Page 33 of The Trials of Ophelia
The fire crackled behind me as I sipped a mug of ale. With the warmth at my back and the drink in my stomach, tension leaked from my muscles. Perhaps getting out of Damenal, away from Lucidius’s legacy, was good for me.
Barrett and Dax returned from their own day of loading wagons to cart supplies to the mountain camp.
“We’ll be heading out early,” Dax reminded me. “Are you going to bed?”
“In a bit,” I said.
Barrett narrowed his eyes on the parchment beside me. “Still saving ink for emergencies?”
They’d been raising their brows at the letters Mila and I exchanged since the first one, given that Mystique ink was supposed to be conserved. Something about writing to her was comforting, though. To share a few of the monotonous pieces of my day and reveal a little bit of what I was working through. It was easier to put things in writing than to look someone in the face.
Not that I was exchanging any deep-ridden secrets. The letters were quick. Mainly updates about our progress and whatever she could share from camp. But they offered consistency. Whenever I considered not responding and retreating into my mind again, I remembered her words in the temple: You have to retain a belief in yourself, and I tried to loosen the cage in my chest.
“Go to bed,” I commanded. Barrett shook his head with a laugh, running a ringed hand through his curls. He slung an arm around Dax’s shoulders and dragged him down the hall.
Darrell followed shortly, but I wasn’t ready to return to my empty room and stare at the ceiling with a head full of questions. Instead, I pulled out Mila’s latest letter. I’d written this morning asking how things were progressing.
Same as before.
She couldn’t say more than that, but I understood. The Engrossian-Mindshaper infantry continued to hammer the southern border.
How are you? I wrote back, though I wasn’t sure why. What I’d wanted to ask was what being back in a war camp was like. Was it the same as last time? What was different? Better or worse or equally as horrific? I wanted—needed—to know every detail of the war Lucidius imposed on the continent and the terrors it inflicted on the survivors. Maybe if I knew, I could help resolve it.
Or maybe I wanted to carry the guilt.
Her response was prompt this time.
Tired. And you?
Before I could respond, a second note appeared. An afterthought.
Your father?
The pen tumbled from my hand. I’d told her Barrett and I had been reading his journals, but why was she asking now?
Hand shaking slightly, I wrote back:
Going to spend some time with him.
When her last reply said only, Good luck, I set aside the note and tried to rid myself of the many questions the dichotomy of Mila rose in my head, instead diving deeper into the past.
In Lucidius’s journal, I flipped to the entry on wildflowers, tilting the book toward the fire. Rambling words stared back, most crowded together in his looping script.
Fields stretched on endlessly and I felt small a tiny dot in the map of the world whose purpose was to make an impact and I would make that impact that was what drove me to the spot
Bushels of overgrown weeds that’s what all this was I didn’t understand why they favored this spot so much
Field of birds marking it they had a name for its roar of yellow and orange poppies and spirits knew what else but this was where I needed to be besides the pointless view and the way it made me feel
I had to be here
He went on to dissect every flower he could find, all in the same nearly-unintelligible ramble. The words faded before my eyes. Blinking furiously, I rubbed a hand down my face. Another page of pointless thoughts, another night spent wondering if I was wasting my time with Lucidius. But if someone like Mila, a direct victim of his actions, could set aside her scars to ask about him, I couldn’t give up.
“What’s that?” Dax asked, eyes locked on a spot between the trees in the camp we’d made in the mountains. The small fleet of Bodymelders accompanying us chattered away, not having heard the lieutenant.
Following Dax’s sightline, I found two glowing orbs in the night. My mind flicked back to winged beasts, nemaxese, fae, and every other warning Ophelia had given as I gripped my sword against the cool earth.
“Stay still,” I warned.
