Page 93 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

I want to be strong.

Above all else, I want to be good.

But I don’t know if I can be both.

Tabitha Wysteria

Wren, Arden, and Vera had spent the past few days carving a path through the chaos that was Fireheart.

The city had become a twisted, broken, and increasingly treacherous battlefield.

Navigating from one district to another was a feat in itself, every street a labyrinth of danger.

Hagan had established his command at the ancient temple in the town square, turning the surrounding area into a fortress laced with traps and dark enchantments.

Those who had tried to breach it never returned.

‘We’re not getting anywhere near that temple,’ Vera said, sprawled across the velvet settee of an opulent parlour in a home they had broken into mere hours ago.

The house reeked of forgotten wealth—crystal decanters, untouched books, and gold-framed portraits of long-dead drakonians.

Arden leaned against the dark green wall, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the witch with the kind of cold intent a hunter reserves for prey too foolish to sense the danger.

‘Wren, will you kindly tell your pixie friend to stop glaring daggers at me?’

‘I’m not a pixie,’ came Arden’s indignant reply.

‘What’s a pixie?’ Wren asked, frowning.

Vera’s smile curled with mischief. ‘A pixie,’ she said sweetly, ‘is what Fae males have dangling between their legs.’ She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. ‘Tell me, does yours have teeth?’

Arden moved, but Wren stepped in, halting him with a look.

Vera tilted her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she observed the silent exchange between the wolverian and the Fae.

How fascinating. She hadn’t realised the depth of whatever existed between them.

Perhaps they hadn’t, either. But it was unmistakable now, clear as moonlight on still water.

The Fae watched Wren with all the aching reverence of a soul parched for affection.

A Black Lotus, one of the most feared assassins in the realms, staring at the wolverian princess as if she were the final drop of water and he were lost in the heart of the desert, desperate and dying of thirst.

She had always wondered if Black Lotus could feel . She’d heard stories, countless and grim, tales of cruelty and unflinching coldness. Lust, yes. They were surely capable of that. But what shimmered in his eyes wasn’t lust.

It was longing.

‘You said you’d get me Hagan,’ Arden said, his voice as sharp as the glint in his eyes when turned on the witch. Vera found it endlessly amusing how those same eyes, when resting on Wren, softened by degrees, losing their edge but none of their intensity.

Vera reclined on the golden-and-green sofa, swinging her feet up to rest on the polished coffee table. ‘That I did. I never specified when , though.’

Arden’s nostrils flared with barely contained frustration .

‘Believe me, I want him dead as much as you do.’ Vera lifted both hands in a mock gesture of surrender. ‘But charging the temple would be suicide. We need a proper plan.’

‘Then think of one,’ Arden snapped, turning on his heel and storming from the room.

Wren watched him go with a sigh, then crossed the room and sank beside Vera, dropping into the plush seat with a muttered grumble.

‘He’s got a bit of an attitude.’

‘Yer no help, Vera.’

The witch snorted, letting her head fall back against the sofa.

She stared at the ceiling above. A simple, unadorned stretch of stone that seemed oddly out of place compared to the extravagance of the rest of the room.

Drakonians and their obsession with gaudy decor and gilded furnishings.

For all its opulence, the sofa wasn’t even comfortable.

‘If Hagan is yer brother…’ Wren's voice faltered, her face tightening as the words left her lips, as if even speaking them aloud felt somehow wrong. ‘Why do ya want to kill him?’

Vera lifted a hand to her forehead, scratching lightly, but didn’t turn her focus from the ceiling above.

She couldn’t. She dared not look at the wolverian girl seated beside her, the same wolverian that had stitched her wounds and brought her fever down.

For if she did, she might tumble headlong back into the abyss Hagan had cast her into the day he took Allegra from her.

‘He took something from me,’ Vera said, her voice barely more than a breath. ‘So now I’m going to return the favour… by taking something from him .’

She didn’t need to glance at Wren to sense her shift—shoulders tensing, body leaning back, as if bracing against the weight of the words. Against the coldness behind them.

‘What? ’

Vera let out a soft, bitter laugh, the sound curling through the stillness like smoke.

‘His life.’

…

Vera had fallen asleep, snoring rather impressively.

Wren, not wishing to disturb her, had quietly slipped away to find her own corner of rest. They took turns keeping watch, an unspoken agreement born of necessity.

Though Arden bore the brunt of the duty, not without protest. Wren had argued, naturally.

She’d been uneasy at first, unwilling to trust him with the safety of the sleeping witch.

She had feared that, in a moment of silence, he might change his mind and slit Vera’s throat. But he hadn’t.

He had meant what he’d said. He wouldn’t harm Vera, for Wren’s sake.

She found him in the kitchen, a beautiful space at the back of the house.

Drakonian homes never ceased to amaze her.

Everything within was arranged with care, each item chosen with purpose and pride.

Beauty seemed woven into the very bones of the place, as if the walls themselves had been carved to reflect the soul of the people who lived there.

Drakonians built their homes with reverence.

Every detail, every flourish a quiet declaration of belonging.

Arden sat on the floor, his back resting against a polished wooden cabinet, a half-drunk bottle of drakonian wine balanced in his lap.

Wren dropped to the floor opposite him without a word and held out her hand. He passed the bottle without hesitation.

The wine was sweet, too sweet perhaps, but it slid down her throat like silk, and she welcomed the burn that came after.

She took another deep gulp, trying to drown the cold tremble in her hands, the one that never seemed to leave her now.

She had tried to hide it, tried to keep it from the others, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. They had seen. She hated that.

She was Wren. A thief, a spy, a Seer.

But lately, she felt like none of those things. The visions had vanished, as though the gods had turned their backs on her entirely. No whispers in the dark. No glimpses of the threads that bound the future. Only silence.

She had prayed. Begged.

But nothing had come.

And she couldn’t stop wondering. What had they done to deserve this curse? Why had the gods abandoned them? Why was every step forward like walking blind through fog, when once she had seen everything so clearly?

‘You’ve got that look again, little wolf,’ Arden said, his voice low and steady, the kind that settled into the bones. ‘The one where you’re arguing with yourself, and losing.’

‘I neva—’

‘I know.’ He chuckled, a sound that rumbled so deeply it echoed inside her chest. ‘You never lose an argument.’

Wren took another long, defiant gulp of the wine, until Arden plucked the bottle from her grasp with infuriating ease. He gave her a look that made heat pool in her cheeks and ripple down her spine.

‘That’s enough for you tonight,’ he said, matter-of-fact.

‘I think I can decide that meself,’ Wren snapped, lunging forward to reclaim the bottle. She wasn’t a child, how dare he treat her like one! She was no little girl. A woman, whether she always behaved like it or not.

Arden held the bottle aloft, just out of reach. Wren landed a punch to his stomach, more annoyance than force. He didn’ t so much as flinch.

Undeterred, she sprang to her feet, reaching for the bottle with a triumphant grin as she snatched it, and stuck out her tongue in victory. But before she could escape with her spoils, his arm looped around her waist and pulled her down, straight into his lap.

Wren gasped, hands splaying against the solid wall of his chest, the bottle lost from the fall. Her breath caught. Every inch of her flared to life, acutely aware of the warmth of his body pressed so intimately against hers. She could feel everything.

Slowly, deliberately, Arden grabbed the fallen bottle from the floor and held it to her lips, tilting it with care.

She drank, cheeks flushed with heat, his large hand at her back, steadying her, holding her there.

When she finished, he set the bottle aside, then brushed his thumb along her lower lip, wiping away a drop of wine.

His green eyes didn’t waver, watching the soft drag of his thumb like it was something sacred.

‘I think I know how we can get to Hagan,’ Wren said, her voice just above a whisper, more to distract herself than him from the way Arden was looking at her like she was the only thing left in the world worth watching.

The kitchen lay cloaked in near-darkness, not a single candle lit, lest the glow betray their presence to any danger lurking beyond the walls.

‘Not now,’ he said, gently hushing her.

‘Don’t tell me what to do, Arden Briar.’

That damned Fae had the audacity to chuckle.

‘I love it when you say my name like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you want to punch me.’

Wren scrunched her nose in distaste.

‘I don’t want to punch ya.’

‘Liar. ’

She huffed, rolling her eyes skyward. ‘Fine, think whatever pleases ya.’

It was only then she remembered she was still perched in his lap. She shifted, meaning to climb off, but Arden’s arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her in place.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I’m sitting in yer lap,’ she said, a little too aware of how close they were.