Page 99 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

He only glimpsed them—a silhouette outlined by light and darkness. They wore a bird’s skull over their face, cast in gleaming gold. The red smear of a poppy perched behind their ear.

He did not hesitate as he struck.

His adversary, though, had been ready for him—perhaps more prepared than him, because when the two of them collided, his entire form lurched.

A million memories of a stranger surged through him, then abandoned him once again, like a wave crashing and dragging away from the shore.

They felt like both death and life, divinity and mortality, humanity and vampirism.

He righted himself quickly.

{That way!} the eye roared, and the god swung his axe at his opponent with enough power to collapse a great stone column, sending another cascade of broken glass to the floor.

The figure let out a cry of pain. They stumbled briefly, but then disappeared into the flames.

The god lunged again, nearly striking, but something streaked past his adversary to dive at him. He hissed and fell back, knocking away his attacker— a dog? —like a discarded toy as he resumed his chase.

The two of them clashed like a storm across the distant sea, thunder and lightning warring. The dead assisted his opponent, reaching through the veil to block his strikes or assist theirs.

The god did not know how many blows he landed, only that they were not enough. He did not know how many times he called to the dead, only that they did not listen. He no longer heard the collapse of the walls around him, nor the wails of the dead as they clawed at him.

With a burst of rage, pushed to his breaking point, he grabbed at his attacker. At last, he made contact. His power surged, his body pinning theirs.

{At last, your victory,} the mask purred.

He pushed the figure to the wall and raised the axe.

“How dare you challenge the god of death,” he snarled. “Who are?—”

His killing blow stopped mid-strike.

The woman stared back at him. Her eyes were large, and so bright, even shadowed by the sockets of her mask. They were the color of the falling embers of dusk, threads of gold in deep brown. The dead surrounded her protectively. Her hair, wild curls of deep brown and burnished gold, quivered.

A memory. Those eyes, lifting to his, in the depths of the underworld.

{Not yours,} the eye reminded him.

{Not yours,} the heart agreed.

Again, that scent—burnt cinnamon. He remembered it upon his tongue, when he thought he would never know a deeper worship.

The woman was not alive, but she was also not dead. Just as she was not mortal and not a god. Still, her chest rose and fell with quickening breath. She was afraid.

Her gaze slid down to his grip on his axe. Then the blade, hovering near her throat.

“You won’t do it,” she said.

He should.

He understood, in a knowledge that went beyond logic, that this person was the one thing holding him back from the ultimate power of his divinity. A challenger, and a shackle.

{Do it,} the eye said.

{Do it,} the mask said.

{Do it,} the heart said.

No, the wound begged, scar tissue from another life. No.

His hand did not move, and he was not sure why.

The hesitation cost him. The dead rose up around them, surrounding his adversary. Strange, that so often, the souls of the dead appeared in darkness. But around her, they were light, clinging to her like licks of flame to a candle.

He lunged after her. Crash, as another wall came down. They tumbled into a ballroom. Twinkling color rained down over them as another stained glass window fell. Tile shattered beneath his feet when he stood.

The woman stood before a broken wall of windows, framing her against the blood-red sky and the sea, churning with impending divine collapse.

She just stood there, still, as if baiting him.

It worked.

He dove for her. They collided, life and death sparring in the blow. Her body was solid and fragile and so very mortal. He pinned her down against the furniture.

But she just touched his face.

“Come back to me,” she murmured.

{End it,} the mask commanded.

{End it,} the eye agreed.

{End it,} the heart whispered.

But still, that inexplicable hesitation.

The woman seized this opening. Her hand wrenched free of his grip, but instead of moving to strike him, she pulled the skull up, resting it atop her head like a crown. It revealed the full expanse of her face.

The sight struck him.

A million moments slipped by like dead leaves in the wind. That face, bright with laughter, soft with contentment, pinched with sadness. That face, smeared in blood, glowing with happiness, painted with shimmering gold. That face, in life. That face, in death.

“Come back to me,” the woman said again.

Come back to me. Come back to me. Come back to me.

Above, the broken eye of Alarus stared down at him. The dead flooded the room, a million forgotten souls blending like paint strokes. And within them, they rendered memories. Memories of this place he had once loved so deeply, and the woman who had resurrected it alongside him.

{You are fighting like a mortal,} the mask snarled. {Fight like a god. Finish it.}

With a roar, he lifted his axe and brought it down.

But then a few notes rang through the air, off-key and tentative.

The sound wrenched through him. It was only then that he realized where they were—that he had not pinned her against a piece of furniture, as he’d thought, but against a piano.

Silver tendrils caressed the keys. They painted the ghost of another life.

A man with his head bowed over the music, a woman perched beside him, the two of them composing a new life together.

The god’s eyes widened. That memory, that name on the tip of his tongue, crashed through him. Just for a second, he was whole again.

Mische.

He couldn’t stop his strike in time. But he was able to divert it. It smashed into the mahogany wood instead, only shaving off a curly strand of hair.

He staggered backward. With the help of a rising sea of the dead, she pushed him back against the wall. His hand snaked out to seize hers. Her broken blade pressed to his chest, right over the tender spot where he’d sacrificed his heart.

He searched Mische’s face. His grip was so tight around her hand that they trembled together. He could feel every raised piece of scar tissue, every muscle, every bone. He knew them because he’d already memorized them all.

The tip of the blade dug into his skin, a streak of divine blood dripping over their hands.

“Take it,” he ground out.

The voice did not belong to a god. Nor did the sudden desperation that jumped up against the inside of his ribs, screaming, Do it, do it right now. Take the power, take the heart. It was always meant for you.

He had prayed she would understand. She had become everything he dreamed she would be. Had known she could be. He was so proud of her that he thought his heart, mortal or god, would burn with it.

But Mische did not move. A tear rolled down her cheek.

{What are you doing?} the mask wailed.

{You can end it now!} the heart roared.

Desperate, he fought for his old self. Fought to offer her this opening.

“Do it,” he begged. “Take it.”

Because this had always been the only option. The only happy ending he could offer her. The only good he could do in this world. Sacrificing himself to hand her the power to be greater than he ever could be.

She already was. She always had been.

But Mische leaned her forehead against his. Her gold eyes shone with the light of the underworld. Their song played on, mournful, painting the ghost of a life they could not have.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, Asar Voldari, Warden of Morthryn, king of the underworld, heir of Alarus. I love you, and in this life or the next, worlds mortal or divine, I will never let you go.”

{Kill her!} the mask shrieked.

{End it!} the eye begged.

{You are a god!} the heart boomed.

But the god did not move.

He forced himself to remain still, to offer her his heart, as she drove her blade straight through his chest.