Page 173 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
‘Have you never cried?’ she asked, pressing herself further back into the seat, desperate to put as much distance between them as the narrow carriage allowed.
‘Once,’ he replied.
His attention had fallen to the tear that still clung to the tip of his finger.
‘When?’
‘When I found my mother dead.’
Ylva knew she should not care. She knew it would be wiser not to feel anything at all for a man like him. Yet the shadow of pain that crossed his face stirred a flicker of pity within her.
‘Sorry,’ she said quietly, so quietly she wondered if he had even heard it.
But the way his entire body tensed told her he had.
‘Why are you sorry?’ he asked with a faint frown. ‘You are not the reason she is dead.’
‘I am still sorry,’ she said. ‘That you had to gothrough something like that. It must have been awful.’
Something strange flashed across his expression then, something she could not quite name. Slowly he lowered his hand, the tear still glistening upon his fingertip, and stared at her.
And within that stare, Ylva glimpsed something that looked almost like wonder.
She had no idea what to do with it.
Neither, it seemed, did he.
Before she could speak again, Hagan struck the side of the carriage, signalling for it to stop. The vehicle jolted as the horses slowed.
He cast her one last look, something fractured lingering in his eyes, before climbing out into the waiting silenceof the forest.
My mother once said that the real Hell is the one we awake to each morning.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal sighed the moment her boots touched the scorched earth of Hell. She had never imagined she would be forced to return to this place, and yet here she stood once more. She wore one of her infamous grey riding dresses, the fabric practical yet elegant, paired with black boots and a wyverian sword strapped firmly across her back. Whatever waited for her in the depths of this nightmare, she prayed she would still be able to fight and, perhaps, find her way back out again.
She wondered how she was meant to pass through each ring this time. The first journey had been different. Then, she had possessed the guidance of Thanatos.
Now she had no such protection.
She was utterly alone.
Well, almost.
She had Wren, the great white wolf.
Mal frowned, scanning the barren horizon as the uneasy realisation settled in that the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Shestood in the first ring—a vast and desolate stretch of land, every inch of it cloaked in a thin veil of orange dust that drifted lazily through the air. The souls that wandered here moved with agonising slowness, dragging their feet across the ground as though the weight of eternity hung from their limbs.
Mal noticed someone standing ahead of her, motionless amidst the slow drift of wandering souls. It was strange, unnatural even, for a soul in this place to stand so still, as though watching something far beyond the dusty horizon.
As Mal drew closer and caught sight of silver hair, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her purple eyes widened, and a tremor ran through her entire body.
Wren Wynter stood there, staring into the distance as though the empty air held secrets only she could see.
‘Wren?’ Mal whispered, half afraid the sight before her was some cruel trick conjured by Hell itself.
