Page 25 of Wings of Shadow
Almost without realizing it, I begin to share my own story. The words come unbidden, and I speak of an English childhood tinged with loss, of the sense of displacement that drove me to lose myself in studies and art. I talk about the inexplicable pull that drew me back to Paris, the sense of homecoming when I finally returned, and how the gallery has given me purpose. A sense of place in a world that never quite fit.
Kaisner listens with that same sharp intensity, his gaze never straying from mine. Even when I fall silent, his attention remains fixed on me, as if reading the story written in the shadows of my expression.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. But the silence isn’t empty. It’s charged—alive with something unspoken yet deeply felt. A tether drawing us closer with every heartbeat.
The wine glass pauses halfway to his lips as Kaisner’s gaze suddenly shifts, sharpening with focus. His eyes scan the room with predatory intensity, lingering momentarily on a figure near the entrance. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it—the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his free hand moves instinctively toward his jacket.
Then, just as quickly, the moment passes. The mask of charming dinner companion slides back into place, but something has changed. There’s an edge to his smile now, a vigilance behind his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Forgive me,” he says, noticing my curious expression. “Old habits.”
“What kind of habits require that level of awareness?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. “There are things about me you don’t know, Clarissa.” His voice drops, pitched for my ears alone. “Things I hope I never have to burden you with.”
The cryptic response only fuels my curiosity. “Try me,” I challenge softly.
A shadow passes across his features, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. “Not tonight,” he says, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against mine. “Tonight is about us.”
The touch sends electricity racing up my arm, and just like that, the spell is recast. Yet even as we return to our conversation, I notice how his gaze periodically sweeps the room, how he’s positioned himself to view both me and the entrance.
I wonder what kind of life creates such instincts—and what kind of enemies would follow a man like Kaisner Drachenstein.
“It is a rare occasion whenever two dragons cross paths,” he finally says, his voice low and rich with meaning. A sly smile plays at the corners of his mouth, hinting at hidden truths.
A shiver races through me, equal parts thrill and trepidation. I lean in, drawn deeper into the mystery that cloaks him. “Is that what we are?” I whisper, the words heavy on my tongue. “Two dragons circling each other in the midnight sky?”
The moment the metaphor leaves my lips, I feel its truth in my bones. We are more than human. More than what we appear to be. Powerful beings, ancient at our core, wary and watchful—yet drawn together by some force older than fate.
Kaisner’s eyes lock onto mine, and in the flickering candlelight, they smolder like embers in a dying fire. The rich maroon of his irises deepens, flecks of gold stirring within them like sparks ready to ignite. For a moment, it’s as though the dragon within him rises to the surface, its presence felt, if not seen.
He leans in, his voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrates through the air between us. “Dragons, indeed,” he murmurs, dark amusement curling around the words. “But perhaps not merely circling, Clarissa. We’re dancing—a dangerous, intricate dance. Inescapable, as fate’s embrace.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening. “The question is, are you prepared for where this dance might lead us?”
His hand reaches across the table, fingers seeking mine with deliberate intent. The moment our skin touches, our fingers interlacing across the white linen, my breath catches, hopelessly ensnared by the gravity of his words—and the terrible beauty of what I witnessed in the Book of Vaelmir just hours ago.
The images flash through my memory: two dragons spiraling through storm-dark skies, locked in an aerial ballet of power and passion. One obsidian black, one pearl white traced with veins of gold—beautiful and terrible in their deadly grace. But the scene had shifted, split, showing me two divergent paths like pages from different books of fate.
In one future, they rule as equals—king and queen of shadows and flame, their love a force that reshapes the world. Power shared, passion eternal, their bond unbreakable as forged steel.
In the other, only one throne remains. He sits alone among ash and bones, crown heavy on his brow, eyes empty of everything that once made him human. The white dragon is nowhere to be seen…
I blink, and the memory snaps away as quickly as it came.
I swallow the turmoil, forcing my expression to remain calm.
He doesn’t notice the shadow that crosses my features, carrying on as if the world hasn’t just offered me a glimpse of both our salvation and our doom.
“The Drachenstein lineage,” he continues, shifting the conversation with the ease of someone who’s learned how to guard and reveal in equal measure, “is one of the oldest and most respected among our kind. For centuries, we’ve shaped history from the shadows.”
He reaches for his wineglass, and the candlelight flashes against the ring on his finger—an intricate design of two dragons intertwined. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed it before. Now, it feels significant. Symbolic.
Kaisner’s voice lowers, touched with reverent secrecy. “Have you ever heard whispers of the Unnatural Brethren?” His eyes glint with pride—and caution. When I shake my head, he goes on, “Few have, these days. It was meant to be our greatest achievement… and perhaps our greatest folly.”
He leans closer, the words soft, conspiratorial. “During the Renaissance, it was my ancestor, Georg Drachenstein, who founded the Brethren. A secret society to unite all supernatural creatures—shifters, vampires, warlocks, witches. One banner. One cause.”
His fingers trace the delicate stem of his glass with absent-minded grace, and his expression grows distant. “For a time, it worked. A golden age. We shared knowledge, resolved blood feuds, protected one another from growing human suspicion. It was… glorious.”
Then his tone shifts, the shadows deepening behind his eyes. “But the Inquisition came. Witch hunts tore across Europe. Fear spread like wildfire, and unity became our greatest vulnerability.”
