Page 101 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

ASAR

W hen I opened my eyes, I was on my knees. The air smelled of burnt cinnamon. My skin was hot. My chest ached—with the tolerable weight of a little piece of divinity, and the agonizing weight of mortality. The melody of an off-key song still echoed, and it sounded just like her.

It all rose up to meet me at once. The failures, the weaknesses, the memories. The scars upon my skin and heart.

And yet.

And yet.

I reached up and wrapped my hands around her. She still stood, though she swayed against the piano. Her fingers were intertwined in my hair. My hands clutched at her legs through the silk of her tattered skirt, relishing how solid she was.

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.

“Mische,” I whispered. A prayer.

I kissed her feet, bare and bloodstained. Her legs, soft and smooth. I rose, and kissed her perfect, scarred arms, her shoulder, her neck, and at last, her glorious mouth. My mortal heart sang.

We did not speak. We did not have to. Morthryn played the final notes of our song to the rhythm of our shared heartbeat.

And I knew: this was true ascension.

My queen. My light. My darkness. My future. The answer to every question. The ending to every sentence.

She broke the kiss to draw in a shaky inhale. I pressed my forehead to hers, drowning in those eyes, still gleaming with the dregs of divinity. My thumb traced the path through her freckles.

“Hello, Dawndrinker,” I whispered.

She smiled through her tears. “Hello, Warden.”

And I kissed her again, as the underworld bowed around us.