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

by Carissa Broadbent

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’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.”

“Billions of threads,” she murmured, “and not a single one where you say no.” And then she drew the threads tight, and the world rearranged.

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.”

“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.”

Septimus was the seventh Bloodborn prince, and his name sounded like his parents simply ran out of inspiration by the time they got to him.

I had no choice. 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.

He paused, confused. The mask, the eye, and the heart trembled with indignation. {Who does challenge us?} the mask demanded. {I cannot see beyond the veil,} the eye mused. The heart was angriest of all. It said nothing, just throbbed against his rib cage. Only the wound beneath it was pleased. Hopeful.