Page 46 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)
A silence so profound it pressed upon Vera’s bones stretched across the square, unsettling her more with each passing breath.
Her foot tapped an erratic rhythm against the cobblestones, betraying the unrest beneath her cool exterior.
What had he expected, cheers? Applause? That the drakonians would spill from their homes in gratitude, hailing him as a hero for levelling an entire city, for turning it to soot and silence?
‘This land will never be yours!’ a voice rang out, defiant and sharp as a sword unsheathed.
Vera turned swiftly, searching for the source of the cry. Hagan signalled to the witches nearest him, a flick of his hand commanding obedience. Within moments, warlocks and witches dissipated into the side streets, trails of green smoke curling behind them like the tails of hunting hounds.
Vera waited, unmoving, letting the square breathe with her—slow, shallow, braced.
Her boots seemed to root into the stone beneath her, as if the earth itself were holding her still.
A glance met Hagan’s across the distance, and in that beat of connection, entire conversations passed in silence. A shared understanding, sharp as flint.
One of the warlocks soon reappeared, dragging behind him a bent figure, an elderly drakonian whose gait was slow and laboured, his horns dulled by age.
When released at the base of the temple steps, he collapsed forward, frail hands breaking his fall.
Vera cocked her head, her focus steady on Hagan, curious to see what venom he would spit next.
The warlock descended the steps and circled the old man, sniffing the air like a beast testing the wind. Then he chuckled, low and cruel. ‘Say it again, old man.’
The drakonian raised his head. Not in defiance, but in quiet dignity. ‘You can burn our homes to ash. You can kill us, if that is what you wish. But this land will never be yours.’
A feral, twisted glint flared in Hagan’s eyes. His face contorted, lips curling as rage surged behind his gaze. Truth, it seemed, was a blade he had never learnt to bear, especially not from someone three times his age, someone who had lived through fire and storm.
The drakonians had begun to emerge, drifting from the safety of their homes, drawn by the inevitable. Vera noticed their faces, grim and watchful. Among them, she glimpsed flashes of crimson. Red Guard. Her lips curved.
‘Do you think someone’s coming to save you?’ Hagan asked darkly, seizing the elder’s thinning hair and forcing his head up. But the old man did not resist.
‘I’m old,’ he whispered, weary. ‘I’ve lived my time. Do what you must, but spare the others. I beg you.’
‘Did the drakonians who scorched my homeland listen to the witches’ pleas?’ Hagan snarled, spittle flying from his lips, his grip tightening.
Vera’s focus drifted away from him, tracking the slow approach of the drakonian guard, the quiet formation gathering strength like a storm on the edge of a battlefield. She licked her thumb and bit it idly, her smirk growing. Whatever show Hagan had planned, it would soon be interrupted.
Releasing the old man, Hagan lifted his arms skyward once more, a self-fashioned saviour delivering his sermon to the ashes. Vera rolled her eyes, watching him play his part in the grand theatre of conquest.
At the foot of the steps, the old drakonian lay slumped, his wide eyes filled not with fear for himself, but for what was to come. For his people. For the fire yet to fall.
The floating crate that had hovered dutifully at Hagan’s side at last creaked open.
Vera edged forward instinctively, though every fibre of her body warned her to retreat.
Around her, the square drew breath as one, the witches craning their necks with anticipation, the drakonians holding themselves taut as bowstrings, eyes wide with dread.
All of them drawn in, helpless against their own morbid curiosity.
No. Not curiosity. Dread.
The square had become too tightly packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, tension, and smoke.
Vera cursed under her breath. She needed to fall back, find higher ground in case everything turned, when it turned.
But something compelled her to remain, rooted in place by a hunger to see what he would unveil.
Hagan cast one final glance down at the old man, who still lay slumped at the foot of the steps like a sacrificial offering.
For the briefest of moments, Vera wondered if he’d spare the elder.
His indifference to the man’s life struck her as strange.
Hagan rarely missed a chance to make a spectacle of death.
‘I am now your king,’ he announced, his voice slicing through the heavy air.
The drakonians roared back with fury, their protests rising like fire meeting oil. Curses echoed off the stone walls, but Hagan merely laughed. A deep, delighted sound that reverberated through the square like the toll of a war drum.
Then he turned to the crate, reached inside, and withdrew his prize.
He raised his arms high, a gruesome trophy in each hand.
And the world broke open.
Gasps turned to screams. The square erupted. Vera swore aloud, her eyes locking on the horror before her.
Held aloft in each of Hagan’s blood-slicked fists were the severed heads of King Egan and Queen Cyra, the sovereigns of the Kingdom of Fire. Their lifeless eyes stared into the crowd, mouths frozen mid-breath, their crowns replaced by a silence stripped of glory, falling like ash.
And just like that, the world screamed.