Page 24 of Wings of Shadow
The door closes behind us, muffling the patter of rain.
Inside, the hush is immediate. No clinking glasses. No murmured conversation. Just golden light and silence.
My steps slow as I take it in—empty tables dressed in white linen and polished silver, crystal glassware untouched. A single rose at each center, soft petals blushing crimson.
“Is it always this quiet?” I murmur.
“I may have asked for privacy,” Kaisner says, tone smooth, amused.
My pulse skips.
Of course he did.
He leads me to a corner booth, the velvet seat catching on my dress as I slide in. The space feels intimate, almost secret. Candlelight flickers across wood-paneled walls and casts dancing shadows on the floor.
A grand piano stands in the corner, silent—until it’s not. Soft music blooms into the space, as if summoned by thought.
A waiter approaches with reverence, cradling two ancient-looking bottles of wine. “From your private collection, monsieur.”
Kaisner barely glances at the labels. “The Château Margaux 1787.”
The waiter nods with awe and vanishes.
I blink.
The 1787? My brother once called it liquid legend. Only a handful still exist, locked away in vaults or museums. I’d only ever heard of it. And Kaisner chooses it like he’s ordering a glass of tap water.
As the waiter tilts the bottle, the deep crimson elixir cascades into our glasses with the grace of liquid rubies. The rich, complex aroma wafts up, and I find myself inhaling deeply—blackcurrant, cedar, a faint note of truffle, and something darker, older.
“1787?” I glance at him over the rim of my glass. “Is this even drinkable?”
Kaisner’s smile is slow, edged with something ancient. “For most? No. But some things age differently… when guarded by the right blood.”
The way he says it—like he’s not just talking about wine—sends a ripple down my spine. He lifts his glass, watching me through the crimson veil. A toast without words.
I clink mine softly against his.
The first sip is velvet and shadow—unreal. As though time itself has been distilled into flavor. The legends don’t do it justice.
And neither, I realize, do the warnings about him.
“Quite the vintage,” I say, understatement clinging to my voice.
He tilts his glass in acknowledgment. “Some things are worth preserving. Like this moment.”
Our eyes meet. Something lingers in the space between us—heat, curiosity, maybe warning.
Hors d’oeuvres arrive—tiny, exquisite bites too beautiful to eat. Truffles. Smoked salmon. Aged cheeses that melt on the tongue.
Kaisner leans back, watching me more than the food. There’s a quiet hunger in his gaze—not for the wine or the rare delicacies, but for my reactions, my laughter, the flicker of curiosity in my eyes. It’s as if he’s memorizing me, moment by moment, the way a collector studies a one-of-a-kind artifact he never plans to part with.
As the evening unfolds, I find myself leaning in, drawn by more than just his presence. His voice, low and deliberate, spins tales of far-off cities cloaked in snow, forgotten catacombs beneath Venetian streets, hidden halls guarded by blood oaths and ancient names. Each story reveals another layer, another mask peeled away—until he no longer feels like a stranger seated across from me, but a man whose soul I’ve brushed before in a dream.
But it’s when he speaks of a recent acquisition—a secluded property on the shores of Lake Starnberg in Germany—that something in him shifts. His voice softens, loses some of its usual sharp edge. He describes the tranquil waters, the thick emerald canopy of the forest, the quiet charm of the nearby village with its old chapel bells and scent of woodsmoke. There’s a reverence in his tone when he speaks of the place, like it’s more than land. Like it’s something close to sacred.
“I’ve been thinking about spending some time there,” he admits, a note of vulnerability in his tone that catches me off guard. “Perhaps... living a quieter life, at least for a while.”
The image of Kaisner—this powerful, enigmatic man—seeking solace in such a peaceful setting is both surprising and oddly fitting. It reveals a depth I hadn’t glimpsed before, a yearning for simplicity that contrasts sharply with the complexity of his usual world.
