Page 62 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

Never trust a witch.

Tabitha Wysteria

The moment Arden was released from his icy prison, he did precisely what Vera had anticipated.

Without hesitation, a hidden blade slipped from beneath his jacket, its edge slicing the air with a low, lethal hiss each time he moved.

He lunged with intent, steel flashing, and Vera dodged with impressive agility—graceful and sharp, like a dancer trained in violence.

She hadn’t even drawn on her magic yet, and still she kept pace.

The sight must have stunned Wren, watching the witch twist and evade without spell or shield.

But it couldn’t last.

Something shifted in Arden’s eyes, those beautiful, deceptive green eyes, and whatever restraint he’d been holding onto vanished. In that instant, he became exactly what Wren had insisted he was not.

A killer.

Vera cried out as the blade found her cheek, a hot line of pain blooming as blood spilt down her face.

She pressed her palm to the wound, fingers trembling as she tried to hold her skin together.

But Arden didn’t falter. He didn’t stop.

He advanced with terrifying calm, each strike deliberate. He wasn’t trying to end her quickly.

He was playing.

He had countless chances to kill her outright, but chose instead to let her feel the inevitability of death.

To let her bleed by inches. When she lifted her hand in defence, the blade carved through her palm as if it were paper, blood splattering across the stone beneath her feet.

The blade struck once more, directly into Vera’s side.

Wren had seen enough.

With a furious cry, she drew her own dagger and threw herself between them, shoving Vera out of harm’s way.

Her mind reeled. Why hadn’t Vera used her magic?

She was powerful, more than capable of defending herself.

But Wren didn’t have time to dwell on the answer.

Whatever Vera’s reasons, Wren would not stand idly by and let her be butchered.

The moment Arden realised who now stood in his path, he stopped.

‘Step aside,’ he said, voice low.

‘No.’

His eyes flashed with confusion, his grip tightening. ‘Why are you protecting her?’

‘Why are ya trying to kill her?’

‘Wren…’

She stilled at the sound of her name on his lips. He never called her that, not like this. There was something fragile in the way it fell from his tongue, like a secret let slip.

And in that breath of hesitation, everything shifted.

She knew, of course she knew, that he had been keeping truths from her.

Just as she had kept things from him. That was the world they lived in, fractured by history and haunted by silence.

After a century of secrets, of closed doors and shuttered hearts, trust was a rare and precious thing.

But Wren had tried. She had tried to open the door. She had hoped.

‘Is it true?’ Wren asked, her voice calm but taut, the knuckles around her dagger whitening with tension. She was ready for whatever came next. If she had to fight him, she would.

Arden said nothing. His vivid green eyes shifted from Wren to Vera, avoiding the wolverian’s gaze as though it might burn him.

‘Answer me, Arden Briar!’

‘It is.’

Two words. That was all. Yet they landed like a blade between her ribs, stealing not just her breath, but every inch of happiness that had once lived in her chest. She had known, of course she had, that he was hiding something, weaving his truths carefully the way only Fae knew how.

But never, not once, had she imagined this. That he could be that .

A Black Lotus.

The tales came flooding back in vivid, harrowing detail.

The whispers she had grown up hearing, warnings spoken in hushed tones: how the Black Lotus were bred for cruelty, for silence, for death.

How they obeyed without question. How they tortured.

How they killed even the most helpless—newborn babes, elders with one foot already in the grave.

Death was not a mercy when it came from their hands.

It was a slow, deliberate art. Sometimes lasting days. Weeks.

Wren stepped back, disgust rising in her throat as she spat onto the floor. ‘What ya told me…’

‘It was true,’ Arden replied softly. ‘In its own way.’

‘Ya said ya were a cook.’

He gave a careless shrug. ‘I’m a butcher. Just not the kind you imagined, Wren.’

Her brows furrowed. ‘And why are ya calling me Wren now?’

‘It’s easier,’ he said.

‘Easier?’ she echoed, incredulous. ‘What in da gods’ name is easier?’

Arden shook his head, that same impassive mask settling over his features once more. ‘Move aside. I was given orders.’

‘From yer king? Da one who turned his back when I begged for help?’ Her voice was rising now, thick with fury.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vera inching away, trying to disappear into the shadows.

Without even looking, Wren lashed out, kicking the witch in the leg.

Vera stumbled with a sharp cry of pain, falling to the side.

‘Don’t even think about it, Vera,’ Wren snapped. ‘We’ve things to discuss, ya and I. Sit.’

With a muttered curse and a bitter glare, Vera obeyed, slumping to the floor with her hand still pressed to the wound on her cheek, blood slipping between her fingers.

Wren turned back to Arden, lifting the tip of her dagger and pointing it squarely at his chest.

‘So I suppose it all makes sense now,’ Wren said quietly, sorrow softening her voice. ‘Why ya were so willing to follow me.’

She had dared to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps she had found someone who sought nothing more than quiet companionship. Someone who, like her, lived with solitude curled around their soul, who wanted to do good. To help. To matter.

‘It’s nothing personal, Wren,’ he replied with a casual shrug. ‘I was given orders.’

‘Stop saying that.’

‘What? The truth?’ He smiled then, sharp and effortless, like a blade sliding between ribs. ‘You always knew, somewhere deep down. You were just selfish enough to ignore it.’

Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His words cut, unflinchingly precise, like all his blades. It felt as though someone had reached into her chest and wrenched her heart in their fist.

But she wouldn’t break.

She was a wolverian. She had kingdoms to save, people to protect. She would not fall apart over him.

‘So that’s it?’ she asked, voice tight. ‘It was all a lie to ya?’

‘I am Fae,’ he said simply. ‘I cannot lie.’

‘Yer still not answering me question.’

‘Move aside, Wren.’

‘How could yer king possibly have known what had happened, to have already given da order to kill?’ Wren asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. ‘I arrived as quickly as I could. No one from yer kingdom survived da massacre at da castle. So how did yer king learn da truth?’

Arden said nothing. But Wren noticed the faintest twitch in the hand that held his blade—small, almost imperceptible, but telling. He wouldn’t answer. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t dare.

The pieces began to fall into place.

If, by the time Wren had reached the Kingdom of Fauna, King Florian already knew of his daughters’ deaths, if he had sent the Black Lotus into motion without hesitation, then he must have known the attack was coming.

Known before it happened. Which begged the question: why hadn’t he protected his daughters?

He couldn’t have known. Surely not. Or… perhaps he had. Perhaps he had assumed they would survive. That they would be sp ared. That their blood would not be among those spilt. Which meant only one thing.

He had made a deal with the witches.

‘He was working with them,’ Wren said, the words heavy on her tongue. Vera scoffed behind her, though whether in amusement or bitterness, it was hard to tell. ‘But why?’

‘Some do want us to return,’ Vera said. ‘Not everyone stands against us.’

‘And how exactly did King Florian help ya?’

Vera lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. ‘His daughters, and their servants, were Fae. They’d have sniffed us out easily. There were dozens of witches in that castle, cloaked in glamour. The Fae would’ve seen through it in a heartbeat. But they were told to look the other way.’

‘Then why are his daughters dead?’ Wren asked, voice low.

Vera shrugged again. ‘Never trust a witch.’

Silence settled between them, thick and uneasy, as Arden and Wren faced one another, locked in a silent battle neither seemed willing to end.

Just behind them, Vera coughed, her strength visibly waning.

Blood had soaked through her clothing, pooling beneath her like spilt ink, and Wren knew they were running out of time.

If they continued to waste precious seconds, there might not be enough of the witch left to save.

‘She is one of Hagan’s officials,’ Arden said at last, his voice low and flat. ‘My orders—’

‘I won’t let ya harm her, Arden.’ Wren’s voice was steel. ‘So da choice is yers. Ya can either return to yer king empty-handed… or ya can come with us.’

A shadow of confusion passed through his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath his ever-controlled expression.

‘Why do you protect her?’ he asked, almost as if he couldn’t comprehend it.

‘Becas I need her, Arden. To stop this madness.’

A rough cough interrupted them, drawing both their gazes to the bleeding witch slouched against the wall.

‘May I make a suggestion?’ Vera rasped, her voice sharp despite the blood staining her lips.

‘Yes,’ Wren said at once.

‘No,’ Arden countered through gritted teeth.

But Vera ignored him, her voice gaining strength through sheer force of will.

‘I can offer you something far more valuable than myself,’ she said, baring her blood-slick teeth in a crooked grin.

Wren fought not to recoil at the sight. They were wasting time, and Vera’s life was slipping through her fingers.

Arden didn’t move. His shoulders were still set, his stance coiled and ready, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. If he wanted to finish this, he would have to go through Wren first.

‘What?’ he asked, tone wary, eyes never leaving her.

The grin on Vera’s face widened, wicked and sharp. It should have tugged at the wound slashed across her cheek, but somehow, she didn’t even flinch.

‘I can give you Hagan,’ she said.