Page 113 of Wings of Shadow
I look back at Viktor, his defiant silhouette standing among ash and ruin, taunting me.
Not today, I tell the beast inside. He’s not worth risking her.
With a growl, I wrench my gaze from him, fire still thrumming in my chest. Later, I promise. Later, when she’s safe and whole, I will come back. I will finish this.
Nikolaas catches the direction of my stare. His fury flares anew, and for a moment, I think he’ll turn and descend—to deliver the killing blow I’m resisting. But I snap my wings wide in warning and bare my fangs. “No.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. He knows the risk. She comes first.
Together, we rise.
The canopy shrinks beneath us, nothing but fractured treetops and smoking ruin. The compound is gone—just a scar on the forest floor. The wind bites cold at this altitude, but I feel only the warmth of her pressed to my chest.
Clarissa stirs again, her cheek brushing the curve of my scales. Her voice doesn’t form words, but I hear her spirit reaching out to me through the bond, even if dim. Even broken, she’s with me.
And that’s what matters.
What remains now is awe—sharp-edged and humbling. We came for rescue.
Nikolaas brought retribution. But I… I chose restraint. I chose her.
We burst above the clouds, veiled by mist and sky and enchantment. I cloak us with old magic—stealth and silence woven into the air. Below us, the world still burns, but we rise untouched.
Clarissa is safe.
She’s in my arms, where she belongs.
And though Viktor Mahindra may walk away today, he will not forget the day two dragons blackened his sanctuary and stole back what was never his to take.
I swear it—on fang, on flame, on the bond I share with her—I will never let her go again.
Not while I breathe.
Not while I burn.
47
CLARISSA
Reality has sharp edges that cut when you’ve been living in a dream of scales and flame. The world feels distant, as if I’m drifting between realms. The last thing I remember is chaos—the searing heat, the deafening roars, the sensation of being lifted into the sky. Now, I return slowly to myself, bringing with it the dull ache of my body and the weight of memories pressing down.
I’m aware of softness beneath me, the familiar scent of cedarwood, and something uniquely him. The realization hits me like a wave—I’m home. Drachenstein Manor. Safe.
A gentle pressure encircles my hand, grounding me. The fog in my mind begins to clear, like mist burning off in the morning sun. I summon what little strength I have and blink, eyes fluttering open against the muted glow of lamplight.
At first, everything is a blur—the flickering shadows dancing across high ceilings, the familiar drape of curtains pulled low. And then, him.
Kaisner.
He sits beside the bed, head bowed, one hand wrapped around mine as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. His other hand rests on his knee, tapping rhythmically, a barely-contained storm beneath his stillness.
Something about him looks different.
His black dress shirt is neatly pressed, collar open to reveal the line of his throat. The sleeves are fitted, cuffed neatly at his wrists, revealing the powerful lines of his forearms, a hint of the tattoos that cover his arms.
His charcoal trousers are tailored to perfection, the fabric smooth and untouched by the chaos of battle—as if he changed just to sit by my side, as if this moment mattered more than anything that came before.
His hair is combed back, every strand controlled. His jaw is dusted with a deliberate, neatly trimmed stubble that only sharpens the contrast of his features. A shallow cut curls along his cheekbone, half-healed, but even that doesn’t take away from his beauty.
