Page 2 of The Curse of Ophelia
I smiled to myself at the thought of anyone trying to stand between me and Starfire. I had been cheated out of my birthright, but I would not let them steal the power threaded through my blood.
Still, each morning that we donned our training leathers—covering our bodies from neck to foot in the slick, nearly impenetrable black material—and strapped on gold reinforcement bands, a shadow of worry hung around me. Not for myself, but for Jezebel. At seventeen, she still occupied the space in our culture when you were neither regarded as a child nor respected as a grown warrior. If we were to be found training, I could not say what repercussions she would suffer.
I closed my eyes for only a moment and channeled my hearing to catch any threats, but that slight adjustment was a distraction I couldn’t afford. In one blink, Jezebel twirled around me, a perfect balance of delicacy and force, retrieved her spear, and swung the weapon behind my legs.
A cloud of dust surrounded me where I fell.
“Focus, Ophelia,” she growled, extending a hand to help me up. Her tawny eyes burned with anger, stark against her bronze skin. They were the most notable difference between us, my eyes being a bright, inexplicable magenta. My parents thought it might have been a temporary discoloration when I was born, but it never faded.
Beyond that, our heart-shaped faces, full lips, and coloring were nearly identical, her features a bit slenderer than mine.
As she hauled me to my feet, it was clear she knew what had distracted me. That protective guard an older sister held over the younger.
And she hated it.
When the sun had fully risen, we opened the creaky wooden door of our family’s weapons shed and disarmed. The structure had once been guarded against intruders with impenetrable wards on the lone door, but no one in Palerman bothered to lock their weapons up anymore. They had no use. Now the space only remained free of cobwebs and rodents due to my and Jezebel’s weekly cleanings.
We polished our weapons in silence, peeled off our leathers, and discarded them into a soiled pile that was growing steadily. Wash those soon, I reminded myself. We’d have to sneak them to the manor.
A thin beam of light shone through the cracked door, brightening Jezebel’s frame where she stood in only her undergarments. She held her hands before her, turning them over slowly. Her lips twisted to the side, eyes narrowing.
“What is it?” I asked, tossing one of the dresses we were forced to wear at her and pulling my own up my body. I tugged my long golden hair free of the backing, cursing when it tangled in the bindings.
I should not be wearing such restrictive clothing anymore. I should have spent each day in the leathers of the ascended Mystiques, having completed the Undertaking. The garb was customized by each warrior, with leather straps and bracings to the wearer’s preference, providing flexibility and weapon storage. The sketch I’d designed years ago for mine was tucked away in my room for the day I needed it—a day that would never come now.
Jezebel freed my hair, still wearing nothing more than her lace undergarments. “It’s odd, isn’t it? The way the Curse just disappeared.”
My stomach turned to ice as the spot on the inside of my elbow tingled. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand why it stopped when—”
“Get dressed,” I ordered, storming out of the shed. Dust swirled around my skirt as I stalked the half mile back to our house and crawled through my open window. With my back pressed against the cool glass, I exhaled, forcing away the pain that twisted its way through my body and prodded at my already-shredded heart.
*
My father’s study had always been my favorite place in our house. Books overflowed the dark wood shelves, stretching from floor to ceiling. Volumes were piled in corners amid scrolls and maps, and two plush velvet armchairs sat beside a fire that never extinguished thanks to the mystlight flowing directly from the earth to power every building on the continent.
The scent of leather, parchment, and smoke accenting the air had wrapped itself around me in childhood, nurtured my curiosity, and transformed me into the wandering mind I embraced now.
My favorite piece of the room was the dark wooden desk positioned beneath the window. From this spot, mounted behind the surface of study and knowledge, I had felt powerful as a child. When I had looked out over the cypher-packed land and heard the calls of wild animals, I felt alive with possibilities. The study had symbolized comfort and warmth, wisdom and wonder.
Now, it was the place I came to brood and obsess over my losses. Where I searched for something—anything—that might help me restore the future I deserved.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and I knew I could tell him to go away, but I didn’t. “Come in,” I called without looking up from the volume I was reading, The Six Gods of Ambrisk, Volume One: Thallia, the Witch Goddess of Sorcia.
My father’s blonde head poked around the door.I appreciated the way he yielded his space to me, knocking before entering when he knew I was lost in my world of research. “It’s time for dinner,” he said.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I droned. Dinner didn’t interest me. Nothing did but training for the future I’d lost and researching how to restore it. And rum—to numb the painful present.
“Two minutes.”
My head snapped up at the cold tone in his voice. His jaw was set, his beard quivering as he exhaled. His tawny eyes—a perfect mirror of my sister’s—narrowed, daring me to challenge him.
I didn’t have the energy to fight my father tonight. I nodded, closing the book in my lap and rising to follow him as he turned from the room.
His footsteps were echoing down the hall when the rendition of the Mystique Mountain Range above the fireplace caught my eye. The source of Ambrisk’s magic stared back at me. I felt as though I was there, standing atop a boulder at its base and soaking in the beauty of our cause.
Atop the peaks, warriors lived in the city of Damenal where they guarded this majestic mountain range and the secrets within. The purpose I had been born into. The birthright the fateful Undertaking would have confirmed.