Page 82 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
Whatever it was, it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But it had been there.
She was certain of it.
‘You are here because I possess texts written in old wolverian that I cannot read,’ he said. ‘Nothing more. Do not mistake that for importance.’
‘I never claimed otherwise.’
‘Then be silent and do as you are told.’ His voice sharpened,edged with frost, his eyes hardening to ice. ‘Continue reading.’
Ylva obeyed, her attention returning to the scroll. The words blurred together until one phrase made her pause. She lifted her head once more. ‘You never explained what a God-Killer is.’
Hagan sighed and dragged a hand over his shaved scalp, irritation etched plainly across his features. She did not care. If her presence grated on him, all the better.
‘A God-Killer,’ he said at last, ‘as the name so plainly suggests, is something capable of killing gods.’
Ylva’s brow furrowed as she glanced back down at the text. ‘And who would want to kill the gods?’ The question unsettled her more than she cared to admit. To meddle with the divine was to rewrite the world itself, to fracture the fragile order holding everything together. And yet, treacherously, the image of Eris erased from existence stirred a dark spark of temptation.
When Ylva looked up again, her body went rigid.
‘You?’ she asked quietly, her voice suddenly small. ‘You wish to kill the gods?’
‘No,’ he replied, a slow smile unfurling across his handsome face. It was sharp, cruel, and wicked enough to rival divinity itself. ‘Notallof them.’ He leaned back slightly, that smile deepening. ‘Just one.’
Glamours were first used by witches hundreds of years ago as a technique to spy. However, with time, they found ways to work around it by using magic that would immediately dispel the glamour, a magic that would erase any traces of fraud the moment one stepped over a special ward. But as usual, that never stops us from finding ways around such things. It is in our nature. To defy. If we are told no, then we shall find a way to twist the arm of the one who has spoken. And if that doesn’t work, well…
We just cut the arm off.
Tabitha Wysteria
Kai knew they were running out of time. The procession descending from the mountain was drawing ever closer, its presence already pressing against his nerves. Arena and Isla had hurried ahead in a desperate attempt to buy them a few precious moments, to reach the king before steel or magic could be drawn. Alina had watched them go without a word, her posture rigid, her spine straight as if held there by sheer force of will.
Nearby, Dawn lowered herself to the sand with the air of someone bracing for an ordeal she would rather avoid. Mareena knelt beside one of the satchels, retrieving a slender needle and a small vial that caught the light.
‘Breathe in and out,’ Mareena said gently. ‘It will be over in a moment.’
Kai lingered close, then dropped into a crouch at Dawn’s side, unable to look away as the needle pierced her skin. His jaw tightened, a sharp flicker of anger crossing his face.
‘There’s no need to glare at me like that,’ Mareena remarked, her calm edged with a quiet warning. ‘I’m not killing her.’
Kai hadn’t even realised how openly hostile his stare had been. He didn’t care. Trust did not come easily where phoenixians were concerned, nor their kingdom.
When Mareena finished, she rose and stepped aside. Kai immediately rested a hand on Dawn’s arm, his fingers brushing gently over the small mark left by the needle.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, his touch careful, almost reverent.
‘I don’t bruise easily,’ Dawn replied.
Of course she didn’t. Dawn was forged of something else entirely, something sharp, resilient, and quietly dangerous. Kai couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him.
‘You find this amusing, commander?’ she snapped. Before he could answer, her hands lifted and green smoke coiled around her fingers. She shoved his touch away, and in a heartbeat her beautiful face dissolved, reshaped. Sharp, pale features settled into the likeness of a wyverian woman. Kai leaned back, frowning.
He hated it.
He hated the glamour itself, but more than that, he hated the way the light in Dawn’s eyes dulled every time she changed her face, as if each transformation took something from her that never quite returned.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, rising and offering her his hand.
