Page 108 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

MISCHE

W e wove through the Descent together. Maybe the piece of Alarus’s divinity that we held allowed us to travel its paths more easily now, or maybe the underworld had simply accepted us as its own, but it was now much simpler to navigate.

Morthryn’s roots stretched deeper every day.

We often found that we could get to most of the Descent within hours.

We stepped from Morthryn’s doors and into the Descent. We walked through dusty fields and across smooth, mirrored rivers. In the distance, souleaters wound lazily through the sky, circling the peaks of distant mountains.

Soon, we came upon a forest of towering white trees.

A few souls wandered between them, peaceful.

There were places in the Descent where the veil to the underworld was thin.

One day, we would repair it, and the dead would be confined to the underworld.

But for now, they were safe here, too, if they chose to wander this far.

My gaze lingered on the forest too long, peering at the silhouettes between the tree trunks.

I had come here nearly every night, hoping to find Saescha. Even now, the hope nagged stubbornly at me, even though I didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“You should go,” Asar said.

“Hm?”

“You should go,” he repeated pointedly. And when I glanced at him, his gaze was soft and knowing.

He gestured to the forest.

“Go,” he insisted. “I won’t be far.”

In the forest, the dead wandered. It was peaceful here. These were not wraiths, trapped between life and death. They were deceased souls who had come to peer in upon the living. Their forms, shadowy and translucent, passed between the smooth tree trunks like shooting stars between galaxies.

I liked coming here. I liked the sense of peace, and I liked knowing that the dead could be that way. Content.

Even if I never saw the soul I was waiting for.

I sat upon a rock and watched the souls drift by. I searched for a familiar face, and found none.

I peered over my shoulder at Asar, who lingered in the distance.

He cocked his head at me. Patience, Iliae.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

What did you ? —

But then, movement out of the corner of my eye. And even though it was so quick I couldn’t make out its features, I knew.

When you spend your entire life with someone, you memorize everything about them. The way they smell, the way they move, the way their voice rises and falls.

And I knew Saescha right away.

My heart clenched. My body froze. My eyes remained straight ahead. The leap of hope was so sudden and fierce that I didn’t even want to look, for the fear of it shattering.

Out of the corner of my eye, the shadow paused.

A scent of jasmine and the ocean rolled over me. It smelled like childhood safety.

The shadow settled on the rock beside me.

I couldn’t look at her.

What would I see? Half of me expected to see her as she had died, eyes wide open with her throat torn out.

To see her as she had been as a wraith, lost and hungry, reaching for a sunrise that would never come.

To see her as she had been as a Sentinel, her soul twisted and bastardized to be used as a weapon.

Slowly, I turned my head.

Saescha was not a wraith or a Sentinel or a corpse.

The Saescha beside me was the Saescha who had rocked me to sleep at night, who had laughed with me over silly stories, who had protected me from a terrifying world. She was the Saescha I had known as a child, strong and beautiful and kind and greater, in my eyes, than any goddess.

My sister was whole.

My eyes burned. Now that I had forced myself to look at her, I couldn’t look away. She gazed off into the distance. Her body was faint, outlined in silver, only a hint of color to her skin, hair, and eyes. She wore her Dawndrinker robes. Her throat was whole.

Her soul had suffered so greatly. So many nights, I lay in bed thinking of her fate.

I’d freed her from the grip of Shiket’s vengeance, but could a soul repair itself after it had been twisted and broken so many times?

I didn’t know. And every time I came here, every time I searched for her in our walks through the Descent, that hope died a little more.

But here she was.

I couldn’t touch her. Even to us, death meant something. I couldn’t reach her, and I wouldn’t want to, anyway—wouldn’t want to bring her back from the rest she had finally found.

But my hand pressed beside hers, our little fingers nearly touching.

A tear slid down my cheek. I had nothing I could say to her. I’d already apologized for all the ways I had failed her. And I knew that none of those words would ever be enough.

At last, her gaze slid from the forest, slowly, until her eyes met mine.

There was no hatred in that stare.

Instead, there were multitudes within it—affection, regret, resentment. Apology. Forgiveness. And above all, despite everything, always, love.

There would always be wounds unhealed. Always be scars. But here, we could sit together, pressed to either side of the line between life and death, united in quiet peace.

A gentle smile rolled over her lips. She looked out to the horizon. And I lifted my chin to it, feeling her presence roll over me like the dawn.

At last, at peace.