Page 64 of Shadowkissed

No.No no no.I slam the door shut on the bond, like slapping my palm over an open flame. My shadows surge in protest, lashing the room, but I force them back down with everything I have.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “Not yet. Hold.”

I still have work to do here without any distractions.

I don’t leave the room, not physically. But I’ve learned that walls mean little here. Not when power lives in whispers and doubt moves faster than light.

These halls, for all their polished grandeur and molten glamour, are hollow at the core. And I’ve spent the last few dayslistening.Watching.

Picking apart the seams of a kingdom built on fear.

They talk when they think I’m asleep. When they think I’m too broken or too far gone to care. But I always listen.

That’s how I learned that Seraphiel hasn’t been seen in his true form in days. That the spectral wings haven’t stretched, that the molten veins in his armor pulse slower now.

That his control isn’t just slipping—he’slosingit.

And his people?

They’ve noticed.

They’re not loyal out of love. No one follows Seraphiel because theybelievein him. They follow him because he’s terrifying.

But the thing about terror is—it requires certainty. A god only commands obedience if people still believe he’s a god.

And lately that belief’s starting to rot.

I’ve laid seeds like poison in wine. Quiet words, disguised as offhanded thoughts. Looks timed with just the right tremble in my voice. A single sentence dropped in front of a lesser acolyte: “Is it true the prophecy never mentionedhimby name?”

Another to one of the armored sentries: “You ever wonder if the power’s hers, not his?”

I don’t push. I just suggest.

And theylisten.

Because they’ve started noticing the cracks, too.

The way Seraphiel’s temper frays faster. The inconsistency in his command. His sudden need to isolate me rather than parade me. How his obsession no longer reads as control—but desperation.

That’s the part that’s eating them alive.

Because desperate men—even divine ones—make reckless kings.

Mara brings my meals most days now. She’s a witch with dark eyes and steady hands, younger than the others, but not inexperienced. I’ve watched the flicker in her gaze, the stiffness in her posture. Her magic used to settle like iron around her—it’s looser now, frayed around the edges.

Today, as she kneels near the ward lines, pretending to check the stability glyphs etched into the floor, I speak without raising my voice.

“Has he spoken of the ritual?”

She glances up, just once. “He thinks it’s already done,” she murmurs. “That you’re too far gone to fight it.”

“He’s wrong.”

Mara swallows, and her hands pause over the runes. “I’m beginning to think he’s wrong about a lot of things.”

I inch closer to the edge of the circle, shadows curling softly around my bare feet like they’re listening, too.

“What changed your mind?” I ask her.

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