Page 3 of The Curse of Ophelia
The sky around the snowcapped mountains was peppered with stars, and hovering above the highest peak, one particular star outshone the others. I exhaled when my eyes landed on it, unable to tear them away as the sight of the North Star crawled beneath my skin and tore my heart to pieces. I didn’t know it was possible for a broken heart to repeatedly sever, but mine found a way.
I inched closer to the painting, lifting a hand to graze the star. The paint was rough beneath my fingertips, but I lingered there, as if that touch might guide me in repairing the scraps of the life I once dreamed of.
The spot beneath my inner elbow tingled.
A reminder of another lifetime, two years ago, when the stars shone brighter.
A reminder to hope for the day that they may again.
Chapter Two
Two Years Earlier
Gently twining his fingers through mine, he lifted our hands to his lips. His breath was hot against my knuckles as he whispered, “We spoke the Words ages ago, Phel. It’s time.”
The Warrior’s Words.
The declaration of commitment we had proclaimed privately to each other on my sixteenth birthday, before war broke out and the Curse had tilted our lives toward madness. We had been naive then, tangled in our blissful promise of the future, and as I stood among the ruined city of Palerman, I longed for that innocence again.
His eyes sparkled with the excitement of childhood, bringing me back to the many days we spent chasing each other through our city. His jet-black hair had reflected the sunlight above Palerman, like a beacon calling to me among those crowded streets. He would duck between shops or into narrow alleys in the center of the city where the buildings were stacked closely together—and I would always find him. The freckles across his nose had wrinkled when he teased me, and even now I remembered the fluttering that motion drew into my stomach.
Back when I didn’t even know I loved him.
I brought my hand to his cheek, his jaw much more angular than it had been in childhood, and leaned up to gently press my lips against his. He smelled of the jasmine and honeysuckle that marked the entrance to our secret clearing, where we had spent the winter afternoon rolling through the lush grasses.
I pulled a stray petal from his hair, smiling at the intimate memory that landed it there. The war may have destroyed so much, but I would still hold on to the good.
“You’re right, Augustus.” He had many names: Malakai Augustus Blastwood, Mali, Destined Warrior Child, Future Revered of the Mystique Warriors—but Augustus was mine.
“Tonight?” I asked. Bliss gripped my heart as I gazed back into his forest eyes. They deepened with my agreement.
He nodded, our lips brushing together. “We’ll meet at the parlor.”
His free hand grazed my jaw, calluses rough against my skin, and slid into my hair. My toes curled in my boots. I gasped at the energy that coursed through my body, at the heat pooling low in my stomach.
Augustus leaned closer, coiling the long blonde strands around his hand and pulling my head back slightly to claim my lips with his own. His movements were urgent yet gentle, as he always was each long night we spent tangled up in each other beneath the stars.
“I’ll see you then,” I whispered against his mouth, breaking apart before either of us could go too far in the public square of Palerman. There were always eyes on us, children of the two most powerful Mystique bloodlines. Augustus, the son of our current Revered, and me, firstborn daughter of Bacaran Alabath.
We were the most promising future of our people, a symbol of hope and strength among the death and pain.
The heart of the city was emptier since the war had ended last month, but restoration efforts had begun, meaning there were plenty of onlookers today. Though most of the fighting had been contained to the Wild Plains north of Palerman, enemy warriors swept through every large Mystique city. Pillaging what they could. Killing who they could.
It didn’t help that in the denser part of Palerman, many families lived in old, apartment-style buildings above shops. It only made the target easier. Some days, I thought I could still see rust-colored stains on the worn stone streets.
It was easy to forget about that when it was just Augustus and me, his hands on my waist, the shadows masking us. White bricks and debris surrounded our feet, but when I looked at him, everything felt okay. We were rebuilding. The Curse was gone. Soon, we would complete the Undertaking, and all would be right.
“I love you,” I whispered as I left him.
“Until the stars stop shining,” he responded.
*
Mystique Warriors had three causes for tattoos. Each was etched by ink imbued with minerals of the Mystique Mountains, giving life to nearly unbreakable promises. The Bond was the first to be received, given after completing the Undertaking. A mountainous symbol printed into the skin at the back of the neck to mark success and everlasting commitment to our cause.
The Band came next, a design that declared rank to the world. Different forces received variations of entwined florals and vines. The highest bore a delicate band of budding peonies connected by a thin strand. This was the rendition Augustus and I would one day receive. As you traveled lower in the ranks, the flowers became less rare, the vines more brutish, but the tattoos equally as beautiful.
The Bind was the last a warrior was supposed to receive. The artwork was personal, decided between you and the partner you chose to speak the Words to. An irrevocable symbol of the commitment that was to be the final step in that agreement.