Page 7 of The Curse of Ophelia
He sighed, and I could tell by the dramatic rise and fall of his shoulders that his next words would be heavy. “Sorrida”—there it was—“our people were born of the Angels. The First Revered Mystique Warrior, Damien, ascended as an Angel himself, as did the prime leaders of the other six clans. No matter what fate has befallen us, we are still Damien’s faithful servants and he our guide. We are still protected by the Spirits of past Mystique Warriors. We are still us, regardless of it all. Sometimes, change is okay.”
“We didn’t change. We were obliterated.” I tossed the brush aside, my fingers growing twitchy, and moved to the wall where a number of tools were hung. I removed a length of rope and knotted it, untying and retying different styles as I waited for him to speak. The quick actions of my fingers and required focus steadied my breathing.
“It was a check on the balance of power. Just because we are no longer the premiere clan doesn’t mean we are any less significant. You still have a role to play in the world.” He spoke with such tenderness that I knew he believed the words, even if I didn’t. The balance of power was what magic demanded, a justification for the order of the world. But I would never understand why something we defended would require our downfall.
“My purpose feels squandered now,” I admitted, squaring my shoulders. “But I will make it right.”
“Your faith is inspiring, Ophelia. It truly is. But there is a point when blind faith becomes reckless. That time has come and gone.” I knew he meant it to be soothing, but it had the opposite effect.
“I must complete the Undertaking.” I threw the rope aside and whirled on my father.
“You know that you cannot,” he reminded me, keeping infuriatingly calm. “All Undertakings were suspended after—” I flinched, and he paused, reconsidering his approach. “Our people had grown too weak. We couldn’t risk any more loss of life.”
“But why?” I demanded. “It is senseless to cease the training of warriors when war is always a threat.”
“The Revered made the decision, Ophelia.” He crossed his arms, the motion sharp after over a century of training with swords and spears. When he spoke again, his tone left no room for argument. It was the voice of the Second, born of a different form of training. “You will not be completing the Undertaking now or in the future.”
Though my father’s eyes heated, I did not back down. He may no longer see a future for me as a warrior, but I could see nothing else.
“I was not made for skirts, Father. I was made for swords.”
Chapter Four
The cool night air grazed my flushed cheeks, but it did nothing to calm my temperament.
The city was quiet at this hour, its inhabitants having retired to their homes at dusk after a day of restoration efforts beneath the Palermanian sun. Sometimes it seemed that the work would never end, like we would be trying to repair ourselves forever. We had seen progress in the past two years, but the trauma was a stain on our city.
Flashbacks of the battles that swarmed our home still crossed through my mind daily. Enemy warriors running through the cobblestone streets of Palerman, targeting it as the strongest Mystique settlement. We had been weakened by the Curse before they arrived, making the fight quick and brutal. Engrossian axes flew through the air, finding target after target. Their screeches as they cut us down still roused me from fitful sleep often, another reason I was headed to my destination tonight.
I had been kept out of the battles. Too young, my father had claimed, despite my advanced skill. I had watched from a hillside, though I had been told not to. Watched as an Engrossian blade skimmed the flesh of my father’s neck, within a hair of his life, and I swore I would get revenge.
Now, as I passed the newly reopened apothecary, I thought about all the ways life had been damaged. Half of our shops were permanently shut down. Some, like the blacksmith’s, were no longer necessary. Others, like the leatherworker’s, with the shattered windows, had lost their owners to the war.
Some of the white brick buildings had been repaired, their brown wooden doors and glass windows replaced, signs repainted and strung up. The apothecary with salves straight from the Bodymelders, the herbal shop selling tinctures of the Starsearchers, a spice tradesman with blends imported directly from the Seawatchers—all three had been restored on this block alone, though wares from minor clans were nearly impossible to receive at present. It left us attempting to replicate them as best we could.
Still, much of our main street had been healed. Those who survived and did not own land in their family’s name had relocated to the apartments above the shops in the center of town, centralizing life around the fountain that marked the heart of Palerman. With its towering figure of the First Mystique Warrior, Damien, in his Angel form. Wings stretched wide to encompass all who sought shelter, it became a source of comfort for many.
Despite the Curse and the war, the sun shone brightly over our land each day, heating the calming breezes we reveled in, kissing our skin until it glowed, and giving us back a little bit of the warmth our lives lacked.
“Ophelia!” An enthusiastic call bounced off the sealed doors and windows of our main street. I hoped the ivy draped across the buildings would muffle it. “Where dost thou journey to tonight?”
Tolek Vincienzo appeared at my shoulder and slowed his stride to match mine. I didn’t turn to look at him, but if he had arrived, Cypherion Kastroff would be just behind him. Malakai’s best friends had become shadows of mine in the past two years, anchored to my movements and monitoring my moods as Seawatchers did a storm-ridden tide.
“I’m not in the mood, Vincienzo,” I growled, the sound out of place in the serene night.
Tolek shrugged, a light laugh escaping his lips. “You’re never in the mood, Alabath. Since when does that stop me?”
A third set of footsteps fell in with ours as we crossed the deserted street. “Hello, Cyph,” I called over my shoulder without turning.
Tolek tutted, “He gets a ‘hello,’ and I get ‘I’m not in the mood’? Well, I guess that answers who the favorite is around here, Cyph. What do I owe you?”
I rounded on him, my anger at my family rising again. We stopped in the middle of the street, light from the apartments above spilling around our figures, dancing with the highlights in Tolek’s dark brown hair. He’d dyed them himself using citrus juice and sunlight, and though I would never tell him, they were rather flattering against the amber specks in his chocolate-brown eyes. He raised his thick eyebrows playfully at me, those accents igniting.
“Ah! She’s stopped,” he said without looking at Cypherion, who danced like a shadow at the border of our square of light.
“And where were you headed, Ophelia?” Cyph’s deep voice filled the street. The authority in his tone did not align with the tender heart hiding behind those deep-set blue eyes. Wavy auburn hair brushed his shoulders, shadowing a chiseled face that would look good brooding, but usually bore a gentle expression.His appearance was a lesson in contradictions.
I glowered up at the two of them. Tol stood a few inches shy of Cyph’s height and was lean muscle where Cyph was more solid, but both were at least a head taller than me. When had they grown so large? Gone were the days of adolescence when I sprang up to tower over them both.