Page 124 of Wings of Shadow
“And may you find yours,” he replies, voice gentled now, “with the one fate has chosen.”
“Dristan.” The name escapes her lips like a confession, like a promise she’s afraid to speak too loudly lest the universe hear and snatch it away. “There can be no one else.”
The admission costs her. I see it in the tremor that runs through her frame, the way her breath stutters.
Gavriil’s expression softens with something achingly close to tenderness. “Then may the gods smile upon your union, Cassandra. And know this—” His voice grows grave with meaning. “My intentions were never meant to bind you. Only to protect what I couldn’t bear to lose.”
A silent exchange flickers between them—forgiveness offered and accepted in the space of a heartbeat.
Then Gavriil lifts his hand.
The air itself holds its breath.
Ancient magic unfurls from his palm like smoke, like starlight, like the very essence of creation itself. It spirals through the space between them, visible as silver threads that sing with power older than memory.
Along Cassandra’s throat, just above her collarbone, a sigil blazes to life—a brand forged in desperation and grief. The magical bond burns against her skin for one eternal moment, marking her as his in ways that transcend flesh and blood.
And then—with a sound like the universe exhaling—it vanishes, dissolving like mist come dawn.
The light dies. The magic fades.
Cassandra’s gasp is sharp enough to cut—surprise, relief, and something that might be grief all tangled together. Her hand flies to her throat, fingers pressing against skin that bears no mark, no scar, no evidence of the chains that bound her for so long.
She’s free.
The word sings through the air, a note of pure liberation that makes the crystal chandeliers chime in harmony.
Free to choose. Free to love. Free to walk into whatever future she dares to claim.
When she turns from the doorway, her face is a mask of composure rebuilt from shattered pieces. But I catch it—the tremor in her fingers as she smooths nonexistent wrinkles from her gown, the way her breath comes just a little too quick, the hope that blazes in her eyes like a beacon in the dark.
The doors close behind her with a whisper—an ending, a beginning, all held in that single breath of sound.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I realize I’m crying. Silent, unstoppable, they fall for Gavriil’s joy, for Cassandra’s sacrifice, for the impossible beauty of love conquering death itself. I press my fingers to my lips, trying to contain the sob that wants to escape, but it’s useless.
Beside me, Kaisner’s arm tightens around my waist, his thumb brushing away the tears that continue to fall. “This might be the first time I’ve ever seen her shaken,” he murmurs against my temple, his voice a low rumble meant to soothe. “Whatever it took to bring Luciana back... it surely was no small thing.”
“She never does anything small.” I sniff, the edge of a smile lifting one side of my mouth.
Kaisner leans in, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. “Neither do you.”
The corners of my lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Not tonight. Not after everything we’ve seen.
“Whatever is coming…” he begins, and his voice a vow. “I’ll annihilate it before it reaches you.” His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with desperate precision. “I don’t care if it’s fate, fire, or the fucking gods themselves—nothing touches you, Clarissa. Not unless it goes through me first.”
Kaisner’s thumb traces my pulse point, feeling the steady, calm rhythm—so different from the frantic flutter it’s been for weeks.
“The visions will come back,” I whisper.
“But not tonight.” He rises smoothly, lifting me from the chair and settling into it himself, arranging me across his lap like I’m something precious that might break. “Tonight, you rest. Tonight, you’re safe.”
His arms wrap around me, a living fortress of heat and devotion. When he kisses my temple, it feels like a benediction.
51
CLARISSA
The diamond fractures twilight into a thousand burning stars across my palm. Through the boutique’s windows, Paris bleeds rose gold and indigo, the city’s pulse slowing to that intimate rhythm that belongs only to dusk.
