Page 15 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

MISCHE

T he stairs floated in the ether, slightly askew, threatening to break as I climbed—first with unsteady steps, and then, as they grew steeper, on my hands and knees as if scaling a ladder.

Droplets of red now poured from above, stinging my cheeks.

When I craned my neck to look up, I realized that they were fragments of the veil, cascading down like summer rain.

The higher I rose, the less the underworld adhered to the logic of mortal physics.

Wraiths fell from above in slow motion, tumbling to the underworld.

In the distance, I saw pieces of the Descent I now knew so well suspended as if in layers of gelatin—the mushrooms of Body, the rivers of Psyche, the poppy fields of Soul.

With every step, my body grew heavier. Supposedly, I had no muscles, no bones—but I had to fight for every movement, like I was pulling against a quickening tide. Somehow Luce, of course, managed to traverse the stairs like they were nothing, occasionally nudging me as if to say, Keep up!

A sudden blast of force from above nearly threw me from the path. I caught the edge of a cracked stone step just in time to dangle from the edge.

With Luce’s help, I dragged myself back onto the steps. My orientation seemed to have shifted. The veil was closer, somehow, standing before me in smoky, shimmering mist. Beautiful. Terrifying.

And through it, a figure against the fog. I couldn’t see his features, nothing but the faintest smear of a human-shaped silhouette, but I knew. I’d know him anywhere.

Asar looked, felt, just as he had in that ritual circle. Mortal, god, vampire, prince, exile. In some realities, all at once.

Jagged cracks reverberated through the veil where his hands met it. With every strike, the thread to my heart lurched.

Before he rips apart the veil to get to you, Vincent had said.

Gods help me, that was exactly what he was doing. Tearing apart the fragile integrity of what still stood.

My selfish longing, for him, for life, bloomed hot in my chest, nearly— nearly —as powerful as a heartbeat.

Luce yipped in excitement. Hurry , she seemed to say . Quickly, quickly.

“I’m trying,” I managed to grunt out. With a hiss of exertion, I pulled myself up the final steps. The veil was so close, I could smell mortality.

But before I could reach it, a great, serpentine form slithered in front of me.

You cannot leave.

The guardian—the viper—circled me, silver scales over silver scales. Her gold skull face stared into mine. Her voice sounded impossibly immortal, more akin to the shifting of the natural world than any human words. Yet, I still felt the desperation in it.

I gave her the only answer I had. “I have to.”

If you leave, it will not make you alive. And it will not be the last time you are here.

CRACK, as another flash of lightning spasmed across the veil. The serpent lurched, as if she felt it through her own bones. Wails echoed in the dark as more dead fell to nothingness.

Luce snarled, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white and gold. The Sentinel I’d evaded streaked across the sky, searching through the glut of wraiths.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the serpent. “I have to go right now .”

Go! Luce insisted.

On the other side of the veil, Asar’s silhouette again lifted his hands.

I didn’t have time to think.

I raised my blade, and I brought it down, and the veil shattered.

Death swallowed me in a wave.

I am lying in the dirt in the Sanctum of Soul ? —

Then let me burn ? —

Fire everywhere.

My hands reached out blindly. I managed to grab something solid, but I wasn’t sure what. Luce? The thread?

Keep moving, a voice urged.

Saescha kneels at the edge of the water, her face doused in sun ? —

Shattering gold in the sky ? —

Rain. There was rain on my face.

Not rain.

Why are you crying, Asar?

I felt my last breath cave in my chest, leaving cold, still emptiness behind.

Another step. Another.

Shiket’s blade opens my ribs, pierces my heart.

And at last, those final echoing words:

I will find you.

I will find you.

I will ? —

A hand folded around mine—long fingers, raised scars, strong and steadfast as a vow fulfilled.

And all I could do was cling to that grip, a single lifeline of faith, as I flung myself into the open arms of the abyss.