Page 67 of Wings of Shadow
I should have protected her. Should have known she wasn’t ready for the reality of my life—the cruelty, the power struggles, the unspoken laws. She wasn’t raised in this world. She doesn’t bear its scars like I do.
Now, I may lose her because of it.
The irony isn’t lost on me. For years, my greatest fear was failing to awaken my dragon self. Now, that fear pales in comparison to the thought of losing her. The shift in my priorities unsettles me more than I care to admit.
I think back to the moment I first saw the request from the Lumière Foundation. My staff and lawyers had been blocking their inquiries for months, following my standard protocols. But the instant I learned it was Clarissa’s organization? Everything changed. I reached out personally, bypassing all the usual channels, reckless in my need for any connection to her—even if only through her work.
But she hasn’t responded. Not a word.
I told myself I wouldn’t pressure her. That I’d give her the space she needs. After Éclipse, after everything she witnessed, she deserves that much.
But waiting is its own kind of torture. Every day without her voice, every unanswered message, every moment of silence stretches the distance between us. I don’t know if she’s avoiding me out of fear, or if I’ve already lost her to the violence of what happened that night.
And yet, I can’t force her hand. Not when I’m the one who led her into the dark.
So I wait. And the waiting kills me.
I glance down at the file before me. The damning evidence it contains cuts deeper than any blade.
Photographs spill across the polished ebony table—grainy surveillance images, clandestine meetings in dimly lit alleyways. In one, Marcus is passing a manila envelope to a tall, bronze-skinned figure I recognize instantly.
Vikram Mahindra’s right-hand enforcer.
Transcripts of intercepted phone calls reveal Marcus’s treachery in his own words.
“The Draken girl,” his voice murmurs over the recording. “Drachenstein’s obsessed with her. She’s his weakness.”
The paper crumples in my tightening fist.
Printouts of emails detail the classified information he leaked—Clarissa’s daily routines, her favorite cafés, the security measures I had put in place to protect her.
But the final blow is the handwritten note, Marcus’s familiar scrawl outlining a plan so vile it makes my blood run cold.
“Kidnap the girl, and Drachenstein will fold. We can end this war in one swift move.”
Rage surges through me, molten and unforgiving. My vision blurs at the edges, my hands flexing as I struggle to contain the violent urge clawing its way to the surface.
Clarissa—an innocent in all of this, a woman with no ties to our world beyond me—was to be used as a pawn.
Because of him.
Because of this.
The law of our clan is clear. The punishment for treason is swift and absolute. And yet, even now, some foolish part of me hesitates. Marcus was more than a soldier in my ranks. He was a brother. A man who fought at my side.
But that man is dead.
All that remains is a traitor.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself. “Bring him in.”
The heavy doors swing open, and Marcus is dragged inside. His hands are bound, his face drawn with fear. He stumbles as my guards force him to his knees before me.
He keeps his head bowed, but the tremor in his shoulders does not escape me.
“Marcus.” My voice is cold, devoid of emotion. “You stand accused of treason against the Drachenstein clan. Of conspiring with our enemies. Of betraying the trust I placed in you.”
I pause, letting the words sink in. Letting him feel the gravity of his sins.
