Page 33 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

ASAR

T here were some things I missed about exile.

Yes, I had lost everything. But the thing about losing everything is that it’s surprisingly easy to adjust to having nothing. It turned out that I often didn’t mind being all alone save for Luce, prisoners that I rarely had to interact with, and as many books as I wanted.

On the Nights of the Melume, I would take a glass of blood wine, climb out onto the roof of Morthryn, and watch the sky with Luce beside me.

In those early years, Esme would join us, too, and we’d drink ourselves into a stupor together as I played her song after song until even the dead were exhausted.

It had been a much better party than this goddess-damned ridiculousness.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Egrette said to me. “An embodiment of a new era.”

We stood upon the dais together, looking out over the grand celebration.

She had practically turned herself into a living recreation of the Shadowborn crest, with a gown of deep green velvet accented with bronze.

Her cape was heavily embroidered with copper thread, giving the impression that she was wearing the metalwork that the Shadowborn were so well-known for.

Her hair was bound in an elaborate braided updo, with the Shadowborn crown woven into it as if it grew organically from her head.

Yet, despite her admittedly impressive appearance, she stank of anxiety. She guarded her mind well, as any well-trained Shadowborn should, but she was less adept at keeping the signs of her nervousness from her body. Her hands were clasped tight in front of her, white-knuckled.

“Magnificent,” I repeated, deadpan, and took a sip of wine.

During his rule, our father had decorated the castle in immaculate finery for this event, all roses and ivy, stained glass and patriotic crests.

But Egrette had taken another path. She had the expensive decor and the beautiful flowers, yes—the overflowing feast tables and orchestras of the most talented musicians.

But instead of covering the walls in stuffy, formal decor, she had covered them all in sheets of black silk.

She’d removed the velvet drapes and thrown open all the doors and windows, allowing the chiffon to sway in the gentle sea breeze.

It gave the entire castle a ghostly, mournful cast, like a veiled widow at a funeral.

It was grand and breathtaking, and, I knew, would only be more so once the ceremony began.

It was also a clear message: We fear nothing. We have the night that never ends.

It was striking. Powerful. I had to admit it, even though I was here to tear it all to pieces.

The ballroom was already full of people—Bloodborn in uniforms of red and white, Shadowborn in deep velvets or impeccable military finery, and even a few Nightborn nobles, swathed in flowing silks of blue and purple and silver.

Like the Kejari, the Melume was one of the rare Obitraen events that transcended Houses—the House of Shadow’s one opportunity to fling their doors open to flaunt our power before all our rivals.

The ships, Bloodborn and Shadowborn, crowded the bay, covering the glittering silver sea with fluttering sails of green and black, red and white.

Even the music was ominous, bows drawing over strings with the slow promise of a shadow falling over our enemies.

Yet, I scanned the crowd for only one face.

Typical. Late. I found myself doubting the decision to leave Mische to prepare alone.

“Not much longer now,” Egrette remarked. She nodded out the window, to the moon, which was tinted red. The ring of crimson behind it now gleamed unmistakably. At the height of the Melume, the moon itself would be just as bright, as if covered with spilled blood.

Then she glanced over her shoulder—at the frame that stood behind us, shrouded in gauze that faintly rustled with a breeze that was not coming from the sea.

The Dusk Window.

It was one of the few relics of the age of Vathysia that remained openly displayed in the castle.

A breathtaking piece of work. Some people—uneducated people—referred to it as a “mirror,” but that didn’t do it justice.

The first time I’d seen it up close, I’d found it so difficult to look away that I almost stumbled into the middle of Raoul’s Melume ceremony, which he’d appreciated about as much as one would expect.

The design of the frame itself was pretty enough, with its intricate bronze swirls and flowers and thorns.

But the real beauty of it lay within. At first glance, it did indeed appear to be a mirror, albeit one that was barely usable—the surface was foggy, spotted with silver and red-black, and fractured by cracks that arced corner to corner like lightning strikes.

But if one looked closer, they might notice that the image in the glass didn’t quite match up with a reflection.

They might notice that it offered, instead, a glimpse into the world in which it was created.

This same palace, but far in the past, before Obitraes existed at all—Vathysia, a dead House, and the dead souls that had once walked its halls.

Most of the time, the images in the Window were impossible to make out. But they became clearer as the veil drifted closer. On the Melume, for a few beautiful minutes, we would use the Window to open the door between the past and the present.

This required a ritual to be conducted by the Heir of the House of Shadow—the king had the connection to the castle and the land, and so, it would be the king to draw upon the magic etched into the history here to draw back the veil.

Egrette didn’t care to hide just how much she resented having to conduct this spell together, though not enough, apparently, to risk trying it by herself and failing.

To make up for this blow to her public image, she seemed committed to making sure that she was as visibly royal as possible.

I was more than happy to allow her to keep the stage.

Soon, Egrette flitted off into the crowd with Elias and his pack of guards at her heels, ready to flaunt her power in front of her audience of nobles. I was grateful to have my own excuse to slip away into the ballroom. Standing at the dais, so highly visible, made my teeth grind.

I strode through the party, scanning for Mische.

One hand massaged my temple. I had a horrible headache, like something was pressing up against the inside of my skull—too much awareness of too many sensations, too many whispers of too many different minds, and too many looming shadows of too many possible fates.

And every minute that passed without Mische here was another minute that something could be going catastrophically?—

“Hello, Warden,” came a low murmur from behind me, right into my ear.

The words slithered up my spine. Goose bumps rose where they darted over my skin.

I turned around. “Where have you?—”

Mische stood before me, grinning, hands clasped behind her back.

I forgot what I had been saying.

She wore a gown that was so distinctly Shadowborn that on anyone else, it would verge on stereotype.

And yet, contrasted with her lightness—lightness that transcended even death itself—it was elevated to something interesting, something different.

The gown was crafted of dark green velvet, nearly black, which hugged Mische in a series of swoops that ran over her body like water.

The bodice was a corset, with a neckline that revealed generous cleavage hoisted up by the boning, framed in gathered fabric that slipped off her bare shoulders.

She wore long black gloves that ran all the way to her upper arms. A gauzy black veil—traditional for the Melume—was pinned to her honey-brown curls.

The hood was a blessing. It made it nearly impossible for a casual observer to notice the odd shimmer at the edges of her form.

She looked stunning. A perfect image of a Shadowborn lady. No, a Shadowborn queen.

And yet—it still didn’t quite suit her. Like all that heavy fabric and overdesigned finery just constricted her ethereal beauty.

Even the shadows of the dead, already beginning to collect in the periphery like cobwebs, seemed drawn to her—all of them moving as she did, as if orienting themselves around her north star.

At my silence, her brows rose.

“I actually startled you!” she said proudly. “Look how good I’m getting at that Shadowborn stealth.”

Luce, who had followed close behind her, yipped in an approval that made Mische beam.

“It’s acceptable,” I said.

She scowled. “You’re quite a critic.” Then her eyes fell to my fingers, still pressed to my temple. “Are you alright?”

I slipped my hands into my pockets.

“Yes,” I lied.

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Her smile faded. “It’s alright. I am, too.” Then she extended her hand. “Dance with me, Warden. Let’s distract ourselves.”

I scoffed. “We don’t need to start what will already be a difficult night with that kind of humiliation.”

She actually looked a little hurt, which made me instantly, violently regret my words. Then she leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Isn’t a Shadowborn royal expected to dance with his wife?”

I briefly forgot what I was doing and where we were and all the many unpleasant realities upon our shoulders. I forgot everything except for her.

“Dance with me,” she said again, her voice comically low, and I stifled a chuckle.

“Was that supposed to be compulsion, Iliae?”

“What, it didn’t work?”

Maybe it had. I wondered whether Mische had figured out yet that I would never—could never—say no to her. It was the kind of powerlessness I’d been taught to fear my entire life. And yet I was so eager to run headfirst toward it. Even now. Especially now.

I took her hand. Even through the velvet of her gloves, through the not-quite-right sensation of her form beneath them, the touch sent a jolt up my spine.

“Shame the music isn’t as good this time,” I said, deadpan, nodding to the orchestra, entrenched in a grand waltz.

I’d meant it sarcastically, but Mische was completely serious as she said, “Not even close. But we can make it work.”

I swept her out onto the dance floor, and together we swirled and dipped to the rolling swells of the music.

We were, at best, average dancers, especially compared to the other nobles on the floor, all determined to outmatch each other.

Yet, as I watched genuine joy bloom over Mische’s face, I couldn’t find it in myself to care.

“See?” she said. “We’re not bad. Except, I’d be better without this thing.” She motioned to her dress. “How do Shadowborn women even breathe in this?”

“You don’t need to breathe, technically.”

“Yes, but I like to.”

“The dress isn’t the biggest challenge you’ll face tonight.”

“Easy for you to say. You try wearing a corset and twenty pounds of velvet while pulling off a grand heist.”

I dipped her, and in the movement, I caught the faintest inhale of her scent—spice and ash and, I was certain, even though I’d never experienced it myself, sunshine.

“I will if you want me to,” I murmured in her ear, and Mother help me, I felt drunk, literally drunk, on her burst of laughter.

“Oh yes, Warden. Please, please, please do. You’ll make me the happiest girl in all the underworld.”

But at our next twirl around the ballroom, Mische’s smile suddenly disappeared. Her eyes snapped over my shoulder.

“What?” I asked, attempting to follow her gaze.

“I just—nothing. I thought I saw—nothing.” She shook her head.

Then she looked at the dais, where the Window stood.

The gauze over it rippled faster, and mist clustered around its base.

The shadows at the edges of the room now more closely resembled humanoid forms, mostly arms and hands, reaching down.

I wondered how Mische saw them. For her, they were probably much clearer than they were to me.

How much longer? she said into my mind.

I eyed the moon outside—now a rosy hue, with shadows undulating across it.

Just a few minutes, I said. Egrette will be after me any minute.

A knot of anxiety pulled tight in my stomach. I could handle the unknowns of magic, even unknowns that defied mortal understanding. But tonight, we were relying on lots and lots of luck, and I didn’t trust it.

You remember the paths? I asked Mische. Try the northern ones first, and then ? —

And then the east. Yes, I know, Warden. Just like I knew the last three dozen times you quizzed me on it.

Yet, she said this with affection.

I ushered her through a twirl, the movement giving us another excuse to survey the room. I noticed the spirits lingering in the dark seemed?.?.?.?more active than I’d remembered from Melume celebrations past.

Mische followed my gaze, her brow furrowing.

It feels?.?.?.

She trailed off. Yet, she didn’t need to finish.

Wrong.

Something didn’t feel right. The dead were always hungry. But here, they seemed ravenous. Panicking, even.

Before I could answer, a cold burst of air rolled through the ballroom. The orchestra’s song rose to a deafening climax, and the shapeless shadows of the dead rolled down the walls like dripping paint.

Outside, the moon was now bright red.

It’s time, brother, Egrette said into my mind. I looked up to the dais to see her staring at me expectantly. The Night of the Melume is beginning.

Mische and I had stopped dancing. We stared into each other’s eyes. Both of us felt it—the impending collision of worlds. Everything was about to get very complicated, and very dangerous, and suddenly the prospect of letting go of her, safe in my arms for this final moment, seemed impossible.

She gave me a weak smile. “Good luck?—”

“Mische!”

A booming voice rang out behind me.

Mische’s eyes widened, lips parted. I felt, in my own heart, the cold spell fall over hers.

I whirled around.

A towering man wearing Nightborn finery stood before us.

Dark red hair fell to his shoulders, its messiness standing in stark contrast to the neatness of his clothing.

His stance was rigid, and the sheer intensity of his emotions—a knot of shock and anger and breathtaking relief —were so intense that they burst from his mind without me even having to reach for them.

I stepped in front of Mische, wary.

Finally, she managed a single word:

“Raihn.”