Page 67 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

It’s curious how every single kingdom has its own elite soldiers, trained from youth to serve and protect.

Witches and warlocks have none.

We are the soldiers.

Every one of us.

Born to be sacrificed.

Slaughtered.

All in the name of the greater good.

Tabitha Wysteria

‘Why didn’t she heal herself?’ Arden asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

They had carried Vera indoors, settling her carefully upon the worn bed, her breathing shallow but steady.

Wren, who had learnt to sew as a child and later to stitch skin as deftly as fabric, worked in silence.

Her mother had taught her that hands could shape more than clothing, they could mend flesh and save lives.

Wren had always preferred a needle soaked in blood over one dipped in thread.

‘Witches aren’t permitted to heal themselves,’ she said at last, her hands deft as she checked Vera’s condition for the hundredth time.

They had spent the night in the crumbling home, watching over the witch whose sleep had not yet broken.

Outside, the muffled cacophony of war still echoed—distant, but ever present.

Wren had done a fine job on Vera’s face, and if they managed to find a witch healer, there would be no scar to tell of the blade that had once torn it. ‘It’s one of their sacred laws.’

‘Why?’ Arden asked, brow furrowing as he leaned against the doorway.

‘Becas what would stop them then, hmm? From neva ageing, neva dying?’ Wren glanced over her shoulder at the Fae who trailed her like a second skin.

He was guarding her, or rather, guarding Vera.

As though Wren might pick up the unconscious witch and flee into the fire-ridden city.

A ridiculous notion. ‘Some witches defy da law, of course,’ she continued, dabbing sweat from Vera’s brow as the fever raged on, unrelenting.

‘They use blood magic. Dark, forbidden. Dangerous. But they do it nonetheless. Though most rely on healers trained for da task, witches devoted to that craft alone.’

Arden was silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable.

‘How do you know so much?’ he asked finally.

Wren didn’t care for the suspicion in his tone.

It wasn’t the Arden she had travelled with, not the one who had made her laugh when everything else in the world had felt like it was falling apart.

That Arden had spoken with warmth, his words feather-light, disarming.

But this version, this shadow of him, was all sharp edges and distance.

‘Believe it or not, Arden Briar,’ she said as she pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his with intent, ‘I read.’

‘Thought you didn’t like to,’ he said, and the fact that he remembered such a detail gave her pause.

But she didn’t let it show. She continued down the corridor into the cramped kitchen where she had spent the better part of the morning brewing remedies.

Without a word, she lifted the steaming bowl of water she’d prepared and handed it to him.

Arden accepted it with a look of mild astonishment.

‘Ya won’t be winning any prizes if she dies,’ Wren said dryly, nodding towards the room. She gathered towels and worn blankets from a nearby cupboard. ‘Stuff them in all da cracks I don’t want da heat escaping.’

They worked quickly, sealing the room as best they could with layers of cloth.

Then Wren kicked off her boots and climbed into the narrow bed, nestling Vera against her chest with the practiced care of someone used to holding more than just weight.

‘Set da bowl by her stomach,’ she instructed.

Once it was placed between their legs, she gently leaned Vera forward so she could inhale the rising warmth.

‘I need ya to rub this on her chest.’ She nodded towards a small jar of thick ointment, concocted from herbs she’d foraged from the overgrown gardens nearby.

Arden had seemed surprised when she’d left him alone with the unconscious witch earlier.

A part of her, shamefully, had expected to return to find Vera lifeless, Arden gone.

But when she stepped back into the house, arms full of greenery and fruit, the sight of him still sitting beside Vera, watching her as though she were an enemy, had struck something deep within her.

‘I’m not rubbing her chest,’ he said flatly.

Wren rolled her eyes. ‘So yer fine with killing, but draw da line at applying a bit of ointment to a fevered woman?’

His eyes darkened, but he said nothing. In silence, he took the jar from her, waiting as Wren unbuttoned Vera’s tunic. She half-expected him to flinch, to fumble, to look away. But instead, his hands moved with care, respectful and precise, never lingering, never wavering.

‘How did you learn all of this?’ Arden asked, his voice low as his fingers gently swept another layer of ointment across Vera’s fevered chest. Wren cradled the witch closer to the steam, allowing her to breathe in the healing heat.

‘Learn what?’

‘To stitch. To ease a fever. To…’ He didn’t finish the thought, but his eyes did. To save. To care.

‘My ma taught me,’ Wren replied, brushing a lock of hair from Vera’s brow.

‘Wolverians grow up learning everything we might need. It’s da only way to survive in our part of da world.

Da cold doesn’t forgive ignorance. We learn to hunt, to sew, to cook, to heal.

Even da littlest ones know how to snare a rabbit or set a bone. ’

‘Must’ve been nice,’ he said.

‘Which part?’

‘All of it.’ His hands stilled, betraying the slip of honesty in his voice. It seemed to surprise even him, that moment of softness.

Wren watched him for so long she almost forgot Vera still lay in her arms. ‘Ya said yer family were murdered by royals.’

‘I did.’

She waited, expecting more. But Arden, like always, kept his words locked behind his teeth. When he said nothing further, she let out a breath of quiet frustration. He noticed.

‘It’s for me to decide what I share,’ he said at last.

The words struck her like a blade slid between the ribs. She knew he was right, but it didn’t make the ache lessen. They had journeyed together. Shared laughter. A night. A moment that had felt like something more.

‘Did ya sleep with me as punishment?’ she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

His eyes snapped to hers, shocked wide. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again, no sound escaping.

Wren took some petty satisfaction in shaking a Black Lotus.

They were meant to be emotionless. Ghosts in flesh. And yet here he sat, unravelled.

‘Ya knew I was a princess. Ya had yer orders. Ya were using me.’ She forced the words past the lump forming in her throat. ‘So that night, was it yer way of punishing me for da blood in me veins?’

He froze. The air between them pulsed with something that might have been regret, or fury. Slowly, he placed the ointment on the bedside table, his jaw tight with unspoken thoughts. His voice, when it came, was quiet enough to barely reach her.

‘She’s alive,’ he said, nodding at Vera. ‘Because of you.’

And with that, he turned and left the room, vanishing into the shadows.

Wren was left in the half-darkness, clutching Vera against her chest, the weight of Arden’s departure heavier than the silence he left behind. She stared at the door for a long while, wondering if he had answered her question after all.

Perhaps he had.

…

‘How long do ya think it will last?’ Wren asked, her voice a murmur beneath the hush of twilight.

Night had folded itself over Fireheart, cloaking the war-torn city in shadows and sorrow.

Arden stood at the stone balustrade, a dark silhouette against the dying embers of day, his expression unreadable.

‘Until one side surrenders,’ he replied, his focus unmoving, fixed on the flickering skyline.

Wren drifted to his side, her shoulder nearly brushing his. Somewhere in the distance, the screams continued. Faint now, like echoes of ghosts who had not yet realised they were dead. For the first time in days, Fireheart had fallen into an eerie lull. A fragile, fractured peace.

She wondered where her brother Bryn was with his stubborn frown and weary eyes. Perhaps he was finally breaking bread with Kage. Perhaps they'd survived each other. Perhaps Kage had found a way out of the darkness that threatened to drown him.

‘You and I,’ Arden said, quietly, ‘we’re not the same.’

Wren tilted her head, eyes falling to his hand. So close, so still. Without hesitation, she reached out and caught it, grinning at the surprise that cracked through his stoic mask.

‘For a Black Lotus,’ she teased, ‘yer rather terrible at hiding yer expressions.’ She laced her fingers through his, holding their hands up between them. ‘Don’t look all that different to me.’

Arden stared at their joined hands, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards in the gentlest of smiles. So rare, so fleeting, Wren felt as if the breath had been knocked from her chest.

‘Well, yer hand is much bigger than mine,’ she went on, unable to stop. ‘And me fingers are definitely shorter—’

‘Wren,’ he said.

‘Yer thumb’s a bit crooked, too.’

‘Wren.’

His lips met hers—soft, unexpected, and impossibly warm. The kiss was barely there, a whisper against her mouth, yet it left her reeling. His scent curled around her like a promise—woodsmoke, rain-soaked leaves, the wildness of some forgotten forest. She could have stayed wrapped in it forever.

When he pulled away, his voice was quieter than the wind. ‘We’re not the same.’

‘Becas yer Fae and I’m a wolverian?’ she asked, breathless.

He nodded.

‘And because I’m Black Lotus, and you… you’re a princess.’ His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. ‘I was made to be a monster.’

She took a step back, the cold rushing in where his touch had been. ‘Why do ya do that?’ she whispered.

‘Do what?’