Part One
Ptholenix
Chapter One
Tolek
The needle stung,biting into my flesh.
Not hard enough. It wasn’t piercing down to my soul like I wanted it to—it wasn’t going deep enough to dig up the grief, to turn it inside out and replace that aching echo of loss with any sort of feeling. I wanted the pain, but I’d settle for emptiness. Which would have been fair considering the vacant space behind my ribs, a hole taking up residence where my heart had been.
The metal worktable was ice cold against my bare chest, but even that didn’t bite hard enough.
The rhythmic buzz of the mystlight-fueled needle droned on, my back and shoulders stiffening from hours in this prone position. My muscles cramped, protesting. When that twinging pain wrung my shoulder, I balled my hands at my sides. The needle paused.
“Need a break?” the artist asked.
“No.”
“Tolek,” Cypherion warned, “maybe you should finish another day.”
I lifted my head from the cushion, just enough that I didn’t pinch the piece currently being inked into my back. Palemystlight flashed over CK’s face from a half-lit orb dangling in the corner of the parlor. It illuminated the dark circles beneath his eyes, his tight expression as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“No,” I repeated.
He contemplated arguing, holding my stare firmly before finally dropping his to the chipped tile floor. The swirling, muddy red and cream pattern swam in my dazed vision.
I turned my cheek back to the cushion, and the needle resumed. Staring at the wall, I relished what little pain rippled through my flesh.
“Stop trying to persuade him. He’s going to do what he wants,” Jezebel muttered to Cyph, not judgmentally.
“It’s unhealthy,” CK retorted, voice tired.
Vale’s soothing tone was a whisper against the monotonous buzz. “He’s suffered a tremendous loss.”
“Losses,” Jezebel corrected, ice in Baby Alabath’s words. She’d suffered, too.
Cypherion grunted in agreement. “How’s Mila today?”
“Much the same,” Vale answered, her voice coming from further away as she trailed circles around the parlor to appease the rush of magic that had been beneath her skin since the mountains. The Starseacher Angel, Valyrie, had called her a Fatecatcher—whatever that meant. “She’s been with Erista and Santorina all day.”
Jezebel cleared her throat at the mention of her partner, the betrayal still sinking in that Erista had suspected secrets about Jez’s life since they met. At the reminder, resentment in her honor pumped my blood faster, looking for any injustice to latch on to.
Cypherion and Vale switched to hushed whispers about some other diplomatic endeavor they’d been managing since Ophelia and Malakai had been taken.
Taken.
By an Angelsdamned god.
Echnid, the Warrior God who should have never existed, the one Ophelia freed by returning the Angel emblems to their statue in the heart of the mountains and splashing her Angelcursed blood and magic across it. The god flashed through my mind with a cruel, milky-white smile, and my fists clenched again.
This time, the tattoo artist didn’t pause. As the image of the god rooted itself in my memory, I sank into the monotony of the needle and studied the parlor.
In typical Soulguider fashion, the maroon patterned walls were covered with bronze frames inlaid with jewels—probably fake judging by the sparse state of the room and their dull shine—and displaying various artworks patrons could choose from. Most featured crescent moons and skulls, scythes and artistic swords. Legends of the deserts and Goddess of Death along with her demigod daughter and Soulguider Angel, Xenique, were portrayed in a life-size rendition on one wall.
“Her expression is wrong,” I muttered.
“What’s that?” the tattoo artist asked, pausing briefly to glance at the painting.
