Page 32 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)
‘They’re with me,’ Arden announced, patting one of the Fae guards on the shoulder with a roguish familiarity. He threw a wink in Wren’s direction before stepping onto the bridge, which, though suspended at a dizzying height, remained utterly still.
Arden explained that Fae bridges were enchanted, held steady by ancient spells. Even if someone were to fall, whether by accident or design, they would land gently, cushioned by conjured leaves that would break their fall. Magic, he had said, protected them from untimely ends.
‘So I could’ve pushed ya off,’ Wren muttered, half to herself.
‘Whoa there, little wolf,’ Arden said, side-eyeing her with exaggerated caution. ‘You look far too thrilled by the idea of my untimely death.’
He was pulling that face again, the one that danced the line between mock outrage and concealed amusement.
‘It wouldn’t be murder,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Yer magic would’ve kept ya alive.’
‘Still mildly concerned about how easily you fantasise about violence against me.’
They passed through a small, curved building nestled around the tree’s trunk.
Some sort of servant’s station, cluttered with crates and bundles of supplies destined for the palace.
Beyond that, they stepped into the kitchens, warm and rich with the scent of simmering herbs and roasting roots.
Arden paused beside a row of steaming pots, inhaling deeply.
‘We ought to eat first,’ he said, dropping his satchel and handing the wild berries he’d foraged to one of the cooks.
‘We don’t have time,’ Freya said sharply, her tone clipped as she shot Wren a warning glance.
‘It won’t take long. The royal family aren’t going anywhere, are they?
’ Arden grinned, brushing aside a collection of jars and chopped vegetables to clear a wooden table.
He moved with the ease of someone who belonged there, selecting ingredients and bowls with a familiarity that suggested this was his true domain.
The kitchen had once been some manner of hallway, carved lovingly around the curving bark of the ancient tree.
At its heart stood a cluster of wooden tables, their surfaces scattered with pots, pans, and bowls overflowing with ripe, glistening fruit.
The outer wall was formed of tall open arches unglazed to the sky, inviting birds to flit freely in and out on feathered wings.
Vines crept along the wooden walls in tangled elegance, their blossoms unfurling like whispered secrets, while insects danced lazily between the petals, moving from one trailing tendril to the next.
‘Mushroom soup,’ Arden announced proudly a few minutes later, ladling the rich broth into bowls. ‘One of my finest. And, if I do say so myself, onion and bird pie.’
Wren moaned the moment she took a bite. Then again when she tried the pie. She didn’t even try to hide it.
Arden laughed under his breath. Freya, on the other hand, simply stood and wandered off to inspect the kitchens, visibly unimpressed.
‘Only you,’ Arden muttered, shaking his head, ‘could make eating sound like something out of a lover’s ballad.’
Wren froze mid-spoonful, cheeks flaming crimson. She looked up, caught in the green of his eyes. To her dismay, he was watching her intently, a quiet, unreadable smile on his lips.
He cleared his throat, breaking the moment. ‘So… why are you here?’
‘To speak with the royal family,’ Freya said briskly, lifting lids and peering into jars as though she had never been inside a kitchen before.
‘I gathered that,’ Arden replied, still watching Wren. ‘But why exactly?’
Wren gave a frantic shake of her head, trying to warn Freya off. But the valkyrian was too enthralled by her surroundings to take the hint.
‘We bring urgent news concerning all kingdoms,’ Freya said.
Arden blinked, clearly caught off guard. ‘From a valkyrian and a wolverian? That’s a rather odd pairing, don’t you think? I doubt the royal family would even grant you an audience.’
Freya turned sharply, her gaze cutting through him like a blade. ‘Of course they will. Wren is—’
‘Constipated!’ Wren blurted, springing to her feet. Both heads turned to her, puzzled. ‘I’m… slightly constipated. Been holding it in. We should go now.’ She tugged at her jacket, avoiding their eyes.
Freya frowned, Arden looked baffled, but neither questioned her further. Wren exhaled in relief. The truth would come soon enough, but not yet. Not here. Not to him.
With a tight nod, Arden gestured for them to follow, and together they left the kitchens behind.
They ascended to one of the grandest huts nestled high in the boughs.
An open, airy pavilion woven into the thick limbs of the sacred tree where the king and queen of Floridia often passed their days.
The guards, having been waved off with casual ease, allowed them through without question, and Wren followed Arden, who moved through the royal levels with the familiarity of someone who belonged.
It baffled her how someone who claimed to loathe the crown bore such freedom within its heart. He was, supposedly, just a cook. Shouldn’t he have been confined to the lower levels, far from where the monarchs held court?
Wren itched to ask, but bit her tongue. It wasn’t her place. Not now, not when it was thanks to him that they’d made it this far at all. And besides, she was too consumed by the nerves coiling tightly within her belly, worried that Arden might somehow discover what she truly was.
She barely took the time to marvel at the palace itself, though it deserved it.
The wooden walls were draped in living tapestries of vines and wild blossoms. Furniture carved from ancient timber gleamed with soft polish, and the palace breathed with life—birds resting on windowsills, rabbits perched boldly on benches nibbling on offerings left behind.
Floridia was unlike anywhere Wren had ever known, not just beautiful, but impossibly alive.
And the Fae—gods, the Fae. Just as she’d been told, they were a vision of untamed elegance.
Their skin ranged in deep shades that echoed the richness of their land, their eyes glowing like gemstones pulled from forest depths: moss-green, amber-gold, river-blue.
And atop every brow, antlers. Twisting, branching, growing in patterns as unique as their faces.
‘Well, I’ve brought you this far,’ Arden said, halting at a long corridor carved entirely from smooth, golden wood. Great archways opened into the canopy beyond, where more branches crept through like lazy serpents. ‘But I’ve no idea how you plan to get past those doors.’
Wren’s throat tightened. ‘Yes, yes… Don’t worry about that. Go back to da kitchens. We’ll find ya later.’
Her obvious nerves darkened the look in his green eyes.
His gaze lingered a moment too long, suspicion blooming across his features.
But he said nothing more. With a brief nod, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the soft golden haze of the corridor.
Only then did Wren release the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
Steeling herself, she stepped forward and addressed the guards flanking the great wooden doors.
‘State your name and business.’
Drawing her shoulders back, she inhaled deeply and exhaled slow, steadying the storm building within her chest. She was not here as a girl lost in the forest. She was here with purpose. To deliver death, and to beg for war.
‘Me name is Wren Wynter, of House of Snow, Kingdom of Ice,’ she said clearly, her voice echoing against the wood. ‘I request audience with King Florian Hawthorne regarding his three daughters.’