Page 119 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
Silence lingered, heavy and deliberate. When the woman finally spoke, the words struck like a blade.
‘Not precisely,’ she said. ‘But I knew they would die. Both of them. And that their deaths would mark the beginning of the end.’ The Altaa Saqardatis turned towards Alina. Though her face remained hidden beneath layered veils, Alina felt the weight of that unseen stare. ‘Saren must be stopped.’
‘Youknew,’ Alina breathed, fury rising like wildfire in her veins. ‘You knew and you did nothing to save them.’
‘It is the will of the gods,’ the Altaa Saqardatis replied, already turning back towards the circling chants. There was no apology. No doubt. Only cold devotion. The matter, to her, was finished.
Alina pivoted sharply to leave, her pulse roaring in her ears. She took two steps before halting.
‘Fuck your gods.’
Shedid not look back. She did not need to.
I know Hadrian loves and adores his land. But I could never understand why. The wind howls at all times of day, burning your skin off and leaving you raw. And even though we share the same grey skies, theirs seems darker, gloomier. As if no light was ever welcomed.
And their moon taints everything in crimson at night, as if a bloodbath has befallen the land.
I really don’t understand wyverians.
Tabitha Wysteria
Rowan and Elowen had laid Rio Hawthorne’s body within one of the smaller Fae carriers—the kind ordinarily used to ferry spices, fabrics and delicate wares between cities. They were crafted from thick, interwoven branches, held by servants who carried each end with practised ease. A roof of broad leaves arched above, shielding whatever lay inside from rain’s cruelty or the sun’s relentless blaze.
They had informed the servants that the princess was exhausted and sleeping. No one questioned them. No one ever did.
At least five such carriers moved in quiet procession across the land, swaying gently with each measured step.They had placed Rio in the last of them, where fewer curious eyes might stray and fewer whispers might gather.
Rowan’s attention drifted when he noticed a thin child slip from the fringes of the group. The boy lingered behind until he found himself hidden from the servants’ line of sight. A frail arm darted beneath the leaf canopy and emerged clutching a small loaf of bread. He glanced about, sharp and wary, like a creature long accustomed to being hunted.
Rowan tilted his head, faintly amused.
It did not take long for the child’s gaze to collide with his own. The colour drained from the boy’s face.
He bolted.
Rowan merely flexed his fingers, and a tree root surged from the earth like a serpent stirred from sleep. It caught the boy’s ankle and sent him sprawling, the stolen bread tumbling from his grasp. Rowan stepped forward with unhurried grace, catching the loaf before it touched the dirt.
He crouched before the fallen child and arched a single brow.
‘If you’re going to risk stealing, you ought to be better at it,’ Rowan drawled, tearing a generous bite from the loaf. Crumbs scattered over the forest floor. He chewed thoughtfully, then offered the remaining bread back to the child.
The boy stared at him in stunned disbelief before clutching the loaf to his chest as though it were something sacred, fragile and easily snatched away.
‘Have you a name?’ Rowan asked lightly.
The child did not answer. His blue eyes—too large for his gaunt face—only widened further, fear pooling within them.
Elowen appeared moments later, swift and silent as a blade drawn from its sheath. She had noticed her brother’s absence from their post beside the carrier.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed, her bright blue brows narrowing.
‘Look what I found.’ Rowan gestured lazily towards the child.
‘Is it lost?’
Rowan lifted a shoulder. ‘Are you lost?’ he asked the boy.
No reply.
