Page 24 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

MISCHE

T he rain pelted us sideways, slicing over my cheek like broken glass. The fastest of the drops passed right through me, like the strike of Elias’s soldier had in Morthryn. Fitting, because the rainfall felt just as violent.

Our boat bobbed over choppy water. Distant thunder echoed from beyond the capital, highlighting the skyline against bursts of fog-softened silver.

“H-h-how much farther?” I wrapped my cloak tight around myself and Luce, who pressed her body to mine. I wasn’t sure whether she was letting me shelter her, or if it was just her excuse to help shelter me.

I couldn’t stop shivering. One might think that being dead would make me more resilient. No such luck. First, the exhaustion. Now, the cold.

“Almost there,” Asar said tightly. Our boat, a tiny little thing etched with glyphs of protection, was piloted by a Shadowborn creation of smoke that barely took on the shape of a person.

It was, even by my standards, a bit eerie.

I thought maybe if we were going to make it through the storm in one piece, it might help to be guided by someone who at least had eyes. But what did I know?

We had been traveling for two hours now, and Asar had spoken about as many words.

He warned me before we left the castle that though Egrette had not sent guards with us, we would undoubtedly be trailed by observation spells.

Still, I knew his silence was about more than just caution.

He sat with his back rod straight, his jaw tight, hands clasped in his lap. He would hardly look at me.

I barely remembered falling asleep after my conversation with Asar—it felt, actually, more like ceasing to exist. I awoke to Asar returning to the apartment with a set jaw and determined eyes.

He told me that he’d maneuvered a plausible excuse for us to go visit the one place he knew we could find information about the mask, and potentially, the heart and eye, too.

“It’s off the coast,” he said, when I’d prodded for more information. “A place to keep things that are too valuable to stay in the city.”

“Like?.?.?.?an archive?” I had asked.

He only said, “Yes,” in a way that was clearly a lie, and then tossed a cloak at me and told me we needed to be going before the storm made travel impossible.

Travel already seemed impossible. But our window of time before the Melume was closing quickly, so off we went.

Now, our shadowy captain steered our boat through a narrow opening between two sheer stone cliffs.

The stone had once been covered in ivy, though the leaves now had mostly fallen to the sea in wait for a sun that had never come.

Still, the naked vines clung stubbornly to the rock, unwilling to let go even in death.

To my relief, the walls offered a reprieve from the rain. The tunnel continued for some time beneath arches of crumbling stone that looked older than Obitraes itself. When we finally passed through the final arch, Asar’s very soul chilled. I knew it, because I felt it in my chest, too.

A castle now towered over us.

It was amazing that, large as the building was, we hadn’t been able to see it from a distance.

Perhaps that was the work of the storm, or perhaps it was the work of illusion spells.

It was a striking structure, though I couldn’t call it beautiful.

Ebony cliffs curved around it on one side, the walls built into the glossy stone.

The island itself was covered in greenery, which someone magically gifted had apparently worked hard these last few months to keep alive.

A single pointed spire rose up from it in intricate black metal.

It was such a pristine example of Shadowborn architecture, all circles of stained glass and arches of twisted, decorative metal and ivy-covered stone.

And yet, as our boat came ashore—at a small dock that seemed like it was very rarely used—I couldn’t shake a deep discomfort.

It looked more like a prison to me than Morthryn ever had.

With his work complete, our guide dissolved into the night without any further acknowledgment. A fresh sheet of rain soaked us. Asar stood abruptly.

“Don’t speak to anyone,” he said, as we climbed onto the shore. “Don’t let anyone look at you too closely. And stay near me.”

He seemed like he was questioning all over again his decision to bring me along.

I gave him a lopsided smile and a salute. “Yes, Mother.”

Asar didn’t even take the obvious bait of mocking my mockery— I’m either a mother or a captain, pick your insult and stay consistent —which made me even more concerned.

Instead, he just let out a wordless grumble and ushered us down a flagstone pathway to a set of imposing doors.

They opened for us like arms outstretched for a long-lost son.

With every step, Asar grew smaller.

Inside, a hush fell over us. The doors slammed closed behind us with a commanding BANG that made me jump forward.

We stepped into a large, circular room, open all the way up to the pointed spire above.

Moonlight flooded in through stained glass windows, and nightfire hovered in lanterns suspended in nothingness at the center of spiraling staircases.

Tiny blurs flung from railing to railing, and it took a moment for me to realize that they were birds—flitting, agitated, near the windows.

Balconies circled the walls, floor after floor, all of them lined with books—gods help me, I had never in my life seen so many books .

Among them were shelves of artifacts. Surely a collection that rivaled any in Obitraes.

It dwarfed Asar’s study in Morthryn, which had amazed me.

Yet, it had none of its reverence. Asar had maintained his collection meticulously, with great respect for all the knowledge he held.

Here, it was locked away behind bars and spells.

I felt as if a cell door might slam closed behind us if we proved ourselves too interesting to let go.

“Where are we?” I found myself whispering.

“It’s called Ryvenhaal.”

Asar bit down on the word. Luce rubbed against his legs, and his hand absentmindedly stroked her head.

My steps faltered. I stared hard at Asar.

He paused, looking back. “What?”

“You grew up here.”

It wasn’t a question. It struck me with unshakable certainty.

This place felt like Asar. It even smelled like him, though in an off-putting, twisted way, as if masking rot.

And the way he wilted as we passed through these doors?.

.?.?I imagined that I might do the same if I ever stepped foot in the Citadel again.

Asar’s throat bobbed. He continued walking.

“Better and better at mind magic every day, Iliae,” he muttered.

My steps quickened to catch up with him. “Why here?”

“My father wanted to cultivate tools that could help him create the strongest kingdom in the world. And that meant cultivating Shadowborn magics that were on the wrong side of acceptability, even by Nyaxia’s laws.

Like necromancy. Ryvenhaal is technically outside the House of Shadow, which makes it less likely to attract unwanted attention. ”

Tools. A stab of disgust twisted in my stomach when he said that word. “You weren’t a tool. You were a child .”

“If I had just been a child, Raoul would have executed me without a second thought. Being a tool gave me the chance to live.”

He said this so simply. I hated how deeply I understood it.

Because from the moment Atroxus chose me at eight years old, I’d had a function to fulfill, too.

And like Asar, without it, I would have been thrown away.

It was hard to question what kept you alive, even if it did terrible things with the life it gave you.

I seized Asar’s hand, squeezing it under the safe cover of my leather gloves—even though I craved skin. The corner of his mouth lifted in a weak smile, but his businesslike pace didn’t slow.

“If there is anywhere in the House of Shadow that holds information about ascension, it’s here,” he said. “It’s one of the greatest archives of?.?.?.?sensitive?.?.?.?magical information in the world.”

I looked up, to the floors and floors of shelves spiraling above us. Thousands of books? Millions? Tens of millions?

“I bet it is,” I murmured.

Asar nudged my back, and it was only then that I realized I had stopped walking.

“I can smell your arousal from here,” he remarked.

I choked a laugh, but I felt as if my cheeks had flushed—could that happen, as a wraith?

My gaze met Asar’s, then slid down and settled on his bare throat and the triangle of skin pointing down to his chest. I found myself staring at it like it was blood.

With that same devastating, soul-deep hunger.

I imagined pressing my mouth to it. Dragging my tongue up his neck?—

Asar broke the tension by turning to the hall, clearing his throat. “This way.”

Sun fucking take me. Get ahold of yourself, Mische.

I tucked my hand—tingling beneath my gloves—into my coat pocket as we wound through a maze of bookshelves.

Books and crates were carted around by formless shadows that almost—almost—resembled floating humanoid silhouettes.

Still, I felt constant presences lurking just out of sight.

The dead whispered in the back of my mind.

“They’re loud in here,” I murmured. “The dead.”

“Remnants of dead souls are attracted to places where they sense they might be acknowledged. They’ve always lingered around here, but they’re?.?.?.?active tonight. Maybe because the Melume is so close.”

“Or because the veil is tearing.”

Asar was ominously silent in response to that. We passed a mirror mounted against a brocade-covered wall. I could have sworn I briefly saw Vincent peering through it, frowning with impatience.

We came to a set of black double doors with glyphs carved in a circle at its center. Asar pressed his palm to the center of it, and the doors opened for him. But when I tried to step through, my head slammed against something hard.