the sky, the flames licking at rooftops. She could almost hear his laughter, low and cruel, reverberating through the stone.

Hagan knew. He knew of the promise.

And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Vera would never raise a hand against him.

Her very own brother .