Page 111 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
The chair Queen Senka always occupied stood empty.
The sight wrenched something violent from Mal’s chest. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t spare a glance for the creature lurking in the corner, its low chuckle skittering along the stone walls at her grief.
Her attention drifted to the open arches across the room—no glass, never glass, for wyverians did not build barriers against the sky. Their windows were always meant for flight. For freedom. Queen Senka had always sat there, staring out over the sea, her mind wandering somewhere no one else could reach.
And now…
Mal stepped forward, slow and unsteady. Ash lingered at the threshold, begging her to stop. The creature hissed at the sight of him and retreated into the shadows, spitting curses as it went. Mal heard none of it.
There was only the thunder of her heart.
Could something already fractured be broken again?
It seemed it could.
She couldn’t lose anyone else.
She had already lost too much.
Mal stopped at the very edge of the arch and looked down.
The wind rose from the cliffs, cold and merciless, tangling in her thick black hair and sweeping strands across her face. She did not brush them aside. She simply leaned forward, peering into the dizzying drop below.
The ground was a patchwork of wind-blown sand from the beach, dark earth and brittle, dead grass.
And there, lying face down upon it, was the queen.
Mal’s breath tore from her in a broken gasp. She stumbled back from the arch as though the very air had struck her, her hand flying to her mouth. The pain came swift and savage, stealing the strength from her limbs.
She turned on her heels, sobs wrenching free as though something inside her had finally split open. The world did not merely tilt; it shattered.
Ash reached her within seconds, gathering her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. But she scarcely felt him. His warmth, his hands nor his murmured words could reach her.
There was nothing but despair.
Her mind dragged her back to that very morning. Her mother had seemed…lighter. There had been a strange brightness in her dark eyes, a fragile flicker of something almost like peace. She had spoken of Haven again, describing the conversation they had shared while she slept, recounting it as though it had been as real as the sea outside the arches.
Mal had sat quietly, listening.
More than once she had nearly snapped, nearly told her tostop. Haven was dead. She was not coming back. Speaking of her would not conjure her from the grave. But Mal had learnt, slowly and painfully, that grief is not a single shape. It wears different faces. For her mother, speaking of Haven seemed to soften the ache, to keep her close in some fragile way.
Mal had let her talk.
She had believed it helped.
Or so she had thought.
Ash turned her gently from the arch and guided her towards the hallway, one arm firm about her shoulders as though he feared she might shatter if he let go.
Morthos appeared by the stairs, anguish carved deep into his features.
‘I’ll go and retrieve the body…’ he said, his voice rough with something like shame.
Mal flinched at the wordbody. Fresh tears streamed down her face, and her fingers tightened desperately in Ash’s tunic. She could scarcely draw breath between the sobs.
And then…
The pain began.
