But only ascended warriors were allowed in our army.
And I would not be completing the Undertaking, despite Cypherion’s gentle prodding. I may have been putting on a front in council meetings since Ophelia left, dragging up the dignified future Revered I was raised to be, but I didn’t know how long I could keep it up. Every day was a battle, and I was being battered.
Still, I’d sworn to try.
“Warriors need weapons,” I said without looking at Cyph.
“We have weapons.”
“Their own weapons,” I muttered. I was worn, my bones leaden. The scarring on my mind and body from my time imprisoned was pulling, tearing me apart. No part of me was intent on completing the ritual I’d once lived for…but a weapon…
That I could handle.
Cyph gently rested a hand on my shoulder. “We can take care of that.”
“Haveyou had any luck with the readings?” I asked Vale as we strolled through the Ascended Quarter with Cyph, passing the tattoo parlor and leatherworkers.
“Not yet.” She swallowed, lashes fluttering. “I’m trying, though. I know I’m getting closer, but the fates seem reluctant to share what I need. I think I’ll have the answer soon.” The words came out in a rush, as if reassuring us.
I avoided looking at Cyph to gauge his reaction and ignored a woman who almost walked straight into me as she exited a gem shop, keeping my gaze intent on the Starsearcher. “I appreciate you trying. We need the information.” I clenched my hands at my side. “Ophelia needs it.”
Spirits, my stomach churned to mention her, to think about how she’d raced off into the night and left us here.
To remember the fact that she wasn’t mine to protect anymore, and I had to let her go.
Jezebel had been right—I’d done enough damage there. The best way I could make up for it was to stop trying and let time heal us both.
“I’m doing everything I can,” Vale muttered, her chin ducked. The clang of a hammer against steel rang out, and she lifted her face, light returning to her eyes.
The blacksmith’s shop was overwhelmed with work, every shelf and table covered with a menagerie of swords, spears, knives, and armor.
“What can I do for you?” A broad man stepped up to us, his short gray beard tinged black from the forge, small eyes looking over our trio. “Oh,” he sighed upon recognizing me. “Hello, Malakai.” There was no malice in his voice, but the tinge of disinterest stung.
I cleared my throat, biting my tongue. I was so fucking tired of the reactions to my reappearance into the world, but I supposed it was my own naivety for expecting otherwise.
“Malakai needs a weapon,” Cyph interjected.
The blacksmith nodded. “Right, we have plenty.” He wiped his hands on his apron and waved an arm around the shop. “All being prepared to be sent off with our army. Take your pick.”
He turned to leave, but Cyph grabbed his wrist. “He needs a weapon made specially for him. Your best work. And we need it done quickly.” The command in his voice had even me straightening my spine.
“That’ll be a rushed order. Expensive.” The blacksmith narrowed his eyes, assessing Cyph.
“That’s fine.” Cyph shifted his stance so the bag of coins at his hip jingled.
The blacksmith looked at the pouch then back at Cyph, ignoring my presence entirely. “Take a look around, tell me what you like, then we’ll talk price.” He returned to his station, picking up his hammer.
“Impressive,” Vale muttered to Cyph, breezing past him. His eyes followed her as she rounded the corner.
“I hadn’t realized you were such a strong negotiator,” I joked, walking between the aisles of swords, all different sizes with various pommel decor and cuts. When Cypherion looked back at me andshrugged, his cheeks were flushed. I’d bet the most expensive weapon in my father’s vault it had nothing to do with the heat in the shop.
Daggers lined the shelves, all exquisitely made. Had any been forged in the fire of the volcano? The tradition was meant to bring a warrior luck. According to legend, my spear—Ophelia’s spear—had been made that way. I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat and picked up a knife, testing it.
Across Gallantia, each clan had their own superstitions when it came to forging. Not all Mystique weapons were given the volcanic honor, but if they were, it was considered a gift of the Spirits. It was said that blades forged of rare minerals and coated with a source of magic were the strongest of all, capable of severing the richest life forces.
I hoped to the Spirits that I would never find myself at the end of one of those sacred blades.
“Is there a certain kind of weapon you want?” Cypherion asked. He swung a sword, clearly trying not to push me too far.
