Page 79 of Wings of Shadow
“Oh, but it is,” it purrs, eyes glowing. “Have you forgotten our bargain so soon? Clarissa’s blood is the key, warlock. The final ingredient to awaken your dragon. To claim the power that is rightfully yours.”
The words strike like iron, cold and sharp. Clarissa’s blood. The ritual. The ancient promise of strength beyond imagining.
I stagger back, the ground tilting beneath me. How could I have let myself forget?
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say, though the statement scrapes my throat raw.
Azrakan’s grin widens. “Good. Then you understand what must be done. Take the girl’s blood. Complete the ritual. Fulfill your destiny.” It tilts its head, mockery in its eyes. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To be the most powerful dragon shifter in existence? To elevate your clan above all others?”
I turn away, unable to bear the sight of it. My gaze lands once more on the photograph. A flash of Clarissa’s smile. Her eyes, bright with joy… My heart constricts.
“Yes,” I whisper. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
But even as I say it, the lie coils in my gut. Because once, it was true. Now... now, I’m not so sure.
The daemon’s laughter cuts through the silence. “Love is a weakness, Kaisner. A distraction. Do you think she’d love you if she knew the depths of your ambition? If she knew what you’ve promised in the dark?”
I whirl back to face the mirror, anger burning hot in my veins. “You know nothing about her,” I snarl. “Nothing about us.”
Azrakan’s cackle rings out again, mocking and cruel. “I know more than you think, warlock. The fear that lurks in her heart, the doubt that plagues her mind. I know that deep down, she wonders if she can truly trust you. And she’s right to wonder.”
I want to argue, to deny the daemon’s words, but they strike too close to home. How many times have I glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty in Clarissa’s eyes? How often have I noticed her withdrawal, just slightly, when conversation shifts to the grimmer realities of our world?
“She loves me.” The words seem weak, brittle. “And I love her.”
“And what is love,” Azrakan hisses, “compared to power? Compared to destiny? You were born for greatness, Kaisner Drachenstein. Will you throw it all away for a fleeting human emotion?”
The question lingers, cold and brutal.
I sink into my chair, my head in my hands. The demon’s advice echoes in my mind, warring with memories of Clarissa—her laugh, her touch, the way she looks at me like I’m something precious, something good.
“You know the answer, warlock,” the daemon murmurs. “You always have.”
And that’s the truth that terrifies me most.
Because I do know.
With those final words, the mirror shimmers once more, and I’m left staring at my reflection. But the man looking back at me is a stranger—eyes haunted, face drawn with conflict.
I look away, unable to stand the sight of myself. The photograph catches my attention once more, and a powerful surge of emotion nearly brings me to my knees.
Love or power. Clarissa, or my destiny. The choice stands before me, impossible and inevitable.
I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Clarissa’s number. One call, and I could end this. I could tell her everything, beg for her forgiveness, find a way to be with her that doesn’t involve betrayal and blood magic.
But even as I contemplate it, I recognize I won’t make that call. Not yet. The allure of power, the pull of centuries of Drachenstein ambition, is too strong to ignore.
I set the phone down and turn back to my laptop. There’s work to be done, deals to be made, a clan to lead. And somewhere, in the back of my mind, a ritual waits to be completed.
Azrakan’s words echo in my thoughts as I lose myself in the familiar routine of business and intrigue. But beneath it all, like a steady heartbeat, I hear another voice. Clarissa’s voice, soft and sure: “I love you, Kaisner.”
And in that moment, caught between love and power, between the man I am and the dragon I could become, I’ve never felt more lost.
34
CLARISSA
Tonight is the night—the Lumière Foundation Gala I’ve spent months planning. The Grand Palais rises before me, its glass dome catching the last blush of twilight, iron latticework gleaming beneath the glow of gilded lanterns. From my perch on the upper balcony of the Salon d’Honneur, I watch the steady stream of limousines and luxury cars as they pull up to the red carpet below. The air thrums with excitement, a current of energy that pulses in rhythm with the fevered clicks of paparazzi cameras.
