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August 17 - October 3, 2025
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.
And he cared about none of it, because he was losing the love of his life.
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.
I died alone, listening to the screams of the love of my life. What does it feel like to die?
When I died, it did not feel like the peaceful end to a grand fight. It felt like the beginning of one.
I had died. Gods help me. I had died.
But then I thought of the way Asar had looked at my skin, marred by my greatest shames, as if it was still worthy of worship.
Slayed
Going on a mission to save the world with my friend’s dead father was not at all what I expected to be doing in death.
And here, between mortality and divinity, I reached into the darkness and honed myself against the whetstone of a single memory. Mische’s death.
“I am not pleading my innocence,” I hissed. “I’m giving credit to its rightful owner. I did not kill Atroxus. Mische Iliae did, and she deserves to have her name painted in the stars for it.”
Love a man who sings the praises of his woman 👏
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.
But I’d know her anywhere. I’d memorized her soul. I’d pressed her final moments into my heart like preserved rose petals.
Uuuuggh he's always saying the most 🥹
But those eyes. Those eyes. Even as she had died, they’d looked just like I had imagined the sun.
“You are telling me,” I said, “that I will need to ascend to divinity.” A faint smile twitched at her mouth. “Yes, Asar Voldari. You will need to become a god.”
Her six wings spread, the three on the left showing me myself upon the throne of the House of Shadow, ruling over the Shadowborn army, building an empire from eternal night. The three on the right, showing me death, destruction, and Mische. It wasn’t even a choice. “Take me to her,” I said.
“Billions of threads,” she murmured, “and not a single one where you say no.”
Somehow, amongst all this sadness, the thought of Asar being without Luce and Luce without Asar seemed saddest of all.
I’d shatter it to get to her. I didn’t even care anymore.
A hand folded around mine—long fingers, raised scars, strong and steadfast as a vow fulfilled.
It was the laughter—the indifference—that had enraged the boy most. He held his dead friend for a long time. And then, at last, something within him snapped.
The first time the boy successfully stepped through the veil, he would barely remember it. Asking him to describe it would be like asking one to describe how to breathe. The muscles worked, the magic bowed, and the underworld opened for him.
“Hello, Warden,” she whispered. “Hello, Dawndrinker.”
There's no better microtrope than cute nicknaming
“Mische Iliae, Dawndrinker or Shadowborn, living or dead, I will never let you go.”
But the way he looked at me was the way my friend, my lover, had. His eyes were not those of a god or a king. They were Asar’s. My Asar’s.
And a voice, quiet and booming at once, said, “Get your hands off my wife.”
Classsic
Tools. A stab of disgust twisted in my stomach when he said that word. “You weren’t a tool. You were a child.”
In the fireplace flames, I saw a constellation of freckles and gold eyes and a perfect body falling beneath a blade of injustice.
Mische looked up to the windows. “I think it’s quite beautiful here. But . . . sad. Even the ghosts here are sad. It was probably a difficult place for a child to grow up.” My jaw was so tight that my ears rang with the tension.
She was just as hungry. She whispered, “Stay.” One word, and my self-control shattered.
She looked at me with such abject, undeserved affection. It made me think of how a sunrise I’d never witnessed must feel.
“I have to admit, I never expected that I’d see you here, of all places.” A voice I hoped I’d never hear again came from behind me. The scent of smoke drifted across the ballroom. I turned. Luce growled low in her throat, and Septimus chuckled.
Septimus half shrugged. “Suit yourself, dove. I have never been afraid to bear the mantle of the villain.”
Still, none of that meant I trusted Septimus. The opposite, actually. Most vampires fought for glory. Septimus fought for survival. That made him twice as dangerous.
I wondered whether Mische had figured out yet that I would never—could never—say no to her. It was the kind of powerlessness I’d been taught to fear my entire life. And yet I was so eager to run headfirst toward it.
I dipped her, and in the movement, I caught the faintest inhale of her scent—spice and ash and, I was certain, even though I’d never experienced it myself, sunshine.
Asar and I had spent months closing gates to the underworld. Now we were tearing one open.
The pain was extraordinary. The pleasure was unbelievable. {At long last,} a voice whispered, with piqued interest, {a new heir.}
“No,” I said firmly. “You don’t use it. I’ve got—” I wiggled my fingers. Asar stared flatly at me. “What?” “Death touch! Magical death touch!”
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.
The prince had spent a lifetime hauling strength from the worst of his memories, forging rage into destruction. And it was, always, always, destruction. The only thing he was capable of. The only purpose he could fulfill.
“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.”
I knew Asar loved me, and I knew that words were the least valuable currency to show it. And yet. His voice wrapping around that word made me shiver. I wanted to capture it and hold it in my soul forever. A gift I could never deserve.
“You are an event, Mische Iliae,” he murmured. “God slayer. Dawndrinker. Shadowborn queen. And I would die to taste your skin.”
“Stay out of my mind, vampire,” Sylina hissed. “And keep your insulting surprise to yourself. I told you I was no prisoner. I rule Glaea as Atrius’s equal.”
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. Gods damn this man. What could I even say to that? I sighed. “Fine.”
“She must be so lonely,” I murmured. Asar was still staring up at that chain, clink, clink, clink-ing against the gate. “She must be so angry,” he said.
Funny, how I’d never experienced the sensation of the sun falling over my face. But every time, I was so certain that it must feel something like Mische’s presence.
“No matter what’s ahead, never sacrifice the messy parts of your mortality, Asar. I like those the best.”
Yep.
My hand closed around the silver handle. Breath swept through me. Blood roared. An ancient stare snapped to mine. {Who are you?} an intrigued voice whispered. I lifted the axe and swung.
