Page 58 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

I have never witnessed anything quite like the Sand Trials.

I thought my own were harsh, brutal even.

But this… this is something else entirely.

Tabitha Wysteria

Since their arrival, the desert folk had been preparing for the funeral of their princess.

Alina had not known what to expect, but certainly not this.

Not a celebration filled with raucous music and joyous laughter where people danced barefoot in the sand and flung white roses into the air like blessings.

They kissed one another’s cheeks and poured drinks with generous hands, repeating the same mysterious phrase again and again.

Yet for the life of her, Alina couldn’t decipher its meaning.

Hessa had spent the entire morning cloistered with the king, deep in discussion about desert affairs, and had since busied herself with the Dunayans.

Alina, left to quieter tasks, had helped prepare the roses by plucking their petals one by one and filling vast baskets with their soft, pale offerings.

Still, her gaze wandered often, seeking Hessa in the crowd.

Though the people treated her with kindness, she could not help but feel the distance, the subtle strangeness of being other.

Foreign. And visibly so. She had veiled her head once more, concealing the remnants of her broken horns, fearful of the stares she might draw should she leave them bare.

Hessa had said nothing, but Alina felt the silence linger like a quiet reprimand.

She had disappointed her. Of that, she was certain.

But it wasn’t so simple. Not when Hessa, radiant and flawless, could stride through the world untouched by doubt. Of course she had the courage to bare herself without shame. What flaw did she have to hide?

Alina, on the other hand…

The Dunayans emerged in silence, robed figures gliding through the interior of the mountain like shadows made flesh.

Their heads and faces were veiled, their steps measured and solemn.

Behind them came the renowned Saqar, their approach slow and deliberate, like a sacred procession honouring something ancient and eternal.

Alina recognised Hessa’s mother instantly.

There was no mistaking her. The most opulently adorned among them, draped in robes so intricate they seemed to shimmer with hidden meaning, her body heavy with jewellery wrought from pale desert stones, and her face inscribed with ink.

It was said that the Altaa Saqardatis bore ink on every inch of her flesh, even the soles of her feet, each line a verse from their divine scripture.

Words gifted, they claimed, by the gods themselves.

Alina found such tales difficult to believe, yet she would never dare voice her doubts aloud. It remained a mystery to her how Hessa could truly believe in the existence of many gods. After all she herself had endured, Alina sometimes found it difficult to believe there was even one.

But her thoughts splintered the moment she saw Hessa.

All memory of the Saqar evaporated. Her breath caught in her throat .

Gone was the simple garb of the desert. In its place, Hessa now wore the armour of a warrior: supple leather wound tightly about her arms, waist, and shoulders, both protective and striking.

Desert-forged daggers hung at her hips and across her back, deadly ornaments gleaming in the dim light.

Her head and face were veiled like the others, but Alina could never mistake her.

Not even if the whole world wore the same white eyes.

Hessa looked every inch the desert assassin she was.

The moment their eyes met, Alina’s breath faltered, caught on the edge of a beauty she had always known, yet never truly grasped.

There was something unspoken in Hessa’s gaze, an unwavering certainty that cut through the ceremony and spectacle.

Without pause, she broke from the solemn procession, moving towards Alina with purposeful grace.

She did not flinch at the murmurs that followed.

She did not seem to care for the glances cast like stones.

She simply reached for Alina’s hand and laced their fingers together for all to see, leading her back into the throng as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Without so much as a glance back, Hessa guided Alina to the very peak of the mountain, following the winding path behind the line of the Saqar.

Alina’s focus drifted to the Altaa Saqardatis, who ascended slowly and with some difficulty, her towering robes and weighty veils billowing around her like a stormcloud.

She walked with dignity, but it was clear her ceremonial regalia made each step an effort.

Hessa must have noticed Alina’s observation, for she leaned in, her voice low and soft against the mountain wind.

‘No one is permitted to touch the Altaa Saqardatis. It’s forbidden,’ she explained. ‘Only the gods may lay hands upon her. The ink isn’t just scripture, it’s proof. Proof that no mortal has ever touched her flesh after becoming the Altaa Saqardatis. ’

Alina’s eyes widened in wonder, and Hessa chuckled.

‘They say that a thousand years ago, a god fell in love with a desert girl who would become Saqar. He inked her from head to toe, so that only his divine hands could touch her in the night, when he came down from the stars to claim her.’

‘A bit possessive, don’t you think?’

Hessa laughed, the sound warm and effortless. ‘Some say the gods can make mortals fall to their knees for them.’

Alina snorted. ‘I’d like to see one try.’

Because no matter what the desert people believed, no matter how many names they gave to the stars and sands, there was only one true god in Alina’s heart. The Sun God.

‘Qa yaar qamh valva sahraa,’ Hessa whispered, her voice barely rising above the whispering wind, as she plucked a single white petal from one of the many baskets the servants had carried up the mountain. She cast it into the air, watching as it danced away on the desert breeze, weightless and free.

‘What does it mean?’ Alina asked softly, her own voice fragile in the stillness.

‘May your grain return to the desert.’ Hessa reached for three more petals and placed them gently in Alina’s palm. ‘For those you have lost, amira. So they may return home, too.’

Alina tried to blink back the sting behind her eyes, but the emotion was too sharp, too immediate.

Her fingers closed around the delicate petals.

One for her father, one for her mother and one for her brother.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks at the quiet grace of Hessa’s gesture, her thoughtfulness in making space for Alina within a tradition not her own.

She turned from the crowd and released her parents’ petals into the wind, watching as the white fragments tumbled upward, carried into a sky that had turned a muted, smoky brown.

The wind was growing stronger by the minute, as though it too mourned and remembered.

She couldn’t help but wonder where the roses came from, who planted them in this harsh, unforgiving land.

But in the desert, Alina had learnt, nothing was impossible.

Her hand remained curled around the final petal, unable and unwilling to let it go. Her love for her brother was a bond unbreakable, untouched by death or time. Together, they had shielded one another in a world eager to break them. Even their own parents, at times, had been enemies in disguise.

Alina knew, with a clarity that rang deep within her bones, that wherever Ash was now, he would be proud of the woman she had become.

‘How do you say fire?’ she asked quietly.

‘Nar,’ Hessa replied.

‘And sun?’

A knowing smile played across Hessa’s lips, her pale eyes gleaming with understanding. ‘Suna.’

Alina offered a silent nod of gratitude, then turned and slipped away from the crowd.

She needed solitude for this farewell, needed space for a grief that would never truly leave her.

As she walked, she could feel the weight of Hessa’s gaze lingering at her back, those piercing white eyes that missed nothing.

But Alina knew the desert princess understood. This goodbye belonged to her alone.

The summit of the mountain was a marvel in itself.

A wide, flat expanse carved by time and wind, repurposed by the desert folk with quiet ingenuity.

It had been carefully divided for various tasks: makeshift tents served as storerooms for tools and equipment used in the tending of vegetable patches, while others provided shelter for the Dunayans who took turns keeping vigil over the horizon, ever watchful for signs of trouble.

But the true beauty of this place did not lie in its structures or possessions. Alina had come to learn that, among the desert folk, beauty was not measured in things, but in fleeting moments. In the warmth of a shared laugh, the gentleness of a touch, the stillness between heartbeats.

And in that very moment, Alina could see it, feel it, everywhere around her.

Not in the golden dunes that stretched endlessly beyond sight, nor in the breeze that skimmed across the mountaintop, humming its own quiet song.

Not even in the hundreds of white petals drifting like prayers through the copper-tinged sky.

No. The beauty was in the faces of the people. In their smiles, radiant and sincere, as they laughed and wept in the same breath. In the way they said farewell to someone they had loved deeply, with voices lifted in hope and reverence, believing that this was not the end, but a beginning.

For they did not fear death. They did not believe in endings. To them, life was a cycle, a return. Each soul a grain, falling once more into the embrace of the desert, waiting to be reborn as something new. Something greater.

And Ash… Ash was fire.