Page 14 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

ASAR

I ’d walked the boundaries between worlds.

I traversed the Sanctums of the underworld itself.

But traveling as gods did nearly ripped my soul to shreds.

Three-dimensional space flattened to a single all-encompassing sensation.

Hills, forests, seas. The grandest of human cities, the grimiest of slums, the towering curves of the House of Night and spires of the House of Shadow.

The algae clinging to rocks at the bottomless depths of the sea and the frost blooming on petrified trees upon the desolate peaks of the highest mountains.

A beat of a butterfly’s wings and the movement of the greatest armies in the world.

All of it, experienced in equal measure, all at once.

At first, I was certain that I wouldn’t survive it—or worse, that I wouldn’t be able to navigate it. But I clung to that thread of fate that Acaeja had drawn to Mische.

I centered myself around that moment, where life had met death.

That moment, when Shiket’s sword had skewered Mische’s heart. When she had slipped away from me.

The rest of the word no longer mattered. The layout of the spira became—not logical, not quite, but something close enough, like blood through veins. In my world, every heartbeat pushed me to her. I only had to let it take me there.

Ahead, among the misty clouds, a familiar place took shape—spindly hallways like roots, a sea of translucent red, distant glowing dots so far away they looked like specks of dust floating in the dusky light. The Descent.

A door appeared before me, nearly whipping right by, and I threw myself at it.

I had come to love the underworld. Even in the imperfection of the decay I couldn’t fight, I admired the beauty of its construction.

A path to usher souls from one existence to the next, empathetic and kind in its orderly efficiency.

I’d spent years leaning over broken gates and decaying spells, and every one of those imperfections had hurt a little to witness.

What met me now was a travesty.

The veil, once smooth as the frozen surface of a pond, now churned—a membrane barely holding back the clawing hands from beneath.

Jagged tears ripped through the silvery surface in both directions, sending puffs of red spilling like blood into the sea.

In some tears, souleaters—more twisted than I’d ever seen them—tried to push through.

In others, disoriented souls of the recent dead tumbled to the abyss below.

The lioness and the serpent, steadfast in their missions, attempted to rule over the chaos. But it was too much even for these great, ancient beasts to control.

When my weight hit the stone, the steps collapsed beneath me. I fell, skidding across the veil, cold and fragile as ice.

With the impact, I felt her.

A brown eye threaded with gold. A smattering of freckles. The scent of burnt spice.

Close.

So close.

I pressed my hand to the thread at my heart, the dripping line of red flickering through the smooth glass of the veil. My gaze followed it up, through the smoke, to?—

A gate. A closed gate, intended for the recent dead, kept by the guardians. But a gate nonetheless. My path via Morthryn’s steps had been destroyed. This was my next best option.

I lunged for it.

But then a cold shadow fell over me.

I looked up to see a golden lion skull staring me down.

The guardian’s face had broken more since I’d last seen her.

Now her jaw and much of her snout was missing.

The ethereal outlines of her form were uneven and trembling, like smoke beneath an unforgiving winter breeze.

Her chipped fangs were stained with the gruesome remnants of her losing battle.

Not long ago, even I had feared the guardians who stood at the veil. The most powerful of the creatures Alarus had created to lord over his kingdom.

Now, I felt nothing but frustration. “Let me pass.”

The veil barely holds. The lioness’s voice sounded like the groan of collapsing stone. Another door cannot be opened, lest the rest of it fall.

“It is already falling. I am Alarus’s heir. I command you to let me pass.”

The lioness cocked her head. You smell like him. But you are not him.

Another bolt of pain. Another puff of mist. I felt Mische closer, as if her breath was pressed up against the other side of the veil.

I’d shatter it to get to her. I didn’t even care anymore.

“I am doing this to gain the power to repair what has been broken,” I snapped. “Let me pass.”

Let me pass. Let me pass.

My voice boomed with compulsion. But the guardian didn’t move, ancient eyes seeing more than I willingly revealed.

You love the underworld, heir of death, she said. But there is something else you love more, and I have already sacrificed my home to this tale once before.

An ugly, humorless laugh bubbled up in my throat. I could feel Acaeja’s gift, access to the spira to make our escape, fading second by second. Could feel my connection to Mische, painfully fragile, pulling tighter.

Threatening to snap.

I looked down at my hand against the veil. My scars consumed the left one, gleaming blue and purple and black—brighter than I’d ever seen them—drowning out the flickering ink of my Heir Mark. All those conflicting strokes, staining me a king and a sinner in equal measure.

I’d already given up the kingdom. Might as well embrace the sin.

I was Alarus’s heir. I held his power in my veins. No one, not even a guardian, could stop me from using it.

“I’m sorry, guardian,” I said. “I swear to you, it will be worth it.”

I lifted my hands. Wielding Shadowborn power had always come to me so easily, like breathing. A limb to be manipulated, a sense to be drawn on. This was many times stronger. This was my kingdom. My magic.

The guardian let loose a roar of defiance as I tore the door open by force, and I did not care what went with it.