Page 61 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

I’ve heard dreadful things about what becomes of the orphans taken to become Black Lotus.

It’s hard to believe the Fae would allow such cruelty to be inflicted upon their own.

But over the years, I’ve come to learn that no kingdom is free from brutality.

We may see what is done to those boys, shaped into ruthless killers, as immoral.

And it is. But what the drakonians do to their women is just as vile.

The way witches and warlocks twist and corrupt everything, casting all others aside as inferior, is as troubling as the bloodshed the wyverians endure when their monarch dies and rival nobles vie for the throne.

I’ve learnt, through time, that we are all poisoned. Twisted. Vile.

We were created by poisonous, twisted, and vile gods.

What did we expect?

Tabitha Wysteria

Vera could hear the screams, raw cries of anguish that tore through the air, punctuated by the thunder of explosions and the sickening thrum of blood spilt in the name of vengeance.

She felt each death like a thread woven into her soul, stitching itself into her already bleeding heart. A cruel, relentless reminder.

This was her fault.

Allegra’s death was her fault.

She had taken refuge in the grand home of a wealthy drakonian family, one that had likely fled days before.

Their absence had become her sanctuary. She had claimed their velvet-lined comforts and delicate luxuries as her own, drinking their aged wine until it turned bitter in her stomach and she vomited across their pristine, tiled floor.

She had sat on the balcony and watched the city burn.

And she had not cared.

She cared for nothing now.

The house lay on the outskirts, far from the heart of the chaos.

The battle raged deeper in the city’s core, leaving this affluent district untouched, forgotten.

The streets here were lined with elegant homes and charming boutiques, all silenced by fear.

No one would bother her. No one would remember her.

Vera drifted back out onto the terrace, swearing softly at the oppressive heat.

She collapsed against the red stone ledge, throwing one arm over her eyes to shield them from the unrelenting sun, the other hand still curled around the neck of a half-empty bottle.

The sounds of war remained distant, almost muted, like a half-remembered dream.

The rest was stillness. Sweet, intoxicating stillness.

Until it wasn’t.

Her ears twitched at the faint creak of a door forced open. It wasn’t loud, whoever it was had tried for silence, but they weren’t especially skilled at it. Two voices followed, low and irritable, bickering over the noise.

‘There’s no one here,’ said one, dismissively.

Vera smiled, still unmoving.

Surprise, surprise, she thought, a humourless laugh threatening to rise.

‘We’ll lay low until we can make it into da temple,’ came the second voice. ‘From here we’ve got da perfect view of da city. If Hagan moves, we’ll see it.’

Vera froze .

That voice…so distinct and so utterly unique that it sliced through her haze like a knife. She would know it among thousands.

The arm shielding her eyes slid away. The bottle slipped from her grasp and shattered against the stone floor, its crash ringing out like thunder, shattering the silence into pieces. If they hadn’t known she was there before, they did now.

Vera watched as Wren Wynter stepped onto the terrace, her blue eyes widening in surprise.

And for a fleeting moment, just the briefest breath, Vera forgot the aching hollow in her chest left by Allegra’s absence.

For that single heartbeat, joy surged through her like a wave, eclipsing grief, sorrow, and rage.

But it didn’t last.

The Fae beside Wren lunged, swift as a striking viper, a hidden blade glinting in his hand as it arced towards Vera’s throat.

She moved instinctively, dodging to the side, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the floor and slashing it across his arm.

The cut drew blood, but it only fuelled his fury.

He came at her again, faster this time, so fast she could barely track him.

She had seen Fae fight before, and they weren’t known for their skill but for their illusions.

But this one… he was something else entirely. Stronger. Sharper. Unnervingly precise.

And Vera knew, almost at once, what he was.

Her fingers shimmered with a soft green glow as she summoned her power, preparing to strike.

‘What are ya doing?’ Wren shouted, throwing herself between them. The moment the Fae saw her, he faltered, just enough.

Vera seized the opportunity. She exhaled her magic in his direction, a whisper on her lips.

‘Glacio. ’

She watched with a glint of satisfaction as the spell took hold, freezing the Fae mid-motion like a statue of carved frost.

‘What have ya done?’ Wren rounded on her, anger flashing across a face Vera had once known as kind, so sweet and gentle all those months ago. ‘Unfreeze him right now, Vera!’

‘No. He’s dangerous.’

‘He’s not dangerous, Vera. He’s—’ Wren stumbled over the words, clearing her throat awkwardly. ‘He’s me friend.’

Vera gave a sharp, disbelieving snort. ‘Since when do you count a Black Lotus as a friend?’

Wren’s frown deepened. ‘Arden isn’t Black Lotus. Don’t be ridiculous. Stop trying to twist me head around. Why are ya even here?’

Vera tilted her head, studying the Fae with sharpened interest. It was plain to see that he had been lying to Wren, wearing a mask of half-truths and charm. Pretending to be something he was not.

Everyone, at some point in their lives, had heard whispers of the Black Lotus.

Cloaked in myth and fear, their name passed around tavern fires and palace corridors alike.

They were the elite killers of the Fae king: chosen by the king himself, plucked from their cradles and raised in silence and blood, moulded into the most lethal assassins probably across the Eight Kingdoms.

Debate always flared in quiet corners about which assassin was deadlier: a Dunayan or a Black Lotus.

The Dunayans, distant and wrapped in mystery, had for centuries confined their work to the southern kingdoms. Ghosts of the desert, almost mythical in their restraint.

Their presence in the north was rare, even before the Great War.

But the Black Lotus… they haunted the northern realms, and their reputation was steeped in dread. Masters of torment, they did not simply kill. They left messages behind. Terrible, un forgettable things designed to sow fear, to break the spirit as much as the body.

What set them apart from the Dunayans was not skill, but purpose. The Dunayans killed with deliberation, with judgement. They did not strike unless they deemed their target unworthy of life.

But the Black Lotus obeyed.

If the king commanded them to kill, they did so without hesitation.

Even if it meant slaughtering an entire household in the dead of night; mothers, fathers, children.

They would carry out the order with cold precision.

And when they were done, they would leave something behind.

A mark. A horror. A reminder to all who found it that the Black Lotus had passed through.

And would return again.

‘I’m not unfreezing him,’ Vera said as she strolled back into the house, her tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. She was already rummaging through the sideboard for another bottle of wine. ‘Why are you here?’

‘No, ya don’t get to ask me da questions,’ Wren snapped, voice sharp with frustration.

Vera shrugged, unconcerned. She hopped gracefully back onto the terrace ledge, biting the cork from the bottle with her teeth.

With a casual flick of her head, she spat it towards Arden’s face.

Though his body was frozen, Vera took no small satisfaction in the simmering fury still visible in his green eyes.

‘Fine,’ she said, bringing the bottle to her lips. ‘What do you want to know?’

Wren opened her mouth to reply, then faltered, words abandoning her for once.

It was almost comical. The ever-loquacious Wren Wynter, struck silent.

Vera raised an eyebrow. The princess of the Kingdom of Ice, usually a whirlwind of chatter even in the bleakest moments, was now unsure of what to say.

‘Well, look at you,’ Vera drawled, savouring the moment. ‘Didn’t think I’d live to see the day Wren Wynter was lost for words. Kage Blackburn must be thrilled.’ She tipped the bottle back, wine trickling messily down her throat. ‘How’s he doing, by the way?’

‘Alive,’ Wren said, her voice clipped. ‘No thanks to ya. We escaped da castle, though not all of us made it.’

‘That’s war, Wren,’ Vera replied with a sigh, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

‘Why? How can ya be all right with any of this?’ Wren’s voice cracked, rage and grief tangling in her throat. ‘Hagan… he broke Haven’s neck. Snapped it like a twig.’

Vera turned away, her expression unreadable. ‘What do you want from me, Wren?’

‘I want yer help,’ Wren said, her voice steady now, a steel edge buried beneath the sorrow.

Vera turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the wolverian princess through the blinding glare of the sun.

It forced her to squint as she lay sprawled on her back atop the ledge, resuming the pose she’d held before being so unceremoniously interrupted.

Every bone in her body ached to tell them to leave, to piss off and let her rot in silence.

She was mourning her sister. The rest of the world could burn, for all she cared.

But Hagan’s face kept breaking through the fog of her thoughts, unbidden and unrelenting.

‘My help for what?’ she asked, voice laced with feigned disinterest.

‘To stop Hagan. To stop this senseless war.’

‘War is never senseless, Wren,’ Vera said, her eyes fixed on the sky, voice heavy with something colder than grief.

‘It’s part of what we are. Carved into our bones, pulsing through our veins.

We’re territorial creatures, shackled to the past and too damn stubborn to learn from it.

So we fight. We carve each other open and dress it up as duty, as justice.

Those in power tell us it must be done, and we nod like fools because we need to believe it means something. ’

She paused, the bottle resting loosely in her hand. ‘We lie to ourselves, over and over, claiming all we want is peace. But the truth? The truth is that the hunger for blood never leaves us. The thirst for vengeance is always there, waiting.’

‘No,’ Wren said firmly, shaking her head.

‘I don’t agree with ya. I believe we can forgive.

We can heal. Not everything needs to be resolved by cutting each other down.

When does it end? We killed yer people, so now yer people will kill us, and then we’ll rise again to slaughter yers.

And so it goes on and on until there’s nothing left but ash.

No one left to even remember how da bloody thing began! ’

Vera had never seen Wren so undone. The fury radiating from her was palpable, seething within that small, defiant frame like a storm barely contained.

Vera half-expected her to erupt at any moment, to combust from the sheer force of rage simmering beneath her skin.

And what a sight that would be. Wren Wynter, wild-eyed and furious, screaming in Hagan’s face, proclaiming that blood needn’t be spilt, that forgiveness could still be found.

But it couldn’t.

Not anymore.

‘I know there’s good in ya, Vera.’

The words struck like a blade, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasped, startled by the sheer audacity of them. Good? She didn’t want goodness. She wanted to be monstrous, so fearsome that even Hagan would flinch at the sound of her name.

‘I’m rotten to the core,’ Vera said quietly, rising from her place on the ledge. ‘But I suppose that runs in the family.’ Her lips curled into something too bitter to be called a smile. ‘Very well, Wren Wynter. I’ll help you kill my brother. We’ll end this, once and for all.’

The revelation landed like a thunderclap. Wren recoiled, stunned, her mouth parting though no words followed. Vera watched the weight of realisation sink into Wren’s features, watched the understanding dawn in those wide, bewildered eyes.

Delicious.

Vera leapt from the ledge with fluid grace, brushing past Wren with a careless wave of her hand. ‘Did you not see the resemblance?’ she teased. ‘Clearly not. I was always the pretty one.’

Wren looked as though a thousand questions teetered on the edge of her tongue, but Vera silenced them with a flick of her wrist. Not now. Perhaps not ever. The past was a chasm she refused to peer into—too deep, too dark. Her grief was already dragging her low enough.

She came to a halt before the frozen Fae.

‘He won’t hurt ya,’ Wren said firmly, her voice threaded with conviction. There was something heartbreakingly sincere in it. Vera felt a pang of something. Pity, perhaps. Wren truly believed that.

Na?ve girl.

‘Well,’ Vera muttered, raising her hand and bracing herself. She could feel the power coil in her palm, green smoke blooming at her fingertips. No matter what Wren thought, Vera knew exactly what stood before her. And she knew better than to trust it. ‘Thank Hecate you’ve caught me in a good mood.’

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Wren said quickly, the worry crackling behind her voice.

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Vera rolled her eyes, then exhaled the green smoke in a smooth, deliberate breath. It wrapped around Arden like mist, melting the frost that bound him. ‘You really do know how to pick them, don’t you?’