“Possibly,” he said as the music ended. Lancaster stepped back from the dance, his jaw ticking over something Rina had said. “But that possibility aside,thatispureattraction.”
Santorina stared after the fae for a moment, then she picked up her skirts and turned away. She nodded in our direction, an emotion I couldn’t quite name stealing her expression.
Ignoring the curiosity that interaction spun within me, I said, “Thank you for your help with the weapons earlier. Tell Gatrielle how much I appreciate the insight, will you?”
“Of course, Ophelia,” Esmond answered seriously, crossing his arms. “We’re here to assist you however we can. I only wish it had been more successful.”
“Yes.” I sighed. But I dispelled the sensation of a shadow at my back, a threat closing in. My gaze dropped to Esmond’s knuckles where theKLPBodymelder tattoo was inked. Knowledge, logic, precision.
“I met Ptholenix when I was in Damenal,” I said.
Esmond’s brows rose. “You did?”
I nodded. “More than simply met him. He assisted Damien in training me.”
I tried not to focus on how that statement lodged a knot of confusion in my mind. Why had they trained me if they wanted to trap me there? Was it only so I’d be more powerful when Echnid used my magic? Or was there more to their motives?
“What was he like?” Esmond asked, a bit mystified.
In my memory, the heat of Ptholenix’s presence sizzled down my spine. Ropes of fiery magic licked across his brown skin, his orchid tattoo stark against his defined muscles, unspooling between his wings.
“All of the Angels have larger than life presences,” I explained. “But Ptholenix’s was different. With Gaveny, you almost can’t avoid him because his very voice feels like a booming tide. Damien and Bant are all-encompassing. But Ptholenix…he was the heart of a fire. As unexpected, silent, and quickly moving as a freshly burning flame, hungry to consume whatever lay in his path, but with the power to send the world to ash sitting just beneath his skin.”
Esmond’s fingers flexed against his arm. “Was he helpful with your magic?”
“Very. He acted like it was mine to command, where Damien always seemed to have a bit too much of a personal edge involved.” The Mystique Angel always made me feel like if I failed, he failed. “Ptholenix also left me with some thoughts to ponder.”
“Such as?”
“Like explaining that fire is more cleansing than water.”
Esmond ran a hand over his hair. “Interesting that he’d say that,” he mused. “Have you ever heard the legend of the Firebird and the Fox?”
“No.” But I perked up, the ancient seraph magic within my veins snapping to attention.
“It’s a folktale among Bodymelders, and it’s not told about Ptholenix specifically, but it’s long been a rumor that the original story was about him.”
“About his life?” I asked. That fiery thread of power from the Bodymelder Angel whipped within me.
“A part of it,” Esmond told me. “It’s either a romance or a tragedy depending on how you view it. Really, I think it’s either about the lengths one will go to fight for a love not meant for them or claiming a love above all else, no matter which version you hear. They’ve all been altered over time.”
As all legends were. My gaze landed on Jezebel as she and Erista danced to the slow melody seeping across the ballroom. We were sisters born of myth, to raise and slay constellations and legends, and even we didn’t know what that legacy meant. What we were meant to do with this magic and why the Balance of Power had decided it was needednow.
“He said that while fire is cleansing, it also marks the darkest moments of life,” I commented.
Esmond’s lips pulled into a line as if unsurprised by that. “The tragic version of the story claims the Firebird—assuming that means Ptholenix—fell in love with the fox.”
“The fox?” I echoed. “And that was tragic because?”
“No one knows who she was. Some say a thief, some even say a fae female who could glamour her appearance into the furry creature itself, and some say she was no more than a common warrior with tattoos that reminded him of foxes. But she caught the attention of the firebird somehow.”
My seraph magic heated, purring in recognition of Esmond’s tale, but there was a resolute sadness beneath it. All three of those accounts would have ended in forbidden loves in one way or another. All would have been ripped away from the Firebird and his fox.
And all could have instilled the heavy regret in Ptholenix’s tone when he’d spoken atop the mountain.
“How does the story end?” I asked as a romantic ballad swept through the room.
“In fire,” Esmond confirmed. “Sometimes with the death of the fox, sacrificed into ashes as the whims of the Firebird’s power grew too strong for him. Sometimes with a burning village and no bodies recovered. But always in fire.”
