Page 57

Some say that the reason that witches and warlocks have purple eyes is to show that we were the very first creations the gods made. Apparently it is a mark, a godly mark.

Nowadays to me it seems more of a curse.

Tabitha Wysteria

Ash stepped into the room and found her waiting.

The wyverian princess sat at the table, a book open before her, though from the way her chin rested in her hand, her expression one of quiet boredom, he doubted she had turned a page in some time.

It was still strange to think of this place as their room.

In truth, it was hers. He tried to keep away, to grant her the solitude of a space untainted by his presence.

He had lingered outside longer than necessary, taking his time in the hopes that she would already be asleep by the time he returned.

And yet, there she was.

She wore a simple white cotton dress, its fabric soft and weightless against her skin, the thin strap slipping down the curve of her shoulder. It was a careless thing, something meant for comfort, not for the scrutiny of another’s eyes. He averted his gaze .

‘I waited up,’ she said, the softness of her voice edged with something unfamiliar. Worry .

Her purple eyes lingered on him, searching.

Ash pulled his shirt over his head, discarding it as he stepped into the study. He sank into the armchair, fingers working at the laces of his boots, exhausted. ‘Needed air,’ he muttered.

‘Did you get into a lot of trouble for punching prince Zahian?’

Ash shrugged.

Of course, he had. His parents had screamed at him for hours, their anger relentless, their words slicing through him with cruel precision. He had ruined everything . That was what they had said.

But he hadn’t ruined anything —except for Zahian’s nose.

So what? His sister was the one being condemned to a future she did not want, shackled to a man she had not chosen. And for that , he would do it again.

Tomorrow, he would be expected to stand before the court and grovel—offering a formal apology to smooth over the rift he had caused.

The thought made his stomach turn.

Alina would not be allowed to help him, to speak in his place as she always had when his voice failed him.

His parents did not care. His usefulness had expired.

They wanted him to humiliate himself, to falter under the weight of his own nerves, to let the whole world see him struggle.

So that he might understand how he had made them feel .

Ash exhaled, rubbing at his tired eyes.

A pair of hands appeared in his vision, deft fingers working at the laces of his boots before he could react.

He nearly jerked away, startled.

Mal crouched before him, untying the knots with steady, deliberate movements, her dark hair falling forward to frame her face.

His breath caught.

‘You were angry for your sister because she is being forced to do the same thing that was pressed on you. No one will blame you for it.’

‘Do you?’ he asked softly.

She looked up at him, her purple eyes searching his face as if she could see the thoughts left unsaid. ‘Why would I?’

Because his rage at the marriage oath—the way he had fought against it—had told the whole world he despised the idea of being bound to her . She seemed to understand. Her fingers stilled against his boot, then slowly slipped away.

‘I do not hate you, Fire Prince,’ she said, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

And god— that smile.

Ash felt something shift, something dangerous.

His heart clenched too tightly in his chest, an ache spreading through him in slow, agonising waves.

She was his wife.

A girl with midnight hair and cursed eyes. A girl he could barely speak to without betraying the stutter he kept so carefully hidden.

A girl he wanted to kiss.

Over and over.

Until he no longer felt his lips.

Mal stood, smoothing her dress as if nothing had passed between them. ‘It shall pass,’ she said. ‘They will forget the fight in a few days.’ She nodded towards the armchair. ‘Are you sleeping in here again tonight?’

The words hung between them, weightless yet heavy with meaning .

An invitation? Or merely an acknowledgment of the space he had chosen to keep between them?

He thought of following her. Thought of standing and stepping towards her, of closing the distance and watching the dress slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

Thought of pressing his body to hers beneath the sheets, of letting the heat of his skin chase away the cold that seemed to cling to her even in this sweltering land.

His fingers twitched against the armrest.

He said nothing.

And in his silence, she turned away.

‘Goodnight, Fire Prince.’

…

Mal awoke to the abrupt rustling of heavy curtains, the suffocating darkness of the room ripped away by the morning light. A beam of golden firelight stretched across her bed, and with it came a thrill of anticipation.

Finally .

Today, she would have answers.

Klara would have no choice but to explain everything—the truth about Vera, the uncanny sameness in their scent, and whether or not she too was tangled in the web of witchcraft.

But the moment Mal’s gaze settled on the maid flitting about the room, her excitement curdled.

This was not Klara.

Her smile vanished.

‘Where is Klara?’ she demanded, her voice edged with warning.

The servant startled, hands fumbling as she dropped a tray of apples onto the floor. She scrambled to collect them, her breath coming in short, nervous bursts before she finally found the courage to speak. ‘She was unwell this morning, your highness. She asked me to come in her stead.’

Mal’s lips curled into a snarl. Lies .

She threw off the covers, rising in a blur of movement, already moving towards the door.

Her nightgown fluttered behind her, sheer white fabric catching the early light.

She barely spared a glance at the empty side of the room where Ash had been the night before.

He was gone, no doubt to the training yards before the first glimmer of dawn.

He always left without a sound, though Mal knew it had nothing to do with stealth.

She simply slept so deeply that not even lightning splitting the sky above her bed would rouse her if her body did not will it.

‘Your highness, you are not fully dressed yet!’ the maid gasped, eyes wide as Mal swept past her.

Mal didn’t care.

She took the stairs two at a time, making her way towards the wing where the guests were housed. She had committed every room to memory, and she knew exactly where to go.

Wren Wynter’s chambers were situated beside her brother Bryn’s, their shared hallway also home to the wild and unruly royals from House of Wild.

Mal did not knock.

She stormed into the room, barely taking in the modest accommodations before her gaze landed on the small, sprawled figure upon the bed.

Wren lay in the most ungraceful position imaginable—arms and legs splayed wide like a starfish, head dangling off the mattress, a thin line of drool slipping from her lips.

Mal grabbed the wolverian girl by the shoulders and shook her with enough force to snap a lesser being in two.

A low growl rumbled from the corner of the room .

Mal stilled, twisting just enough to spot two wolves watching her with narrowed silver eyes, their hackles rising at the sight of their master being manhandled.

She had known that Wren and her brother’s massive wolves had been sent to the dungeons, but she had not realised that smaller ones had been permitted to keep them company in their quarters.

Slowly, Mal released Wren and turned towards the beasts.

She dropped to all fours, crouching low, cocking her head as she studied them in silence. The wolves inhaled deeply, scenting her.

They did not attack. Instead, they took a cautious step backward, instinct recognising the quiet, simmering threat that lingered in her very bones.

‘Ya rather creepy.’

Mal glanced over her shoulder to find Wren now sitting up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, looking more amused than concerned.

But Mal was in no mood for laughter.

She stood swiftly. ‘She didn’t come.’ The words left her in a low, dangerous growl ‘She must’ve realised the notebook is missing. She’s hiding. We need to find her.’

‘Couldn’t this have waited until after breakfast?’

Mal grabbed Wren by the arm, unyielding. ‘We need to catch her before she escapes.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Wren groaned, but relented, plucking the stolen notebook from beneath the pile of discarded clothes on her bed.

With a knowing glance, she knelt before her wolves, pressing the book beneath their snouts.

The moment their noses twitched with recognition, the animals turned and bolted from the room, following the scent with single-minded purpose.

Mal and Wren ran after them, shadows slipping through the castle’s halls in pursuit of the truth.

…

Klara moved swiftly down the winding staircase, her breath measured, her hands tucked neatly into the folds of her dress as if that alone could keep her from trembling. She had woken in the earliest hours of morning to discover that the notebook was missing. Damn them.

It meant, of course, that she would have to change again .

Recreating herself took time—crafting a new face, a new form, a new lie. The glamour was a delicate art, and the first transformation always took the longest. She needed hours before she could shed this body and slip unnoticed into another. Until then, she had no choice but to hide.

A simple excuse had been enough. A quiet word to one of the other maids, a whispered complaint of illness. With Vera already absent, now Klara too—soon the servants would start whispering about a sickness spreading among them.