Page 118 of Wings of Shadow
Her fingers tremble ever so slightly as she raises them to her lips. “The fireplace in the Gold Room was burning,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Though no one had lit it for days.”
Nikolaas’s posture stiffens beside Samara. A question tugs at the back of my mind—why is Willem Draken’s grimoire in my brother’s possession? Is the Draken Curse connected to these disturbances in time?
Nikolaas chooses silence on the matter. I do the same. There will be a moment to confront him, but this isn’t it.
“Then—I saw him,” Juliette continues, her voice soft but tremulous as her gaze settles on Nikolaas. “We… talked.”
Her eyes hold him a moment longer than necessary, as if caught by the striking resemblance he shares with Willem. It’s in the sharpness of his features, the intensity of his clear-blue gaze—something unmistakably familiar.
Nikolaas shifts, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of discomfort in the tension of his jaw.
“Reality is folding,” she concludes, her voice barely audible. “Not just weakening at the edges—but warping. And if this continues, we won’t face darkness alone. We’ll face a collapse of time, memory, and meaning itself.”
“How do you propose we fight this darkness?” Gavriil rumbles, his voice skeptical, filled with tension.
Cassandra’s lips curve into a faint, sad smile. “By remembering what truly matters,” she says. “By finding strength in the bonds of family—both old and new.”
Her glance takes in the room, settling on each of us in turn. “The Drakens have long been our allies,” she adds, nodding to Nikolaas and me. “And now, an opportunity rises to forge new alliances with the Ursa clan and the Drachensteins.”
Kaisner stiffens beside me, his grip on my hand tightening imperceptibly. I can feel his discomfort with the thought of aligning with those he once saw as enemies.
“Pretty words,” Gavriil scoffs, crossing his arms. “But words alone won’t be enough to face this threat you speak of. What assurances can you provide that this isn’t just another political ploy?”
Cassandra’s expression softens. “You’re right, Gavriil,” she says. “Words alone won’t be enough. That is why I have something to offer you—a token of my sincerity and commitment to this alliance.”
She rises and moves to a side door. My curiosity piqued, I lean forward, straining to see what she’s doing.
Cassandra pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning back to face us all. “What I’m about to show you may come as a shock,” she says, voice tinged with apprehension. “But I ask that you keep an open mind and remember why we’re here—to find unity in the face of great danger.”
With that, she opens the door.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a figure steps into the room, and the world seems to grind to a halt.
She’s beautiful—petite and willowy, with long blonde hair cascading in soft waves. Her violet eyes scan the room, landing on Gavriil. In an instant, her entire demeanor shifts. Her shoulders straighten, chin lifting, a glimmer of love and trepidation flickering in her gaze.
“Gavriil?” she breathes.
The Ursa King goes rigid in his seat. His massive frame trembles as though struck by an invisible force. His eyes widen in disbelief, and tears fill them, softening his usually impenetrable gaze. The color drains from his face, leaving him ashen and shaken.
“What trickery is this?” he chokes out, his voice rough with emotion.
Cassandra steps forward, hand extended in a placating gesture. “It is no trick, Gavriil,” she says, her tone gentle. “I promise you.”
The Ursa King remains frozen, eyes locked on the woman in the doorway. Slowly, as though moving through molasses, he rises from his chair. By the time he reaches the center of the room, his legs give out beneath him, and he falls to his knees, his expression a mix of devastation and wonder.
“Luciana!” Samara cries out.
“This isn’t real,” Gavriil whispers, broken and raw. “It can’t be.”
The woman moves toward him, her steps hesitant at first, but soon gaining strength. She kneels before him, a quivering hand coming up to cup his face with infinite tenderness.
“It’s real, my love,” she says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Io sono qui.” I’m here.
The room erupts in gasps and murmurs of shock, but I barely register them. My attention is fixed on Gavriil, watching his stern composure crumble in the face of this unexpected reunion.
Tears stream down Gavriil’s cheeks as he cradles her face in his hands. “Oh, my darling…” he whispers. “My beautiful love.” His massive frame shakes with silent sobs as he gathers Luciana into his arms, burying his face in her hair.
Beside me, Kaisner’s grip tightens around my hand. I tear my gaze from the heartbreaking scene to meet his eyes. There’s wonder in them, and something deeper—longing, aching, raw—that makes my heart clench in return.
