Rarely had I given in to such beauty routines before the war. After the treaty, we’d stopped spending on luxuries, but my body had been so worn after the journey across the territory and the Undertaking, it couldn’t hurt to pamper myself.
Moving forward, I wanted to employ all of my tactics. If myopponents saw youth and beauty as a fault, I’d turn them into strengths. Use them to get beneath their skin. Beauty could be a weapon sharper than the finest blade, and I was fighting battles at every turn. Much like showing my core guard as a family, these other sides of me made me whole, a person rather than an emotionless figure.
Unfortunately for my opponents, my arsenal just became much more expansive.
After combing my hair longer than was necessary and still not hearing any movement outside the door, I emerged from the bathroom. Selfishly, I was glad Malakai had yet to return. While bathing, I’d turned Damien’s prophecy over in my head carefully, picking it apart for hints as to what was being asked of me.
No—demanded. This was not a request.
Blood of fate, spilled in sacrifice. The words chilled my very bones.
As if carried on a wind, I drifted across the room to the sideboard bearing our weapons.
It was there—that haunted dagger with the Engrossian gems. The one that belonged to Lucidius. Malakai had cleaned it, wiping away the visible stains of its cursed past, but they lingered.
Firelight bounced off the blade as I lifted it, the volcano flashing through my mind. Veins of lava bathing the battle in an orange glow as warriors fell one by one. Sparks and shouts. Lucidius’s weight pressing against my chest, hands around my throat. My blade dragging across his flesh, blood claiming the end of that life.
But not all threats were thwarted that day.
The Engrossian dagger swallowed up the light as I brought the sharpened edge against my palm. The metal was cool, biting into my skin, but I barely felt the sting; it wasn’t deep, just enough for a stream of red blood to bubble to the surface. Crimson beads slowly filled my palm, running down my wrist.
The blood caught the light. It was…ordinary. I had seen plenty of bloodshed—much more than I wished to see in my short life. This was nothing special. Why then?—
The door opened. “Ophelia…” His voice trailed off as he took in the scarlet staining my arm, soaking into my silk robe.
“Ophelia,what in the fucking Spirits?” Malakai rushed to me, using his shirt to apply pressure to my wound. He retrieved the bladefrom my hand, wiping it off on his pants, and placed it back on the dresser.
Within minutes, the cut healed over thanks to our quick healing made even quicker while in the mountains. My palm and arm were left crusted in streaks of crimson.
“Ophelia…” he hedged. He dropped his shirt to the floor, lifting my chin with one hand and holding my wound with the other. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because when I saw my blood dripping down my arm, only one word came to my mind. One word that I had no fucking clue how to explain. Removed centuries ago, yet alive in me.
Never at risk of suffering fromthatCurse.
Your blood is strong enough to cause and end wars.
Destruction.
What in the name of the Spirits did it all mean?
I had no answer, but that word echoed through my mind, ominous and cautionary all at once.
Angelblood.
Chapter Ten
Ophelia
“Is that new?”Jezebel asked, eyeing the necklace I clutched.
Head snapping up from the tome I was reading on Damien’s life, I uncurled my fingers from the metal charm.
“It’s the piece that fell off Angelborn.” As I lifted the token, it caught the early summer sun streaming through the palace library windows. Santorina and Erista looked up from their own work, observing the piece.
Jezebel cocked her head. “You didn’t have it fixed?”
Only you can know— Fate will fight back?—
