Ophelia
“Could this mean something?”
I peered over Malakai’s shoulder, a fresh cup of herbal tea balanced atop the stack of Sacra Temple books I’d said I’d dig through that afternoon. The top volume was on historical battles, a few beneath it on ritual law, some on Angel appearances, but tucked between them was my true interest—the files on Annellius Alabath.
They’d been taunting me all morning—every day, truly, since my father had given them to me three weeks ago. I was certain Annellius had something to do with this mess the Angel had delivered to me, but I had yet to uncover anything helpful. And Damien had been suspiciously quiet.
The papers practically burned through the books as I set them on the table, tucked away in a corner of the temple archives, swiping up my tea before it could stain the cover. I leaned over Malakai’s shoulder, his honeysuckle scent filling my senses, and read what he pointed to.
Prophecies made by the third minor clan of the warriors of Gallantia—the Starsearchers—are subject to interpretation. If made within one of the sacred temples on their land, they are believed infallible. Readings taken outside of these spaces fluctuate on their reliability.
“Maybe…” I mused. “We know Titus didn’t read in a Starsearcher temple. He may be believed stronger due to his status as chancellor, though.” I shook my head. “It feels like speculation.” Malakai had taken on the task of researching every facet of the Starsearchers to interpret Titus’s vision, but I was reluctant to rely on unconfirmed theories when it came to the darkness he read.
“There’s no evidence to prove him right either, though,” Malakai argued.
I cupped his cheek, turning his face to mine. “Thank you for trying.” With the pressure mounting, I was grateful for Malakai’s steadfast shouldering of this topic.
We hadn’t fought since the night Damien appeared, but we hadn’t talked much deeper than this either. At times, Malakai seemed like he was returning to his old self, but then I’d catch the shadows behind his eyes and realize it was a mask—one he held up even in front of me—and he was further than ever.
We were like a silk scarf slipping between my fingers, unraveling to the floor between us. As it went, we’d reached an amicable plateau of peace, and I was okay to settle there. To set up my camp on that flat surface and sit beside him in a friendly silence, telling myself the love story I thought was written in the stars rather than living it. We were better this way.
Still, having his help with this search was important to me.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe we should approach Vale again,” I offered, falling into a seat beside him.
Malakai shook his head. “She won’t talk.”
I drummed my fingers on the table, its dark wood pristine. Light streamed through the various shades of blue stained glass in the windows, casting the image of Damien as a warrior onto the table’s surface.
The temples throughout Damenal were littered with different portrayals of the Angel’s life. I’d spent a lot of time observing them these weeks as Malakai and I made our way through sacred texts that could tie back to Titus’s readings.
Malakai was right. We’d approached Vale twice, and both times she’d sworn she knew nothing. We’d even considered writing to Titus himself, but I didn’t want to expose just how concerned I was yet.
I huffed, falling into my seat and picking the top book off my stack.
My muscles ached with every movement. Cypherion’s training was more thorough than anything I’d ever undergone. Even with my full strength from the Undertaking, he had me crawling to the sidelines after every circuit.
He’d taken charge of not only our workouts, but all Mystiques who had shown up in recent weeks. One positive of our generation being withheld from the war was we now had a surplus of warriors who wanted to train. Many were unskilled, rusty at best, and some malnourished thanks to Lucidius’s shredding of the trade system, but all longed to return to what we once were.
Hope—that was what our foundation had become.
We opened the training arena to them as they migrated to Damenal. It was not only the palace yard—not any longer. For daily sessions with Cypherion, any Mystique who wished to train was welcome.
Seeing the numbers grow…it made my heart swell. A piece long ago broken, restored.
My abdomen tightened when I leaned forward, the sore muscles barking. I rubbed a hand across the gap in my leathers, fingers lingering on my scars.
“Cyph is a sadist,” Malakai joked, tracking my movement.
“I swear a part of him enjoys it.” I laughed.
“At least you don’t whine like some of the others.”
Tolek and Jezebel had taken to beingveryvocal about their displeasure with Cypherion’s workout routines. Though, the former still managed to complete every set quicker than most, with my sister on his heels. Jezebel charged to the dining hall immediately after every session to consume more food than any other warrior. Even Malakai was resuming his previous skill.
“I think they just enjoy teasing him.”
