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I have always found it curious how most of the kingdoms believe in the same gods but we each pray to them differently.

Wyverians pray by their lonely trees, blessed by the gods.

Witches have lengthy rituals that we do on special dates to honour the gods, and the desert folk are very cautious with food—they will only eat meat on special days and on others they give the meat away as an offering to the gods— on some nights they are not allowed to drink wine at all and some dishes must be prepared in a special way to honour the gods before consuming it.

I still do not know much on wolverians, but I aim to learn more about the Kingdom of Ice.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal dug her fingers into the brittle earth, cradling a rotten pear in her palms before placing it beneath the gnarled roots of the lonely tree.

The air was thick with the warmth of the dying sun, a quiet hush settling over the land like a shroud.

She listened, straining for the whispers of the gods, for even the faintest murmur of guidance. But as always, they remained silent.

She needed an answer.

Duty demanded that she think of the kingdoms first, that she place the fate of the world above her own desires.

And yet, another part of her—an aching, desperate part—wanted only to take Ash by the hand and flee.

To vanish into obscurity, to find a place where no one would seek them, where they could simply exist in peace, in love, in the quiet solace of each other.

But the gods had other plans.

She could not kill him.

The thought was a stone lodged in her throat, an undeniable truth she had come to accept.

No matter how many times she tried to steel herself, no matter how many nights she spent convincing herself that this was the only way, the answer remained the same.

She would not, could not, plunge a dagger into Ash Acheron’s heart.

She would face the curse instead. She would greet it with open arms, let it carve its wrath into her bones, let it take everything if it must.

‘Please, let me find a different way,’ she whispered to the gods.

Footsteps stirred the hush of the evening.

Mal turned, her breath catching at the sight of Ash moving towards her.

He wore a loose shirt, the fabric barely concealing the wounds that still lingered beneath his golden skin.

He moved with careful precision, favoring his injured side, but his smile—soft and meant only for her—was as steady as ever.

She squinted against the glare of the sun, but her feet carried her forward before she could stop herself.

She had told herself she wouldn’t run to him, that she would maintain distance, that she wouldn’t let herself drown in his presence.

But she was powerless against him. Against the way his golden eyes gleamed like molten fire, against the deep, rumbling cadence of his voice that sent shivers down her spine.

How cruel it was, to love him like this.

‘You shouldn’t be out here,’ she said. ‘You ought to be in bed resting.’

‘You s-sound awfully a lot like my sis-sister,’ he teased, his dimples deepening as he reached up and tugged playfully at one of her horns ‘I wanted to go f-for a stroll. And you s-seem to be per-persistently avoiding me.’

Mal averted her gaze, afraid of what he might read in her expression.

Of course she had been avoiding him. How could she not?

Ever since he had uttered those three words—words that had unraveled her entire world—she had been running.

Because how could she stand before him, knowing that she had once planned to kill him?

Knowing that, even though she had chosen not to, she still carried the weight of that betrayal like a brand against her skin?

What if he found out? What if he never forgave her?

‘I’m not avoiding you,’ she grumbled, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

‘Yes, you are.’ He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger before pressing a kiss against it, featherlight. ‘But I understand why. I m-made you un-uncomfortable with my words.’

‘No, Ash, that’s not it at all.’

Tell him. Tell him everything.

But the fear coiled tightly around her throat, suffocating the confession before it could escape.

Instead, she pulled him into her arms with careful urgency, resting her cheek against his chest. He exhaled, wrapping her in his warmth, his chin coming to rest atop her head.

Mal breathed him in, memorising his scent, savouring it like a lifeline—because one day, she feared, she would lose it forever.

‘Are you sniffing me?’ His voice was laced with amusement.

Mal only nodded, burying herself deeper into him.

He winced, and she pulled away, eyes sweeping over him in alarm.

‘It’s okay, Mal,’ he reassured her with gentle certainty. ‘You didn’t hurt me. You co-could never h-hurt me.’

She flinched. ‘Don’t say that.’

Ash frowned. ‘Why?’

Mal turned from him, her gaze drawn to the lone, weathered tree that stood as a silent sentinel against the crimson sky.

Her purple eyes traced its gnarled branches, reaching skyward like desperate hands pleading for mercy.

The wind rustled through its sparse leaves, whispering secrets she could not decipher, mocking her in its cruel indifference.

She tilted her chin upward, her eyes narrowing at the heavens, searching for some sign, some answer—only to find an endless expanse of gold and fire, stretching into oblivion.

The gods were watching.

And she could almost hear them laughing.

‘Because I don’t know if that’s true.’

…

Cushions had been artfully arranged in a shaded alcove of the garden, a soft blanket unfurled beneath an opulent display of Alina’s favorite delicacies.

The sight should have been comforting, indulgent even, yet her stomach remained clenched with unease.

Though she had eaten nothing since morning, the thought of food curdled within her, a hollow ache settling in its place.

Zahian Noor extended his hand, a silent offering of assistance as she lowered herself onto the floor.

She accepted, not out of necessity but practicality—her tightly-laced bodice and layers of embroidered skirts were not designed for reclining in such an undignified manner.

Drakonians adhered strictly to dining at proper tables, and she had never understood the phoenixians’ fondness for sitting on the ground.

Nor, for that matter, the desert folk’s or the Fae’s apparent preference for the same .

‘I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to phoenixian dresses once I move to your kingdom,’ she said, adjusting her posture with forced grace. The effort was futile—the stays of her corset pinched unforgivingly, robbing her of breath.

‘You may wear whatever pleases you,’ Zahian replied easily, his lean frame stretched out on his side as he bit into a honeyed pear.

Alina watched as his expression twitched, his red eyes narrowing slightly at the overwhelming sweetness.

The sight was so unexpected that laughter bubbled from her lips before she could contain it.

‘It takes some getting used to,’ she said.

‘I truly do not understand how drakonians still have teeth,’ Zahian remarked dryly, eyeing the assortment of syrup-drenched pastries and candied fruits. ‘Everything is so sweet.’

A few servants lingered at a respectful distance, their woven fans swaying gently to battle the merciless heat of the afternoon sun.

Alina hardly noticed the warmth, accustomed as she was to the relentless blaze of her homeland, but she worried for Zahian.

His bronze complexion had yet to glisten with sweat, his expression still composed, but she wondered if he was silently suffering the weight of the midday heat.

‘You look rather sad,’ Zahian said.

Alina stiffened, turning to glare at him. ‘That is a rather rude thing to say.’

Zahian chuckled, unbothered. ‘Forgive me. We phoenixians have an unfortunate habit of speaking our minds.’ He plucked another pear from the tray, inspecting it idly. ‘But I do believe it’s true. Is it because Kai Blackburn left?’

The mention of the wyverian prince was like a dagger slipping between her ribs.

Alina gasped, scandalised. ‘Of course not! I could care less about him .’

Zahian chewed slowly, his crimson gaze assessing her with amusement.

He licked the sticky nectar from his fingers, each languid motion intentional, as if reveling in how flustered she had become.

‘It’s all right, princess. Just because we are engaged does not mean our hearts cannot belong to others. ’

‘My heart is not claimed by anyone, Zahian Noor.’

‘Hmm-mm.’

Alina turned towards him, attempting to match his scrutiny, but the effort felt weak. ‘Is yours?’ she challenged, searching for the tiniest flicker of truth in his ever-knowing gaze.

The phoenixian prince merely smiled, maddeningly unreadable.

Alina had to admit—objectively, Zahian was breathtaking.

He possessed the effortless beauty of a sun-kissed god, his brown skin kissed by fire, his black hair tousled in an artful way that required no effort.

His physique, long and sinewy with muscle, spoke of someone born to dance between blades.

In another life, perhaps she might have found herself enchanted, eager to be whisked away to a foreign kingdom, away from duty and expectation.

But the thought of kissing someone—of binding herself to someone—that was not Kai Blackburn made something inside her ache, a raw and bleeding wound she had no way of tending.

Before Zahian could reply, something glinted in his crimson eyes, his attention veering sharply past her. Alina followed his line of sight, twisting just in time to catch a glimpse of Flora Hawthorne and her sisters strolling through the garden, their ethereal presence like a painting come to life.