Page 37 of Wings of Shadow
My gown, rich golden silk embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmer like dragon scales, whispers over marble as I ascend the grand staircase. The bodice clings to my figure before flaring into a skirt that flows like liquid gold. Every step is deliberate—a statement, a signal. I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to be seen.
As I climb the steps, gazes latch onto me from all directions. That familiar prickling at the nape of my neck confirms it—I’m being watched, assessed, judged. I suppress the urge to glare back at every curious face. Years of training rise to the surface: perfect posture, measured grace, and the serene mask of polite indifference.
Fragments of whispered conversations reach my ears as I pass:
“Is that her? The Draken girl?” “...brother’s a dragon shifter, can you imagine?” “...most eligible bachelorette of the century, without a doubt...” “What I wouldn’t give for an alliance with that family...”
The words swirl around me like smoke, at once flattering and suffocating. I am not just Clarissa tonight; I am a symbol, a potential chess piece in the great game of supernatural politics. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I allow a small, enigmatic smile to play at my lips, giving nothing away.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I pause for a moment, ostensibly to adjust the fall of my skirt, but really to gather myself. I can see the Draken family box from here, draped in rich burgundy velvet with our crest embroidered in gold thread. It stands empty, waiting for me to take my place as the sole representative of our lineage.
The absence of Nikolaas is a physical ache, a hollow space beside me that seems to cry out for attention. But I push the emotion aside, steeling myself for the evening ahead. Tonight, I cannot be the little sister, the one who leans on her brother’s strength. Tonight, I must be the Draken heiress, poised and powerful in my own right.
A flicker of guilt stirs as I remember my last call with Nik. I didn’t tell him about the opera invitation—about stepping in to represent our family in his absence. He already has enough to worry about, and I didn’t see the point in adding to the burden he’s shouldering. Besides, this is my chance to prove I can handle it—to him, to the others… and maybe most of all, to myself.
“I can do this,” I whisper to my reflection, smoothing down the shimmering fabric of my gown. “I will do this.”
I make my way to the box, acutely aware of the eyes that follow my every move. As I settle into my seat, I allow my gaze to sweep across the opera house, taking in the glittering assemblage of supernatural society. In the box to my left, I recognize the Morozov clan, fierce stares gleaming with wolfish interest. To my right, the Regalis family lounges with innate feline grace.
But my stare doesn’t linger on them for long, because there, in a box draped in shadows, I glimpse something that makes my heart stutter. A pair of dark eyes, burning with an intensity that I recognize all too well.
Kaisner Drachenstein.
I force myself to look away, my cheeks flushing with heat. As I turn, my gaze falls on a present I hadn’t noticed before. A stunning bouquet of white roses, their petals practically glowing in the subdued light.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the card nestled among the blooms. As I pluck it from its resting place, an object falls from within, landing on my lap with a soft tinkle. My breath catches as I lift the item—a white-gold necklace with a diamond-encrusted dragon pendant. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the dragon’s scales catching the light and throwing miniature rainbows across my skin.
I open the card, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure the entire opera house must hear it. The message inside is simple, yet it sends a thrill through my body:
For the most captivating dragon of all.
– K.
My eyes dart back to Kaisner’s box, finding his stare still fixed upon me. The intensity in those dark depths makes me feel as though I’m falling, drowning in a sea of hidden longings.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, unbidden and impossible to suppress. My fingers close around the dragon pendant, its cool metal a stark contrast to the heat flooding my body. Every instinct screams at me to maintain decorum, to remember my place and the eyes that are surely upon me.
But in this moment, with Kaisner’s gift in my hand and his gaze burning into me from across the theater, I find it increasingly difficult to care about propriety or expectations. My breath comes in short, excited gasps, and I have to consciously remind myself to unclench my other hand, which has balled into a fist in my lap.
I want to run to him. I want to flee. I want to put on the necklace and never take it off. I want to throw it into the Seine’s depths… Conflicting desires battle within me, leaving me dizzy and intensely alive.
With a supreme effort of will, I school my features into a facade of courteous curiosity, as if the bouquet and the gift are nothing more than a pleasant surprise. But inside, I’m a maelstrom of emotion, my heart singing an aria of its own—one of longing, excitement, and the thrill of forbidden attraction.
As the lights begin to dim and the curtain prepares to rise, I chance one last glance at Kaisner. The smile he gives me, small and secret and full of promise, tells me this is only the beginning. And despite the voice of reason screaming in the back of my mind, I can’t wait to see what comes next.
I close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath and reaching for the well of strength within me. It’s there, a burning coal at my core, the legacy of generations of Draken witches and warlocks. Their power flows through me, a river of fire in my veins.
When I open my eyes again, I am ready. Ready to face the music, the politics, the delicate dance of power and alliances that will play out around me this evening. Ready to be the face of the Draken clan, to make my family proud.
The curtain rises, and with it, the game begins.
The opera unfolds before me, pulling me into Giulia’s world—a Vestal Virgin torn between sacred vows and forbidden love. Her torment weaves through the music, each note heavy with anguish, each breath laced with longing. But it’s Aria Leone’s voice that truly mesmerizes—impossibly pure, impossibly powerful. No mortal throat should be capable of such perfection. Each note she sings seems to bypass the ears entirely, resonating deep within the soul.
As her voice ascends beyond the limits of human ability, something cold settles in my stomach. I’ve heard whispers about the Leone bloodline—stories passed down through generations of opera patrons. Tales of Letizia Leone, Aria’s ancestor, who was said to have struck a bargain centuries ago—her soul traded for a voice that could make angels weep and demons bow. A voice that could entrance kings, topple empires, and seduce the heavens themselves.
Watching Aria now, I wonder if those whispers are more than myth. Her voice breaks on a final, aching refrain, and something inside me tightens. Giulia’s pain isn’t mine, yet I feel it as if it were—as if Aria’s otherworldly gift is drawing out emotions from places I didn’t know existed.
What price, I wonder, did Letizia truly pay? And what price does Aria pay now, burdened with that cursed legacy in her throat?
