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

by Carissa Broadbent

You smell like death, boy. Carve out your heart for it and it will give you the world in return.

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.

What does it feel like to die? When I died, it was with my god’s blood on my hands, my lover’s pleas in my ears, and the oblivion of eternal darkness—not eternal dawn—seared into my eyes. When I died, it did not feel like the peaceful end to a grand fight. It felt like the beginning of one.

“You killed Atroxus,” Vincent confirmed, though his tone seemed almost insulted he had to admit I’d done such a thing. “The sun fell as he did. Ushering in an endless night.”

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. She was not done with this world. Only the ignorant believed that death was an end. It certainly would not be for her.

“Billions of threads,” she murmured, “and not a single one where you say no.”

“Dark Mother help me, girl, you never stop.” I blinked. “That’s not true. I’m just⁠—” “It is relentless.” He yanked his jacket back on. The spatters of souleater blood were slowly fading—it never lasted long—though he scowled at the stain in disgust, like he could still feel its existence. “Goddess help me understand why anyone would go through such lengths of breaking divine laws just to be subjected to this for the rest of their goddess-damned lives.”

Loving this duo

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

“No matter what’s ahead, never sacrifice the messy parts of your mortality, Asar. I like those the best.” My gaze fell to her mouth. I so desperately wanted to taste her. Slowly, I raised her hood. Then I laid my hands on either side of her face through the fabric. I pressed my lips to her cheek. Her jaw. Her throat. “Then take them,” I murmured. “They’re for you.”

I no longer cared to find Alarus’s heart. I cared only to find my own.

Divinity commanded one’s full attention. It sucked the life from all else—even here, in the middle of the falling of a civilization. Nyaxia was the center of it all. And yet. Look at her, a voice whispered. One last time. The voice did not belong to the eye or the mask. It belonged to my mortal heart. I found Mische across the battlefield. Her eyes locked to mine. Dread fell over her face. I could hear her voice reaching across the carnage, screaming, No. But I rose anyway. I turned to Nyaxia. And when she reached for me, I went to her.

There are no more tales to tell. A god has no need of a mortal past.

😭😭😭

I had walked the path to divinity; I had walked the path to death. And yet, here, in her presence, I was overwhelmed. Here, in her presence, I knew worship.