Page 88 of The Trials of Ophelia
“A prince long gone from this earth,” one woman told another. Her tale became the tune to which I read and wrote. “The gods waged war, one that would ensure the death of his kingdom. As the battles raged, this prince knew there was no end in sight. Not without a field strewn with death.”
Her words were so pointed, it almost sounded as if she was directly beside me. I struggled to focus on what I was reading of Thorn’s studies and how he’d tried to use different natural forces to enrich his magic.
In his later decades, the Prime Warrior became fascinated by how gods bled across the land, claiming winged conductors of Angel power feared the potency of this expelling force. Though the efforts were futile; he committed endless years to the legends that were nothing more than folklore.
Thorn was intrigued by the gods? Interesting. Vale suspected she’d seen them in her session, though she wasn’t certain. Still, I made a note and continued on, more curious about the Mindshaper himself.
That melodic voice sliced through my thoughts, though. “Because that prince feared what would happen if he lost the war, he made a drastic call.”
“What was it?” her companion asked.
“Sacrifice.” The word had my pen slipping across the page, a line sharply cutting across my notes. “The prince gave up his mortal life for his kingdom. But in doing so, he set up for the faults of future generations. He was misremembered as greedy, but when his soul was taken, it ripped a gap in the ether. Something wicked stirred for the first time in millennia. Something deep as the darkest tar beneath the soil of the earth and hot as her core.”
Frowning down at the smear of ink now marring my notes, I closed my journal and threw back the rest of my drink. With my pack slung over my shoulder, I stalked past the woman’s table. Her curious gaze drew goosebumps along my arms, but I kept walking. Until I was in my room with the door closed where the attention-demanding, airy tone of her voice could no longer be heard.
Leaning over the sink, I took in my sleep-deprived face in the mirror. The room’s mystlight made me appear gaunt, but it was that echo in my head truly plaguing me.
Sacrifice.
I hated that damn word. Hated the pain it caused those I loved and the threats it still hung over our heads. I swore it would not touch us. It would not touch Ophelia.
As I extinguished the mystlight and tried to force myself to sleep, I promised us both if she was so set on getting everyone else to safety—on making decisions that would ensure the innocents of Gallantia survived and the Angel emblems were found—then I’d be focused on her.
Whatever it took.
I’d keep every one of my nightmares from coming true.
And when I tried to sleep, I dreamt of battling princes and sacrificial blood, a beautiful death at the end of my blade that ripped out my own soul and magenta eyes fading lifelessly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ophelia
I woke to Tolek screaming.
I tore from my room, threw the door to his open, and climbed onto the bed, talking to him until he realized he was awake. He was safe.
I ignored Cypherion, who followed me in—ignored everything else.
Once our heart rates both calmed, I pulled Tolek out into the crisp night air and down a winding path away from the inn. Away from our friends and the shadows of his fears.
Only us, the draping branches of cypher trees, and constellations winking in a star-speckled sky.
When we reached a small wooden bridge stretching across a narrow stream, we stopped. I leaned my hip against the railing, and Tolek braced his elbows on it. He looked out over the gentle dips of the water, the paths it carved around stone, and I looked at him. At the shadows beneath his eyes and the disarray of his hair. His uncanny silence bit into my heart.
I knew of the false beliefs his father had planted in his head and how the Undertaking weaponized them, but what was Tolek so afraid of that the Mindshaper torture he underwent last summer continued to feed it into his subconscious night after night?
As if reading my thoughts, he finally said, “I think I’m ready to talk about some of it.”
My heart pounded.
“I let it get to me,” Tol began, staring out over the water. “The things my father used to say and do.” He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb, the touch raising goosebumps along my arms.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I whispered.
He nodded as if he knew. “I want to. I want you to know the parts of me I’m too scared to face. But I’m afraid of how they’ll sound.”
His voice was unsteady. A slight waver over the last few words gave me an inkling of how hard this was for him. It was the same way he’d reassured himself I was okay after I’d attempted to contact Damien. I wasn’t sure how those paired together, but I knew no matter what he told me, my mind would not change about him.
