Page 32 of Wings of Shadow
CLARISSA
The setting sun casts my office in molten hues, turning sleek modern furniture into burnished sculpture. I should find it beautiful. Instead, the warm light sharpens the throb behind my eyes. The screen before me swims, its text unreadable, a haze I’ve tried and failed to untangle all afternoon.
I blink hard and press my fingertips to my temples. When was the last time I slept through the night? Three days ago? Four? The hours have collapsed into a sleepless blur.
I reach for my coffee mug, find it by muscle memory. One sip confirms it’s cold—and bitter. The carafe beside me is empty again. Fourth cup? Fifth? The caffeine only hums uselessly in my bloodstream, a poor substitute for proper relaxation.
A notification pings. Another email. The red bubble in my inbox ticks upward, as if mocking me.
No rest for the weary—not when you’re the newly appointed director of Galerie Lumière’s philanthropic division.
I grab the mouse, but a flicker in my periphery makes me freeze. For a breathless instant, I see him—maroon eyes watching, feel phantom hands on my shoulders. My breath catches as I turn. But there’s no one there. Only shadows and golden light curling along the edge of the bookshelf.
Kaisner. Always Kaisner.
I close my eyes and press my palms against them, but he’s there—burned into my retinas like staring too long at the sun. That secret smile. The molten heat in his gaze. The impossible pull of?—
Pain splits my skull like lightning.
My office fractures.
The walls remain, but they’re wrong now—too bright, too sharp, humming with otherworldly energy. The air shimmers like heat waves off summer asphalt.
I rise on unsteady legs, skin prickling with warning.
Movement flickers at the edge of sight.
That’s when I see it.
A crimson droplet, crawling down the cream wallpaper. Then another. And another. The drops thicken into streams, dark and viscous, pooling at the baseboards. The pungent scent of copper invades my nose.
Darkness spills from the corners like ink. It creeps across the rug, devouring each intricate thread. Shadows climb the desk, the filing cabinet, the bookshelves, leaving a void in their wake. My Monet curls at the edges, its lilies blackening, dying.
The air thickens—and then ignites.
Smoke pours from unseen cracks in the walls. It reeks of scorched flesh. Ash floats through the room like embers, each one hissing with phantom cries. The heat burns my skin.
I try to move. Try to scream. But my muscles lock in place. Whatever power shows me this vision won’t let me look away—not until the message is burned into my soul.
The floor beneath me buckles and heaves. Walls crumble inward with thunderous crashes, revealing not the familiar Parisian streets beyond, but a wasteland of charred earth stretching to the horizon.
Fissures split the blackened ground, glowing orange-red like exposed veins of molten rock. Where the Eiffel Tower once pierced the sky, nothing remains but twisted metal and ash. Bodies carpet the scorched earth—some whole, others torn apart, all frozen in their final moments of agony. Their mouths gape wide, teeth bared in screams that will echo through eternity.
Above this hellscape, the sky pulses with sickly, unnatural light. Smoke coils through violet clouds like serpents, blotting out what remains of the sun. The air tastes of copper and decay, thick with the metallic tang of spilled blood. Somewhere in the distance, inhuman shrieks pierce the silence—sounds no earthly throat could make.
And then, cutting through the cacophony of destruction, a voice whispers with crystal clarity: “The storm is coming.”
I jolt upright, gasping. My desk is solid beneath trembling hands. The vision fades—but its grip lingers.
Ash coats my tongue. I can still feel the flames.
I all but collapse on the chair, trying hard as hell to steady my breathing. They’re getting worse—these visions. More vivid. More violent. Each one a warning. Each one louder than the last.
What am I supposed to do with them? How can I protect my family, my people, when I can’t even keep myself grounded?
A chime from my inbox breaks the spell. I force myself to sit upright, ignoring the quivering in my limbs. I have a job to do. Nik is counting on me to lead. And I will not fail him.
I square my shoulders and go through my emails, and the most recent subject line catches my eye: “Urgent: Exhibition Gala Crisis.”
