Page 33 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

The Fae are beautiful, but their beauty is part of their magic. It serves as a distraction. For if you’re too entranced by them, you’ll fail to see the deception.

They are tricksters and, above all, terribly sore losers.

Tabitha Wysteria

Stepping into the throne room of Floridia felt less like entering a hall of rule and more like crossing the threshold into a living forest. Light filtered through latticed canopies of vines and blossoms, and the air carried the scent of damp bark and blooming petals.

The throne itself had been woven from thousands of interlaced branches—majestic, organic, and ancient—cradling King Florian as he sat, head tilted slightly, his amber eyes alight with quiet scrutiny.

As Wren began to speak, recounting the horror that had unfolded in the drakonian castle, she watched the king’s proud features contort, grief carving new hollows into his expression.

She didn’t dare meet the gaze of the two remaining Hawthorne daughters, who stood silent as gravestones to one side.

Their silence was suffocating, wrapping itself around Wren like a shroud.

Still, she pressed on, glancing at Freya, drawing a measure of strength from her quiet presence.

‘Da city of Spark has fallen to da witches,’ Wren said, her voice steady though her heart thundered.

‘And they will not stop there. They’ll stretch their reach further into drakonian land unless we rise to meet them.

All da kingdoms must rally. If not, they will come for da rest of us. No one is safe.’

The king did not acknowledge her warning. His voice, when it came, was low and firm. ‘And the bodies?’

Wren swallowed. ‘We couldn’t recover any of da fallen,’ she said quietly.

He turned to his daughters then, the weight of his sorrow thick in the air. ‘We must prepare rites of passage for them.’

‘King Florian…’ Wren stepped forward. ‘I know this is a time of mourning, and I am sorry. But da witches are plotting. If we do not stand together, they will consume us all.’

For the first time, the king truly looked at her, as though only just remembering she was there. His gaze was ancient, sorrowful, and distant.

‘Their deaths are an omen, Wren Wynter. A reckoning long overdue. What was done to the Kingdom of Magic cannot be undone. House of Power was decimated, every last one of them wiped out. The drakonians wielded the blades, yes. But the rest of us… we stood aside and let it happen. We closed our eyes. House of Wild, Snow, and Power were once united, long ago.’

Wren drew in a trembling breath. ‘Then let us stand united again.’

But King Florian shook his head, the vines around him rustling with the movement. ‘My daughters died for the sins of our past. I will not repeat them. Perhaps… perhaps it is time we let the witches return. So no, Wren Wynter. I will not send an army.’

Wren’s hands balled into fists at her sides. ‘Innocents will die,’ she said through gritted teeth. The implications were grave. If House of Wild chose to stay neutral, what would stop the other kingdoms from doing the same?

Freya’s hand came to rest gently on Wren’s shoulder, anchoring her in place before she could charge forward and scream her fury into the king’s face.

He was grieving. Wren reminded herself of that.

Patience was required. But somewhere deep within, she knew that she could sit in that chamber for a hundred years and it still wouldn’t soften King Florian’s resolve.

The Fae had no need to fear the witches.

Their ancient magic cloaked their kingdom like mist through leaves, hiding them from the world’s gaze.

Witches couldn’t infiltrate them, not with glamour, not with guile. The Fae would remain untouched.

‘Ya turned yer backs on da witches all those years ago, and ya let them die,’ Wren said, her voice trembling with fire. ‘Don’t do da same to us.’

For the briefest of heartbeats, she thought her words had struck true.

The king’s stern face slackened, and his ember-bright eyes shimmered with something gentler, something dangerously close to hope.

Wren exhaled, the tension easing from her spine.

Had she done it? Was this the first step towards unity, towards war and retribution wrapped in honour?

But the illusion shattered when the king began to shake his head, his lips whispering profanities like a spell unravelled.

‘I am sorry, Wren Wynter,’ he said, the light in his eyes extinguished. ‘I cannot endanger my people. The Fae have lived in peace for a century. I will not disrupt that balance. I will not fight the witches.’

Wren’s fury rose like a tide breaking against the rocks, impossible to contain. ‘They killed yer daughters! Are ya going to stand there and pretend it neva happened?’

King Florian didn’t flinch. ‘My daughters will be avenged, Wren Wynter,’ he said coldly. ‘But in my way, not yours.’

Wren’s brows furrowed. What did that mean? How did he intend to deliver justice without lifting his sword?

‘We will not ignite another Great War.’

‘It won’t be a war. It’ll be slaughter.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, ‘but drakonians deserve what is coming to them.’

Wren recoiled, the breath caught in her lungs. ‘It won’t stop with da drakonians. Ya know that. They’ll come for us all.’

The king looked to his daughters, sorrow hollowing his gaze. ‘Then perhaps… perhaps they should. Perhaps we should let them.’

Wren’s eyes widened with horror. ‘Ya can’t be serious. King Florian, please —’

Her voice cracked as Freya’s arms pulled her back, a whisper against her ear, ‘We need to go.’

But Wren was not done screaming. Her voice echoed through the throne room, charged with desperation and rage. The grief in the king’s eyes did nothing to still her tongue. Instead, it only fanned the fire in her belly.

‘Innocents will die!’

Freya dragged her gently from the chamber. Wren’s heart thundered as they turned to leave, tight with the sting of failure. One kingdom had fallen out of reach… How many more would turn their backs?

The throne room doors groaned open and there, waiting on the other side, stood Arden Briar. His green eyes burnt with fury, as sharp as blades drawn beneath moonlight.

…

‘You’re a princess?’

Wren tried, truly tried, not to flinch at the question, but the guilt bloomed hot beneath her skin. Arden’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was laced with something heavy and sharp that twisted in her stomach like a blade.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Becas ya hate royals,’ she said, barely meeting his gaze.

Her shoulders lifted in a feeble shrug, though her throat tightened.

Tears threatened to well in the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, swiping quickly at her face before they could fall.

She had failed. She’d had one task—to help, to bring unity, to fight for those without a voice and she had failed in every possible way.

And now, to make matters worse, Arden had uncovered the truth. She was no one’s wolf anymore. Just a girl with a title he loathed, and he was staring at her as though she had deceived him in the worst way.

‘I know ya hate me now,’ she said, voice cracking like frost underfoot. ‘But… I didn’t mean to lie.’ Her head dropped, heavy with shame and weariness. She couldn’t carry it all anymore.

‘Yes, you did.’ His words struck like a slap. His jaw clenched, eyes darkening as though he wanted to say more, but instead, turned. Without another word, Arden walked away, his footsteps vanishing into the corridor’s hush.

For a fleeting, fragile heartbeat, Wren hoped he might turn back. That he’d come running, laugh it off, say it didn’t matter, that she’d changed his mind. But as the silence stretched and he didn’t return, the truth grew cold and solid in her chest.

He wasn’t coming back. And it wasn’t okay.

Wren tried not to glance over her shoulder, but as she stepped into the lift, she couldn’t help it. One last look. One final hope. But the corridor behind her was empty.

‘Do not lose hope,’ Freya said softly as they descended, her voice a gentle balm to Wren’s spiralling thoughts.

They made their way back towards the twin wooden columns that marked the edge of Floridia, the enchanted threshold between safety and the unknown.

‘I will return home now,’ Freya continued.

‘To speak with my people. Valkyrians, wolverians, wyverians, together we may be enough. And there are still other kingdoms yet.’

‘Yer leaving?’ Wren asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice. It clung like dew to her words nonetheless. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, to travel with Freya, to soar to the skies and speak with the valkyrians face to face.

Freya sighed, the sound steeped in sympathy.

She placed both hands on Wren’s shoulders, steady and warm.

‘I’m afraid I cannot take you with me. No outsiders are permitted into the Kingdom of Air.

It is our oldest law. But you… you are stronger than you know, Wren. You’ll find your path. I believe that.’

Wren nodded, though belief had long since abandoned her. The hope that had once burnt in her chest like a wildfire had been reduced to dying embers in that throne room.

‘How will I find ya again?’ she asked, a whisper more than a plea. The thought of being left behind, truly alone, hollowed something deep inside her. She had no food, no clothes, and very little faith left in herself. But she would go on.

‘I’ll find you,’ Freya promised. ‘Be careful out there.’

Wren nodded again, hugging her arms around herself as she watched the valkyrian step between the carved wooden columns and vanish into shimmering nothingness.

And just like that, she was alone.