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

by Carissa Broadbent

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.

It wasn’t even a choice. “Take me to her,” I said. Acaeja smiled as she straightened. Her wings went dark as fate shifted. “Billions of threads,” she murmured, “and not a single one where you say no.”

But the only words that managed to make it to the surface were, “Luce, you are the best best best girl.”

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

She looked at me with such abject, undeserved affection. It made me think of how a sunrise I’d never witnessed must feel.

Raihn? Asar asked into my mind. Raihn, the Nightborn king? Here? And then, when my silence gave him the answer: Is he stupid? Yes. Yes, he was. He had to be. What was he thinking?

We have to go, Asar said gently into my mind. I glanced over my shoulder to see him several strides ahead, watching protectively, unblinking, but waiting to intervene unless I asked him to.

“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.”

How do I start? I asked Asar, too embarrassed to say the question aloud. He gave me a knowing look before unsheathing his sword. Let’s not ask stupid questions, he said. You’ve done this before. You already know. You’re such a frustrating teacher. As if you were any less cryptic in your day, missionary of the “You Just Have to Believe in Yourself.”

In her hands was the axe—a creation of steel and hatred and divine power, with the eye of Alarus forged into its center, glowing red, staring straight into the heart of the underworld itself. A relic beyond anything any mortal had ever witnessed. Once, the sight of it would have brought the collector in me to my knees. But when my knees hit the ground now, it wasn’t for the eye. It was for her.

When I first met her, Oraya had been so afraid of the world that she wouldn’t even let anyone get within five feet of her. The first time she’d let me hug her, I felt like I’d won the Kejari. And now I was the one to push her away.

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.

He somewhat hurriedly pressed the parchment into my hands, then turned away. 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.” My chest tightened. I took the parchment. “I will give it to her.” He cleared his throat and looked away, as if trying to physically shed his vulnerability.