Page 24 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

We so often forget that just because a group is labelled good or evil, it doesn’t mean every individual within it is the same. There is darkness in the good, and goodness in the bad.

Tabitha Wysteria

Bryn Wynter could no longer recall which day it was when Kage Blackburn finally left the door ajar.

But each evening, he would sit outside it with a bowl of stew or a hunk of bread in hand, sharing his supper beside the silent threshold.

He never questioned what the wyverian did with the rest of his days, never asked how he spent the long hours between dusk and dawn. Some silences were sacred.

In those quiet twilight moments, Bryn would talk, usually recounting tales from his youth, most involving Wren and the mischief she had dragged him into time and again.

Occasionally, his younger sisters joined him, curling against the cold stone walls with wide eyes and eager hearts, not so much for companionship, Bryn suspected, but because they loved a good story and wanted to memorise them for their own retelling later.

He allowed them their chatter, watched as they filled the corridor with their laughter and mischief, and often wondered if Kage was silently cursing them on the other side of the door.

But the prince never said a word. The door remained always slightly open.

As Bryn had predicted, his sisters soon grew bored and stopped coming after two days of storytime.

Yet Eirwen had appeared, drawn by curiosity to see what the quiet fuss had been about.

He was slight and wiry, the kind of fragile that made older brothers worry.

Eirwen had lost his twin sister on the very night they were born, during the choosing ceremony, left outside beneath the stars, as was tradition, awaiting a wolf to claim them.

Only one had been chosen. The other had not survived.

And those left behind often carried the shadow of their twin’s absence in their bones.

‘Why is he hiding?’ Eirwen asked, climbing into Bryn’s lap to avoid the chill of the floor.

‘He’s not hiding,’ Bryn replied, his voice hushed, careful not to disturb the silence beyond the door. ‘He’s mourning.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means he’s sad. His sista died.’

Eirwen’s pale blue eyes rounded, recognising the shape of that sorrow. ‘But why’s he in there?’

Bryn shrugged slightly. ‘Some folk need to be alone to feel their grief.’

The boy glanced towards the narrow crack in the door, his gaze filled with quiet intrigue. They sat in a companionable hush after that, listening to the low crackling of a nearby hearth.

Eirwen’s hair brushed his shoulders, unruly and in need of a trim.

Yet he refused the blade every time, determined to let it grow until his thirteenth birthday, when boys were declared men and allowed to wear their braids.

Braids were a mark of pride among wolverians: the longer and more intricate, the fiercer the man.

Their father once spent two entire days having his hair woven with silver threads and carved wooden beads for the blót—the sacrificial rites to appease the gods and beg for a year free from famine and plague.

Yet the gods had remained silent. Each passing year, the sacrifices grew bloodier, more desperate, but the hunger never left.

‘Me sista died too,’ Eirwen said suddenly, directing his voice to the crack in the door.

His words yanked Bryn from his thoughts.

‘That’s why me name is Eirwen. It was meant for her.

If ya stay in there, da sadness won’t go, ya know.

Mine went away becas I had me brotha and sistas.

It’s a bit like being lonely, isn’t it? Ya feel all alone without her.

But staying in there won’t help. Ya will just be lonelier.

We will help ya. We can be yer family if ya want.

We will make ya feel just a bit less lonely, won’t we, Bryn?

’ He turned and looked up at the wolverian prince.

Bryn smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from the boy’s face.

‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘Yes, we will.’

For a moment, the door remained still, unmoving, as if weighed down by years of grief. But then, without warning, the door creaked wider.

And Kage Blackburn stepped out.

…

Bryn did his utmost not to glance at Kage Blackburn every few heartbeats as they strode into the heart of the castle.

The great hall opened up before them, vast yet modest, its grey stone walls softened by time and the warmth of memory.

A long wooden table stretched across the room like the spine of the keep, its surface scarred by decades of use, the chairs draped in furs to ward off the eternal chill.

At its centre roared a chimney fire, its flame a sentinel of comfort.

In times of hardship, they had all slept here together, huddled close for warmth, whispering prayers to silent gods.

Kage held his head high, every inch the wyverian prince.

Yet those dark, infernal eyes moved languidly across the hall, drifting over every surface with a predator's ease. His expression was unreadable, carved from marble and shadows, betraying no ounce of thought or feeling. Bryn couldn’t help but wonder what the prince made of their humble abode—stone-grey walls and hand-carved furniture, lovingly built or bartered for from nearby villages.

They possessed little, but gave what they could.

They settled near the hearth, where the heat kissed their skin and the firelight danced across their faces.

Though Kage had spent countless days locked away in a cramped room with little sustenance, he bore no signs of frailty.

Instead, he resembled someone roused from a sleep far too deep, eyes rimmed red, shadows beneath them like bruises of dreams too heavy to forget.

His long, slender fingers drummed rhythmically against the table, filling the silence as they waited for one of the servants to bring something to drink.

Kage brought the tankard to his nose the moment it was set before him. He inhaled slowly. ‘Icebroth, is it?’

Bryn downed his own with eager familiarity, the cold liquid searing a path down his throat.

‘And where might your father be? King Fannar?’ Kage asked, his voice as smooth and neutral as ever, never shifting tone.

‘He’s travelling between da nearby villages,’ Bryn replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘And you are...?’

‘Here.’

‘Tending to your siblings,’ Kage observed. His tone did not waver, nor did he mock, but Bryn heard the quiet implication. Bryn the keeper. The minder.

‘Looking after ya, more like,’ he shot back coolly.

Kage stilled, the tankard halfway to his lips. For a breath, he didn’t move. Then he took a cautious sip, considered the taste, and offered the faintest nod of approval. ‘Yes, well... I’ve been unwell.’ His gaze roamed the hall as if seeking an escape. ‘Where is Wren?’

‘Gone.’

Something shifted behind Kage’s dark eyes. A ripple of fear, chased by something far less certain. He surged to his feet, nearly toppling the chair behind him. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

Bryn merely shrugged, casual in the face of Kage’s building storm.

‘You mean to tell me you’ve no idea...?’ Kage’s hands tightened into fists at his sides.

‘Off doing Wren things,’ Bryn murmured, unbothered.

‘Off where, exactly?’

‘Why do ya care to know?’

Before Kage could formulate a reply, the great doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls with a thunderous crack.

A figure rushed in, breathless and coated in frost. Bryn recognised him immediately.

Bernard, one of the carpenters from the village near the northern wood.

The lad trembled beneath his heavy furs, snow clinging to his hair like ash.

He rushed to the fire’s embrace, but his wide, frightened eyes found Bryn, and then darted to Kage, standing tall and unmoving like some shadow-clad sentinel.

‘What is it, Bernard?’ Bryn asked, rising from his chair.

‘Warlock!’ the man cried, voice sharp with terror. ‘They’ve found one, sire!’

Bryn and Kage exchanged a glance laced with unease before swiftly following Bernard out of the castle, pausing only to shrug on heavy fur cloaks.

The moment they stepped beyond the stone threshold, a vicious gust of icy wind struck them.

Kage halted, his jaw tightening against the sudden bite of cold.

‘Takes a while,’ Bryn said, giving him a nudge. ‘But truth be told, ya never truly get used to it.’

‘Delightful,’ Kage muttered through gritted teeth, plumes of breath curling into the wintry air.

They pressed on. The castle, perched on a hill and surrounded by naught but snow-drowned woodland, loomed behind them.

The village lay not far beyond, though the snowdrifts made the journey arduous.

Even for a seasoned warrior, Kage was no match for the depth of the frost. He moved with effort, his usual stealth lost to the thick, clinging snow.

By the time they arrived at the heart of the village, a murmuring crowd had gathered in the central square.

A boy, barely more than a youth, was restrained by two burly men. His blue eyes were wild with panic, his screams cutting through the hush of snowfall. Beside him, a girl—likely his sister—argued heatedly with a man Bryn loathed with every fibre of his being.

Commander Caldwell. The king’s most loyal hound.

A wolverian of rigid beliefs, sharp edges, and an unrelenting thirst for punishment.

Where Bryn had always admired his people for placing others before themselves, Caldwell was the rare exception, a man who thought of no one but his own narrow ideals.

The villagers parted as Bryn stepped forward, bowing their heads in deference, until their eyes caught sight of the figure at his side .

Gasps rippled through the square like a wave.

Kage Blackburn.