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

by Carissa Broadbent

This is the tale of how a fallen one ascends. Long ago, I told you a tale of a chosen girl who fell to the darkness. Now I will tell you the tale of a boy who was born within it.

This is the tale of how a fallen one ascends. He does it in countless cascading decisions, over years, over centuries. He does it with the desperation of a starving soul willing to sacrifice anything, everything, for a single chance at redemption. But in the end, he loses her every time.

When I died, it did not feel like the peaceful end to a grand fight. It felt like the beginning of one.

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.

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

I thought, Damn masks and eyes and hearts and divine missions. This is what a true goddess looks like. A sight so stunning that it made the entire damned world stop mid-breath.

“For whatever of your mistakes, Mische Iliae,” he said, quietly, firmly, “for whatever of your faults, for whatever unintended pains you may bring this world, I will love you anyway.”