Page 99 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

It’s strange to realise that every valkyrian we encounter was once a drakonian, a wolverian, a wyverian, a Fae…

They were us.

And they chose not to pass on, but to remain, and to serve.

I admire them.

They don’t stay out of fear of death.

No, they stay because they want to save us.

Tabitha Wysteria

‘This is a dreadful idea,’ Vera hissed beneath her breath. ‘We’re walking to our deaths.’

None of them could quite explain it, but they had awoken to an unnatural hush draped across the city like a mourning veil.

The last of the drakonian fighters had slunk into the shadows, retreating into crumbling alleyways and smoke-stained doorways to nurse their wounds and whisper their fears.

The witches were gone. No warning, no retreat order.

They had simply vanished, dissolving into trails of green smoke, their laughter echoing like ghost-song through the abandoned streets.

Vera did not trust silence. Not here. Not in Fireheart, a city that had raged and burnt with battle for weeks. Something about the sudden stillness set her teeth on edge. There was no magic thrumming in the air, no crackle of spells or shimmer of wards. Only empty streets and echoing footfalls.

Wren, of course, had declared it the perfect moment to carry out her so-called plan.

It was, Vera thought bitterly, an atrocious plan. But it was the only one they had.

And so, down the eerily vacant avenues they marched, Vera at the fore, one hand gripping the enchanted chains that bound her supposed prisoners: Wren Wynter, wolverian princess and seer; and Arden Briar, infamous Black Lotus. Gifts, neatly wrapped, to offer at the feet of a monster.

Vera’s stomach churned at the thought.

Yes, this was the plan: to return to Hagan’s side, grovelling for his forgiveness, and presenting him with powerful captives to win back his trust. It was madness.

Every possible outcome teetered on a knife’s edge.

They were skilled, formidable even, but Wren, in all her wild conviction, had yet to fully grasp the danger of Hagan’s blood magic.

‘What if he sees through it?’ Vera had asked, more than once.

‘Then make sure he doesn’t,’ Wren had said that morning, her voice maddeningly calm.

Vera gritted her teeth.

Yes. This was a terrible plan.

They reached the town square, now eerily hollow, where Vera had once stood mere weeks ago, watching with numb detachment as Hagan ascended the very steps that led to the drakonian temple.

It was there he had raised the severed heads of King Egan and Queen Cyra for all to behold, a grotesque spectacle carved into memory.

She had wondered, foolishly perhaps, if he'd had the decency to dispose of them. To burn what remained. To offer at least that small shred of respect in death.

Her question was answered the moment her purple eyes found the temple doors.

There they hung, grotesque and rotting. The royal visages once so proud, so immaculately composed, had deteriorated into something barely recognisable.

Skin had turned an ashen hue, lips bloated and bruised, chunks of flesh torn away by carrion birds.

They looked nothing like the rulers they had once been.

Some brave drakonians had tried to reach them, to reclaim what remained of their sovereigns and give them a dignified end. But Hagan had shrouded the temple in lethal wards, any who dared step too close fell where they stood, never to rise again.

Vera had played her part in their demise. She had slit Queen Cyra’s throat herself, crimson pouring like spilt wine down the woman’s regal front. She had wanted the queen dead, had dreamt of it. And truthfully, if given the chance again, she would not hesitate.

But this? This defilement of death… this cruel parade of decay?

Even monsters deserved to sleep beneath the soil. Not rot beneath the sun.

Vera stepped forward with measured caution, her every movement laced with sharp awareness.

The magical chains fastened to Wren and Arden’s wrists glimmered faintly in the dull light, and she gave them a calculated tug, no longer gentle.

She could not afford gentleness. Not here, not now.

Who knew what unseen eyes watched from the shadows, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness?

She halted at the foot of the temple steps, her breath catching.

To ascend might mean death. Those wards were ruthless, and even a witch might not be spared their wrath.

Vera’s shoulders eased subtly, her stance casual, but her boots remained firmly grounded on safe stone.

Around her, the buildings loomed, rising like silent sentinels, their leaning forms closing in as though eager to listen.

The temple doors yawned open with a slow groan, and from within emerged a witch with a gait far too self-assured. Vera recognised her at once and fought the instinctive urge to roll her eyes skyward. Of all the women Hagan could send…

‘Theodora,’ she drawled, every syllable steeped in honeyed disdain. ‘What a charming surprise.’

Theodora tilted her head, predatory and poised, her narrowed eyes sweeping past Vera to land on the two bound figures behind her. Disgust curled her lip.

‘Why are you here, Vera?’

‘I bring gifts,’ Vera said, her voice silk laced with venom. ‘For my darling brother.’ She watched with satisfaction as Theodora’s expression darkened at the term brother, a word Vera wielded like a blade. They all knew how much she detested uttering it. That was precisely why she used it.

‘He wants nothing to do with you,’ Theodora sneered. ‘Or your traitorous whore of a sister.’

Vera clicked her tongue. ‘Still warming his bed, are you?’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘You, and the rest of the coven?’

‘Shut that filthy mouth of yours!’

The grin that bloomed on Vera’s face was wicked, unrepentant. How easy it was to unsettle Theodora. That she still believed herself to be Hagan’s chosen was laughable. Vera had seen the warlock take anyone he pleased to his bed—witch or warlock, body or beast. He loved nothing. Not even himself.

‘Are you going to let me in or not?’ Vera tapped the toe of her black boot against the stone, her voice edged with impatience. ‘I’m growing dreadfully bored, and if you don’t hurry, Hagan might stumble upon some sweet little mouse to dash against the wall, one who entertains him more than you.’

Theodora was not what one would call beautiful.

Pale as unbaked bread, her slight frame barely filled the robes she wore, but that had never seemed to matter to Hagan.

He cared little for appearances, only obedience.

And Theodora excelled at that. Perhaps that was why he summoned her time and time again, her loyalty mistaken for importance.

The witch now walked with the inflated air of one who believed herself favoured, indispensable even.

Vera couldn’t help the soft, scornful snort that escaped her lips.

Without a word, Theodora pivoted and strode towards the temple, her robes catching the breeze like trailing smoke.

With a final glance behind, she motioned them to follow.

Vera hesitated, her focus drifting to the first step.

Her boot, black leather worn and dust-stained, met the reddish-brown stone.

She braced herself for the ward’s wrath: the crushing choke of invisible fingers, the punishing slam against an unforgiving wall.

But nothing happened.

She lived.

Exhaling softly, Vera tugged on the chains guiding Wren and Arden behind her like reluctant offerings.

The interior of the temple unfolded in cool shadow and stone, every arch and carving as breathtaking as she remembered.

But the memory of her sister’s blood soaking these floors soured the splendour.

No amount of beauty could mask the scent of death that lingered like perfume in the air.

Theodora led them through the temple’s heart with purposeful steps, through a narrow wooden door, up a spiral of ancient stone stairs that whispered underfoot, and along a hallway that narrowed with every step.

Finally, they halted before an ornate set of doors.

Vera’s skin prickled. They were too far from the main entrance now, too deep within the temple’s grasp.

If anything went wrong, escape would be no simple feat.

And she had no doubt Hagan intended to make escape impossible.

A low, guttural sound slipped through the door, prompting Vera to pause, her head tilting ever so slightly in amusement. A wicked grin curled her lips as she turned her attention upon Theodora.

‘Are you quite certain he’s alone?’ she asked, voice laced with venomous sweetness. Her fingers reached for the handle, only for Theodora’s hand to block her path.

‘He is not to be disturbed,’ the witch snapped, her tone sharp with possessive edge.

Vera rolled her eyes, unimpressed.

With the elegance of a creature born of wildness and disobedience, she drove the tip of her boot into the door, sending it slamming open with defiant grace.

Her grin widened at the sight before her—a tableau of debauchery and delusion.

Hagan stood utterly bare, his back arched over a witch who had foolishly cloaked herself in drakonian glamour.

Theodora drew in a sharp breath, her face blanching before she turned away, vanishing silently down the corridor like smoke dissolving into night.