Page 27

Mal had heard whispers of that prophecy before, an old legend murmured between wary lips.

Two children woven into fate’s cruel tapestry—one destined to raze the kingdoms to ruin, the other bound to prevent such devastation and restore balance.

Most who spoke of this tale cast her as the cursed child, all because of her eyes.

Yet Mal had long since resigned herself to a different role, one foretold to her by the Seer—the slayer of the Fire Prince.

But doubt, insidious and relentless, had begun to creep into the cracks of her certainty.

If the marriage between them was the fragile thread weaving the kingdoms together, then would not severing it—murdering the prince—unravel everything?

Would it not bring about the very collapse she was meant to prevent?

The weight of the paradox pressed against her ribs, an invisible hand tightening around her thoughts.

Mal needed to truly understand the prophecy before she went cutting hearts out.

‘Now all that remains to be seen,’ Hessa said, her white eyes flashing like lightning on distant sands, ‘is whether you are the Chasaa or the Krasaa.’

Mal’s heart thundered in her ribs.

What if I’m neither?

Worse still—

What if I’m both?

…

By the following day, every noble House had arrived, their banners unfurled like splashes of colour against the golden sky.

At least one prince or princess from each kingdom had travelled to the Kingdom of Fire to bear witness to the union that would bring an end to years of strife.

Few genuinely believed that the drakonian prince and wyverian princess were the chosen and cursed souls whispered of in prophecy.

Yet among them, there were always true believers—those who clung to the idea that the gods were weaving some grand design from the threads of fate.

Most, however, were simply relieved to put an age-old conflict to rest, its origins long since buried beneath the dust of forgotten history.

Others found solace in the unification of kingdoms, knowing that a greater threat loomed beyond their borders—an imminent assault from the witches.

Few lent credence to such ominous warnings, yet rumours had wings, and they flew swiftly from noble halls to the doorsteps of common folk, settling like shadows in their hearts.

Fear took root at the mere thought of witches creeping from the darkness, poised to snatch their children away.

And why wouldn’t it? Witches were the monsters of bedtime stories, their sorcery both feared and reviled, their legends steeped in blood and betrayal.

But what most did not realise—what they could never suspect—was that witches walked among them.

Vera, the wyverian princess’s ever-dutiful maid, hurried through the winding corridors, her tasks completed just in time to assist in the Grand Hall.

Seven kingdoms would feast together that evening, bound by an uneasy peace, their first gathering under the same roof after generations of isolation.

Never before had Vera seen such an array of creatures in one place.

The wyverians stood apart with their onyx-black horns and near-translucent skin, but their distinction lay not only in their appearance.

It was in the way they moved—sharp, fluid, predatory.

They walked like whispers, like assassins trained to tread unseen.

And their dark eyes—voids that swallowed light—missed nothing.

Vera’s gaze landed on her own reflection as she passed a mirrored surface and faltered.

For years, she had trained herself to avoid such glances, yet it was impossible to do so when tending to the princess’s hair.

It had unsettled her when Mal, with those keen purple eyes, had questioned where she was from. Could she see through the glamour?

Her drakonian horns were short, befitting her station, their shade a subdued gold, verging on brown—nothing like the radiant adornments of the royal family.

Her skin bore the faint texture of scales, as all drakonians did, and her eyes mirrored those of a drakonian bartender she had once met. But Vera missed her true eyes.

Her purple eyes.

She had long grown accustomed to the act of glamour, to wearing a lie as easily as one wore silk. It never faltered. Never wavered. And yet the wyverian princess had sensed something. How?

Never before had Vera encountered another with purple eyes who was not a witch.

Rumours had spread, whispered in shadowed corners, of a cursed child born with witch’s eyes.

Could Mal be one of them? A blasphemous union of wyverian and witch?

Such creatures had not walked the earth in over a century. It was impossible.

And yet…

Vera had waited a lifetime for the chosen one—the soul who would break the curse, the one destined to save them all. Could it be that her silent prayers had, at last, been answered?

The Grand Hall swelled with life. Wine flowed in glistening rivers from golden goblets, and the scent of drakonian tarts filled the air.

A delicacy served as the first course, their sweetness meant to linger on the tongue and change the way one savoured the meats that followed.

Vera’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight of the untouched trays still waiting to be carried out.

She ignored the hunger, the ache of exhaustion in her limbs, and pressed forward, slipping into the crowd of servants.

Then she saw them.

The House of Wild stood to her right, a sudden and unwelcome presence.

The Kingdom of Fauna had once been bound to the witches, allies since the world was young.

Their histories were woven together, their fates intertwined like the roots of ancient trees.

But when the witches fell, the Fae turned their backs, leaving them to wither and die.

The betrayal still burnt like a wound that refused to close.

To this day, the witches could not comprehend how those who had once been their closest kin had abandoned them so utterly.

Witches and Fae had always viewed the world differently than the other kingdoms. They did not simply exist within it—they were tethered to the land, part of its very breath and bones.

And yet, when the time had come, that bond had not been enough to save them.

The Fae king had five daughters, though Vera spotted only three among the revelers.

The eldest—soon to be queen, according to whispers that fluttered through the maid’s corridors—stood regal and statuesque.

Her skin was dark, her hair white as fresh snowfall.

Unlike the drakonians and wyverians, who bore horns upon their heads, the Fae princess possessed antlers—majestic, long, slender, and tall, a crown of the wild.

Her younger sisters bore smaller, less imposing antlers, their rank made visible in their very bones.

Vera edged away.

The Fae could sense magic. It was why no witches lived within the Kingdom of Fauna; their deception could never last there.

If the Fae princess—Flora Hawthorne, as she was called—looked too closely, what would she see?

As if drawn by the thought, Flora lifted her gaze, locking onto Vera with an eerie curiosity.

The weight of that look settled on her shoulders like a shackle.

Panic clawed at her chest, and she turned swiftly, slipping deeper into the crowd, away from the creatures of the forest.

Her magic stirred beneath her skin, restless and insistent.

It pulled at her like an impatient child, begging to be unleashed.

She silenced it with a sharp tug at her braid and turned her focus to the grand throne at the head of the hall.

Queen Cyra sat poised upon it, her expression carved from cold stone.

One glance from her could freeze a man in place.

Her gowns, though elegant, were never as opulent as her daughter’s, a deliberate choice.

The queen ensured that all eyes were drawn to the princess, her dresses a spectacle of embroidery and jewels, her hairstyles elaborate works of art.

The queen caught Vera’s eye and tilted her head just slightly, an almost imperceptible motion to any other observer. But to Vera, it was clear.

The queen wanted to speak.

Vera had earned her place among Cyra’s most trusted servants, had woven herself into the queen’s circle so tightly that she was now summoned weekly to deliver information. The queen believed her to be a faithful spy.

What she failed to realise was that her loyal informant was, in truth, a witch feeding her lies wrapped in truths.

The thought sent a wicked smile curling at the edges of Vera’s lips.

It lasted but a moment.

Something shifted in the air. A presence. A gaze burning into her from across the room. Someone had seen the silent exchange between queen and maid. Someone who was watching too closely. Someone who could ruin everything.

Mal Blackburn’s purple eyes narrowed, glinting with suspicion.