Page 94 of Wings of Shadow
The air splits with a sickening shlkt as shadowy talons spear through my flesh. A sharp, searing torment ignites across my shoulder, a sensation so sudden and raw that my vision flashes white. I barely have time to register the metallic scent of my own blood before my knees buckle.
A ragged breath escapes me, my body instinctively locking against the pain—then, with a brutal inevitability, I collapse.
Azrakan may be gone, but its parting gift is carved deep into me.
The last thing I see is Clarissa kneeling beside me, her face a portrait of horror and angst.
Then—
Oblivion.
39
KAISNER
Consciousness returns to me in waves, deliberate and disorienting, like surfacing from a fathomless abyss. At first, there’s only warmth—real, grounding, unmistakable. A delicate, trembling hand laced with mine.
Then the pain. A slow, dull throb beneath my skin, radiating from my shoulder, coiling like a fiery ember in my bones. It’s a phantom sensation at first, distant, almost forgettable—until I inhale. The scent of sandalwood, old parchment fills my lungs, and something sweet—a familiar trace.
Clarissa.
My eyes flicker open. Dim candlelight stabs into my pupils, sharp as a blade. The world slowly sharpens—ornate black wooden beams overhead, shelves lined with grimoires and arcane artifacts, velvet drapes shrouding the windows. My room. Safe. Yet the acrid stench of brimstone lingers in my memory, a cruel reminder that not all dangers can be locked away.
I shift, only to be met with a jolt of pain that burns through my shoulder like molten steel. A sharp breath hisses between my teeth, and immediately, her grip on my hand tightens.
“Kaisner?” Her voice, barely a whisper, is frayed, as though she’s been sitting beside me for hours. Waiting, hoping.
I force my gaze toward her. And for a moment, I forget to breathe.
She’s utterly undone. Golden hair, once pristine, spills over her shoulders in damp waves. Her sapphire eyes are luminous with unshed tears, rimmed with exhaustion, but there’s something else—relief. A quiet, aching solace that settles in my chest, twisting painfully.
“You’re…” My voice is raw, barely more than a rasp. “You’re here.”
A tremulous smile ghosts over her lips. “Of course I am.” Her fingers tighten around mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long moment, I simply watch her, memorizing the way candlelight glows against her skin, the way the shadows play against the elegant line of her throat. I’ve seen her in the throes of passion, in the heat of battle, but like this—worn, but steadfast—she has never looked more divine.
And then, like a sickness crawling through my veins, reality creeps in.
Images slam into my mind in ruthless succession—Azrakan’s wretched form coiling in the summoning circle, the flickering runes scorching into the stone, my reckless ambition tearing through my being like wildfire. The way her body tensed when she realized what I was prepared to do. The moment my carefully woven plan unraveled.
The moment I nearly lost her.
A tremor grips my limbs, sharp and involuntary. I make an attempt to sit up, to confirm that the damage Azrakan inflicted is real, but before I can move, her hands are on my chest, pressing me back against the pillows with surprising force.
“Easy,” she murmurs, voice thick with quiet command. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
I search her face, thoughts sluggish, tangled. “But… how?” My gaze flickers downward, half-expecting to see my shoulder torn open, but instead, I find only smooth, unmarred skin. “The daemon… it?—”
“I healed you,” she says simply, but the words land heavily between us. “I’m a witch, remember?” A hint of mischief, barely there, veils the raw emotion simmering beneath.
My breath hitches.
She saved my life.
The notion should seem foreign, impossible. Kaisner Drachenstein does not need saving. Yet as I look at her, reality hits me like lightning.
Clarissa—my Clarissa—stood between me and the daemon’s wrath. She risked everything for me, when it should have been the other way around. And gods help me, I nearly…
