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I have learnt through my travels that there are some very lethal groups to watch out for in the different kingdoms. The wyverians as a whole are probably the most dangerous of them all.

In the Desert Kingdoms there is a group formed solely by women called the Dunayans, trained from the age of five to become ruthless mercenaries.

I have heard that the desert king always sends his daughters to become a part of the Dunayans and it is a tradition passed down through generations.

Another group I have learnt a lot about is the Red Guard in the Kingdom of Fire.

They are only formed by male warriors and their training is only for a year, but I have heard that it is short because of its intensity.

If it were any longer they would not survive it.

I wouldn’t mind seeing the Dunayans and the Red Guard under the same roof.

It would be rather interesting to witness.

Tabitha Wysteria

Wren lay sprawled atop the weathered stone of the tower’s ledge, one leg dangling carelessly over the abyss below.

The sun blazed overhead, relentless and unyielding, painting her fair skin in molten gold.

A lazy breeze did little to combat the Kingdom of Fire’s oppressive heat, and she longed for the cold embrace of her homeland—the heavy, brooding skies, the frost-kissed air, the comfort of a hearth blazing in defiance of winter’s grasp.

She had not climbed the tower for solitude, though she would have preferred it.

Vera sat mere inches away, the eerie pallor of her white hair nearly matching Wren’s own.

It had been the witch’s idea to step outside, to escape the confines of Kage’s chamber, where the air had grown thick with irritation.

Especially the wyverian prince, who accustomed to shadows and isolation, had begun to chafe beneath their prolonged company.

‘I am not your enemy,’ Vera said, her voice smooth, quiet.

Wren did not look at her. Instead, she kept her pale blue eyes trained on the vast, unforgiving sky, refusing to squint against the brightness. She had no patience for the witch’s claims.

‘Ya say ya here to help Mal kill da prince,’ Wren mused, her voice thick with skepticism, ‘and yet, ya won’t tell us a thing about da witches. Not their plans, not their numbers, nothing. How can I trust a single word ya say?’

‘They are my people,’ Vera snapped, her tone harsh. ‘I would not betray them like that.’

Wren let out a slow, measured sigh. ‘Then I cannot trust ya.’ She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Witches attacked us at da wall. They killed Mal’s wyvern. Whether there’s more to it or not, ya still a witch, and in da eyes of yer kind, we are still enemies.’

Vera let out a sound of frustration, a quiet snarl of irritation, but she did not argue.

There was little point. The plan had already been set in motion—while Mal ventured forth to retrieve the dagger, the rest of them would remain behind, keeping watch over the witch as though she were a caged beast poised to strike.

No one knew what the witches were plotting—if they were plotting at all.

The silence that had followed the battle at the wall was unsettling, like the eerie stillness before a storm that threatened to tear the sky apart.

No vengeful horde had pursued them. No further attacks had come.

The world held its breath, teetering on the precipice of something unseen.

And in the castle halls, King Egan carried on as though nothing had ever happened. As though the clash of magic and fire had been nothing more than a whisper on the wind, fleeting and inconsequential.

A dangerous game of pretense. One that could cost them everything.

‘What is yer kingdom like?’ Wren asked, tilting her head towards the witch.

Vera hesitated. ‘It is mostly ruins.’

Regret pricked at Wren. She had not meant to tread upon delicate ground, but before she could retract the question, Vera continued, her voice a distant echo of something lost.

‘Once, they say, it was the most beautiful of all the kingdoms. Rivers carved through the land like veins, carrying boats from village to village. The marshlands stretched for miles, and though many see them as bleak and lifeless, they held a quiet kind of majesty.’ A wistful smile hovered at the corners of Vera’s mouth.

‘The cities were unparalleled. Tall spires woven from magic, libraries that breathed with knowledge—our home was a marvel.’

‘Where do most witches live now?’ Wren asked, curiosity weaving through her voice.

‘Scattered,’ Vera admitted. ‘Some left, sought refuge in other lands, hiding beneath glamours. Others remain, rebuilding what was lost.’

Wren frowned. ‘But if there’s so many of ya, why not use yer magic to fix everything?’

A thick, oppressive silence draped over them, dense and charged, like the breathless stillness before the heavens split open with fury.

The hairs on Wren’s arms rose, prickling against her skin. She did not move. She would not cower beneath those amethyst eyes that now bore into her with something unreadable.

‘That is not the point, Wren,’ Vera said at last, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. ‘We keep the ruins to remember what was taken. To never forget what was done to us.’

‘But does that help anyone move on?’ Wren asked, arching a brow.

Vera let out a soft sigh. ‘I suppose not.’ Then, after a pause, she conceded, ‘Some towns have been rebuilt.’

‘And where are ya from?’

‘Elmwych.’

‘What’s it like?’

For the first time, Vera’s voice took on warmth.

‘It’s a small town, nestled against the marshes.

It was burnt to the ground during the Great War, but we rebuilt it, stone by stone, until it stood exactly as it did a hundred years ago.

’ A soft smile ghosted her lips. ‘Perhaps, one day, I will show it to you, Wren Wynter.’

Wren’s chest warmed at the unexpected offer. ‘So ya don’t hate us?’ she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Vera hesitated, her expression unreadable. ‘That is… a difficult question.’ She let out a slow breath. ‘I don’t think I can answer it. Not yet.’ Then, softer, ‘But I do not hate you .’

Wren’s smile was slight, but it was real. Perhaps there was hope after all.

But before she could respond, something struck her. A force, unseen and inevitable, ripped through her mind like a knife through silk. Her body stiffened. The sky above her blurred. Her vision rolled backward, her irises turning to empty pools of white.

The vision seized her.

It pulled her from the present, into the future—a future where the curse was not broken.

The world was gone.

Not burnt, not ruined, not ravaged by war. Simply… gone.

No laughter. No voices. No life.

All had fallen into a deep, eternal sleep. A kingdom of ghosts, untouched by time.

All but one.

Wren’s body jolted as she returned to herself, a strangled gasp wrenching from her throat. The tower swayed beneath her as reality settled back into place. Her breath came in ragged pants, her limbs trembling from the toll of what she had seen.

Vera’s voice cut through the haze. ‘What did you see?’ The witch was closer now, her gaze sharp, her expression stricken.

Wren pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. ‘Some visions,’ she rasped, ‘are like puzzles. Pieces thrown at ya, and ya gotta fit them together.’ She swallowed, her mouth parched. ‘But this time… this time, I saw da future.’

Vera edged closer, her hands curling into fists. ‘What future?’

‘A future in which da curse is not stopped.’

A long pause. Then, ‘And what did you see?’

Wren turned to her, the weight of the vision pressing heavy upon her chest.

‘There was nothing left,’ she whispered. ‘No one remained. We had all… fallen. Slipped into some kind of endless slumber.’

Vera inhaled sharply.

‘Except for one.’

‘Who?’ Vera asked.

Wren’s fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic.

‘Ash Acheron.’

…

Mal found her husband in the training yards, locked in what appeared to be a rather heated discussion with Hagan.

From where she stood, leaning against the sun-warmed stone wall, she could see the way Ash winced each time he feigned the strength to lift his sword, his best friend barely concealing his amusement.

She smiled, watching the drakonian prince pretend he wasn’t still wounded, that his body wasn’t betraying him with every strained movement. Stubborn fool.

‘I really do believe you ought to listen to the Red Guard,’ she called, amusement lacing her tone.

Ash turned towards her, his golden eyes narrowing with mock affront. ‘You are s-siding with him?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘I am your hus-husband, must I remind you?’

Mal did not answer. Instead, she hurried to his side, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, as if the simple act could ward off the nagging voice in her mind screaming at her to go after the dagger.

She ignored it. She would wait until the engagement party when all eyes would be on the celebration, when no one would notice her slipping away into the night.

Which meant she had one day left. One day to spend by his side. One day before everything changed.

‘Surely you are not foolish enough to try and lift a sword in your condition, are you?’ she asked against his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe, unbothered by the presence of his best friend standing mere feet away.

The teasing lilt in her voice was not lost on him, nor was the way his gaze darkened when it travelled over her black dress. His pupils dilated, his expression shifting with a promise Mal knew all too well—the kind that meant he would have her gasping his name into the depths of the night.

‘How about Hagan and I fight, and you watch?’ she suggested, arching an eyebrow.

Ash’s right eye twitched, and she laughed.

‘I promise not to break your best friend,’ she whispered, and the warmth of her breath against his skin sent a shiver through him.