The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

by Carissa Broadbent

Whore, they had called her. It was such a dull, unsophisticated insult. They thought that was what had provoked me?

But to claim that the woman who had literally changed the course of the divine world, who had saved countless lives and touched countless souls, would ever be forgotten . . . Never. Mische Iliae would be remembered by the bones of time itself, and I knew it because I would write her story there with my blood if I had to.

“I think it’s amusing,” I said, “that creatures as powerful as you are so stupid.” Shiket drew herself up to her full formidable height. Her helmet gleamed. Her six blades glowed. And even I, through my hatred, had to admit that she looked every bit the legend. I almost regretted speaking. Almost.

“You don’t have much time,” he said. “You could have done this the easy way, but apparently you and your lover are insistent upon stumbling into the most difficult possible course. Somehow I’m not surprised.” To think I had been considering thanking him.

follow my gaze. “You’re making that face.” I was going to regret asking. “That face?” “The decoding magical complexities face. Like this.” She lowered her brows over narrowed eyes and stroked her chin. I had been right. I did regret asking. Still, I tried very hard to look offended and not amused.

“I mean this in a nice way, but I don’t think you’re very useful like this.” “There’s no nice way to call me useless, Dawndrinker.” “Only temporarily useless, Warden.”

And a voice, quiet and booming at once, said, “Get your hands off my wife.”

But a voice rang out in my head: Asar, stop! Mische, speaking into my mind. The realization struck me with a distant note of pride—that she had learned this skill.

“Have you seen him since your exile?” “No. I have not.” She held that look, one that made me think, just for a moment, that maybe she saw more than I’d given her credit for—that maybe she and I had more in common than I’d known, growing up.

would never,” I said, aghast. “You expect me to believe that you are going to sit quietly in this room of ancient tomes without wandering off?” His tone told me exactly what he thought of my self-control, which was a little insulting.

“Gideon,” Asar hissed. But Gideon just smiled at me. “A marriage should not be built on secrets,” he said. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“You are making a mistake,” he rasped out. “You don’t understand what it would mean to make an enemy of me.” I laughed, the sound jarring. “No, you didn’t understand what it would mean to make an enemy of me.”

“I am the greatest Nightborn king in Obitraen history. I go where I please.” I felt another wave of deep sympathy at the thought of Oraya’s upbringing.

Use your charms instead.” “Or my magical death touch?” Asar gave me a flat stare. He did not like joking about my death touch. He did not like joking about my death at all.

I turned around. “Where have you⁠—” Mische stood before me, grinning, hands clasped behind her back. I forgot what I had been saying. She wore a gown that was so distinctly Shadowborn that on anyone else, it would verge on stereotype. And yet, contrasted with her lightness—lightness that transcended even death itself—it

Then she leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Isn’t a Shadowborn royal expected to dance with his wife?” I briefly forgot what I was doing and where we were and all the many unpleasant realities upon our shoulders. I forgot everything except for her. “Dance with me,” she said again, her voice comically low, and I stifled a chuckle. “Was that supposed to be compulsion, Iliae?” “What, it didn’t work?” Maybe it had. I wondered whether Mische had figured out yet that I would never—could never—say no to her.

“Mische!” A booming voice rang out behind me. Mische’s eyes widened, lips parted. I felt, in my own heart, the cold spell fall over hers. I whirled around. A towering man wearing Nightborn finery stood before us. Dark red hair fell to his shoulders, its messiness standing in stark contrast to the neatness of his clothing. His stance was rigid, and the sheer intensity of his emotions—a knot of shock and anger and breathtaking relief—were so intense that they burst from his mind without me even having to reach for them. I stepped in front of Mische, wary. Finally, she managed a single word: “Raihn.”

“And the guardian?” “It shouldn’t bother us.” “You just hesitated before you said that.” “No, I didn’t.” Yes, he fucking did, but fine.

Brilliant, Mische. Absolutely fucking brilliant. I didn’t intend the thought for anyone but myself. But I still heard her amused reply: I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Goddess help me, I was proud of her. My chest hurt with it.

“You can wait here for your escorts,” he said as he rose. “My time with you is done.” He sounded relieved, which was a little insulting considering that we were unconscious the entire time. Surely our company couldn’t have been that terrible.

I knew the onslaught of questions was coming before she opened her mouth. “Why were you there? What did you do there? What was it like?” She said them all so quickly, as if they all warred for dominance.

I frowned. “That’s a terrible name.” How judgmental, Asar said into my mind. Some horses probably think Mische is a terrible name. I wrinkled my nose at him.

“One lesser god?” I said cheerfully. “That’s nothing.” I sounded more confident than I felt.

Atrius did not look convinced. “I had an army of elite Bloodborn warriors the last time I did this.” “Right. But this t-time, you have us.” He glanced between us, unimpressed. “Mm-hmm.” What is that look on his face? I said to Asar silently. I’m a god slayer!

You have a stronger grip on your magic than you ever have. The dead will happily follow you anywhere. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk that made my not-heart flip in my chest. As they should. They have exquisite taste.

“I don’t regret it,” I said again. “Which part?” she murmured. “Any of it, Mische.” And then I kissed her.

“You survived the forge. I’m pleased to see it.” Sun take me. Was that a hint of relief on his face? That was almost sweet.

“You’re welcome here as long as Mische says you should be. But let’s be clear. If you ever hurt her, in any sense, I will peel your skin off and make you eat it.” She said it like she was discussing the weather. It was probably the only time I’d had to suppress a smile at such a blatant threat.

There was a lot of . . .” I made a stoney, angry face, which made Oraya choke a laugh. “Oh, I know that one.”

“What else did he say?” she asked. I knew the real question: Did he say he was sorry? I felt how desperately she wanted that closure. And I so wished I could give it to her. I said nothing, and that was answer enough for her. She let out another laugh, this one a little more choked up than the last.

And in those notes, I saw it: mirrored floors, curved rafters of bone, crawling ivy dotted with blood-red flowers. My lips curled. “Morthryn,” I whispered. Even though the word that sat on my lips was, home.

In elegant script, a name was written on the envelope: Little Serpent. “I thought you said that you had nothing more you could say to her,” I said. He said, after a pause, “I was told that it was worth trying, anyway.”