Page 109 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash
The noise blurred into a dull roar in Ash’s ears.
His sister.
They were forcinghis sisterinto the same fate they had forced upon him.
No—worse.
He hadchosento endure his marriage, to sacrifice his future for the sake of his kingdom, for the sake of her. He hadwillinglygiven up his own freedom so that she might keep hers.
And now…
Now, they were taking it from her anyway.
‘Ash.’ Mal’s voice was soft, edged with concern, but he barely heard it. His gaze locked onto Zahian Noor.
The phoenixian prince stood basking in the attention, nodding graciously as nobles flocked to him with congratulations. Smiling. So very pleased with himself.
Ash’s fists clenched.
His jaw tightened.
His body thrummed with barely restrained fury.
He didn’t even focus on Mal’s worried expression. Hisattention landed on Zahian Noor, nodding and smiling as everyone gathered around to congratulate him.
‘Prince Zahian,’ Ash muttered, voice low, dangerous.
Zahian turned, cocking his head in feigned curiosity. ‘Prince Ash, it seems we will be brothers in no time.’ He extended a hand, offering a handshake for all to see.
Ash could feel the eyes on him. The anticipation. The expectation.
The moment stretched.
And then he punched the phoenixian in the face.
Whoever thought the gods were onourside is a fool. The gods only have one side.
And it is theirs.
Tabitha Wysteria
Wren followed Kage Blackburn through the winding streets of Spark, her words flowing endlessly like a river after the thaw. She spoke of everything and nothing, filling the silence between them with effortless chatter. Kage, for his part, neither responded nor spared her a glance. It did not bother her. She was used to it. People often stopped listening at some point.
The city of Spark, sprawled beneath the castle in a crescent embrace around the bay, was known for its fish—the scent of salt and brine clinging to the air, mingling with the smokier notes of charred wood and sizzling oil from the market stalls. The buildings, small but sturdy, were carved from brown stone, their red-tiled roofs sloping under the weight of time and weather.
The closer one ventured to the water, the poorer the streets became, the homes shrinking into tightly packed dwellingswhere laundry hung like banners between narrow alleyways. But higher up, where the city leaned towards the mountain, a few grand manors peeked through the trees—wealthy drakonian estates untouched by the hunger of the lower districts.
At the very edge of the city, just before the land sloped into the mist-laden hills, loomed the Library of Flames.
Wren had spotted it the first day she arrived—a towering monument of stone, its presence commanding, ancient. She had walked the streets that day with Bryn at her side, their great wolves padding beside them like shadows, drawing fearful glances from the drakonians. The people of Spark had been swift to retreat, slamming doors and pulling curtains tight.
Drakonians did not like wolves.
Wren missed hers.
They had been locked away in the dungeons—too large, too wild, too unsettling for the delicate sensibilities of the castle’s guests. Wren had argued, insisting they were gentle creatures to those who treated them kindly, but it had made no difference. So each day, she visited them, slipping into the underground chambers to feed them, to take them on long walks along the secluded cliffs.
Hersmallerwolves had been granted some leniency, allowed to stay in her chambers so long as they were not left to roam.
