Page 35 of Wings of Shadow
But maybe, just maybe, I’m strong enough to face it.
19
KAISNER
The antique grandfather clock in the corner of my study chimes nine, its deep, resonant tones echoing off the wood-paneled walls. I barely register the sound, my attention fixed on the sea of papers spread before me. The warm glow of the fireplace casts flickering shadows across the room, turning the mountain of reports into an ever-shifting landscape of light and dark.
I lean back in my leather chair, its soft creak a counterpoint to the pop and hiss of burning logs. My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the polished ebony of my desk as I scan the latest profit margins. The numbers are good—better than good. Our influence is growing, spreading like wildfire across Europe’s supernatural underworld.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
I reach for the crystal decanter at my elbow, pouring two fingers of aged scotch. The amber liquid catches the firelight as I swirl it in the glass, its peaty aroma filling my nostrils. I take a sip, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. For a moment, I close my eyes, allowing myself this brief respite from the burden of the Drachenstein legacy.
When I open them again, my gaze falls on the portrait hanging above the fireplace. My father stares down at me, his eyes as cold and hard in oil paint as they were in life. The set of his jaw, the arch of his brow—everything about him exudes power and control. The very embodiment of what a Drachenstein should be.
I turn away, unable to bear his scrutiny, even in this painted form. My eyes land instead on the ornate dagger displayed on my desk—a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. Its jeweled hilt glints in the firelight, a beautiful and deadly thing. Much like the power I now wield.
“Are you proud, Father?” I murmur to the empty room, my voice barely above a whisper. “Or do you look up from whatever hell you’re in and see only the failure you always feared?”
The dragon in me stirs at these words, a low rumble of discontent that I feel more than hear. I clench my fist, power surging just beneath my skin. So close to the surface, yet still out of reach. The slumbering beast that refuses to fully awaken, no matter how I rage against its dormancy.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through my brooding like a knife.
“Enter,” I command, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. I don’t bother looking up from the papers on my desk, but I’m acutely aware of the door opening, of the familiar footsteps crossing the thick Persian rug.
“Mein König,” Janik’s voice, as always, is carefully neutral. My loyal enforcer knows better than to betray any emotion without cause. “I have news that may interest you.”
I lift my gaze slowly, taking in Janik’s rigid posture, the slight tension around his eyes that betrays the importance of whatever he’s about to say. “Go on,” I say, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning?” My voice comes weary, too exhausted to pretend to care.
Janik approaches my desk with measured steps, each movement precise and controlled. From within his jacket, he withdraws an envelope—cream-colored paper bearing the gilt insignia of the Palais Garnier. The sight stirs something in me, a flicker of intrigue cutting through the fog of fatigue.
“There’s to be a performance of La Vestale tomorrow night,” he begins, his tone carefully modulated as he places the invitation before me. The elegant script seems to dance in the flickering light, each letter a promise of what’s to come.
I lean forward, genuine interest kindling in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve witnessed that particular opera—a tale of forbidden love and sacred duty that strikes perhaps too close to home. My fingers trace the embossed edges of the invitation, remembering another time, another life.
“But that’s not the most intriguing part,” Janik continues, and something in his voice draws my full attention. His next words fall into the room like stones into still water, ripples of consequence spreading outward: “Miss Draken will be in attendance... alone.”
The mention of her name shoots a jolt of electricity through my system. I sit up straighter, every nerve suddenly alert. The reports on my desk, the pressure of my father’s portrait, even the burn of the scotch—all fade into insignificance. There is only this moment, this news, this opportunity.
“Alone?” I echo, my tone low and intense. I can hear the hunger in my voice and see its effect on Janik as he shifts his weight ever so slightly. “What of her brother?”
Janik’s response is prompt, efficient. “Abroad, still, from what our sources say. She’ll be representing the Draken family in his stead.”
I rise from my chair, moving to the window that overlooks the glittering Paris skyline. A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face as the implications sink in. Clarissa, alone at the opera, without a security detail. It seems ’the great’ Nikolaas Draken isn’t as meticulous as his reputation suggests. This oversight is... intriguing. And potentially useful.
I can’t help but marvel at the carelessness. For all his grand plans of unification, Nikolaas has left his most valuable asset—his gifted sister—completely exposed. It’s a mistake I would never make. One that I will never make, where Clarissa is concerned.
“Interesting,” I murmur, more to myself than to Janik. “Very interesting indeed.”
I whirl around to face my enforcer, noting the barely concealed curiosity in his eyes. He knows me well enough to recognize when something has caught my attention, when the gears of strategy have begun to turn.
“Tell me, Janik,” I say, my voice deceptively casual, “what do you make of this... oversight on Nikolaas Draken’s part? Sending his sister, unprotected, to such a public event?”
Janik considers for a moment before responding. “It seems... uncharacteristically careless, Mein König. Perhaps he trusts in the neutrality of the venue? Or in his sister’s abilities?”
I nod, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Perhaps. Or perhaps ’the great unifier’ is not as infallible as he’d have us believe.” I move back to my desk, fingers trailing over the jeweled hilt of my dagger. “After all, in our world, even a moment’s inattention can have... significant consequences.”
A low growl escapes my throat, my fist tightening of its own accord. “I bet every shifter in town will be flocking toward this opportunity,” I mutter, the thought of others vying for Clarissa’s attention igniting a possessive fury within me.
