Page 3 of The Trials of Ophelia

I knelt before the cracked stone, brushing my fingers across the dusty edge of the lowest stair. Scraping my nail against one of the divots where a chunk had been blown away. Not to clear it, just to feel it. To absorb a touch of the vibrant lives this spot had seen—the stories the temple had contained. My knees dug into the gravel sprinkled at the base, and I let each piece imprint itself against my skin like those losses imprinted themselves on my soul.

Much of the debris had been cleaned away. I’d organized the restoration myself, but it was leagues from being complete. Still, there was a method to the chaos now.

Stacks of stone had been gathered based on their usability. Some would be carted off to the battlefront. At the border of the southern mountains, between Mystique and Mindshaper territory, a war mounted. Lyria Vincienzo had taken up the position of Master of Weapons and Warfare, having been the former commander, Danya’s, only apprentice. She now led our alliance forces against the barrage from the Engrossian-Mindshaper army.

The supplies we sent would be used for catapults and securing trails through the snow winter would bring. My friends and I would leave Damenal to join them in a few days, despite my heart remaining in this city.

Shoving aside the thought, I rose from my crouch and crossed to the piles of smaller rocks and pebbles. I didn’t know what to do with them. My gaze dragged across each individual stone. Where had it belonged before the temple was destroyed? How had each small crumb supported the whole?

I grabbed a shovel and walked around the side of the temple. The spot I’d been working on yesterday was no more than a sweep of gravel hazardously littering the ground, but I began scooping. It was tedious, walking each shovelful to the organized piles. My hands ached around the wooden handle, splinters piercing the skin, but I continued the work. As sweat beaded across my forehead and under my leathers, I worked.

As the echoes of blasts that shattered my entire world resounded in my head, I worked.

As my heart continued to crack within my chest, I worked.

Until a hand rested gently on my shoulder, and even then I kept working.

“Ophelia,” Jezebel said softly.

“Just a little longer,” I mumbled, voice flat.

“You’ve been out here for hours,” she answered, squeezing my arm once, a reminder that she was with me, that I wasn’t alone. “You’re going to be late.”

I paused, looking to the sky. When had the sun risen so high? It had to be nearly midday now, meaning I only had two hours until the ceremony.

I’d barely accomplished anything, but I sighed and rested the shovel against the work table. My hands were dirt-streaked, blisters of blood forming beneath the skin.

Gloves. I’d forgotten gloves. How careless of me.

“Come on,” Jezebel said, leading me away from the ghost of a structure. “Santorina and I will help you clean up.” Even her voice was dull. It had been since the battle. Dark shadows lined her eyes daily.

I often found her loitering in corridors, staring out windows, entranced. Every time I snapped her out of it, she seemed like a bit more life had been taken from her. My once animated, sparkling sister, now hollow.

Except when it came to me. She channeled every remaining dash of her vivacity into our bond, into lifting me up as I guided our people through heartache and warfare. I squeezed her hand tighter as we walked silently through our city.

Ruins.

Ruined homes.

Ruined families.

Ruined hearts.

We’d made progress over the last two months, but gaping holes remained. Windows shattered and boarded up. Unstable buildings abandoned.

We rounded a corner and passed where the largest library, save the archives in the palace, had been taken out and strode down another alley, where a cluster of unassuming homes had been raided and vacated. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw the spot where the Sacra Temple once stood, where the first blast had rocked the foundation of my world.

That moment would haunt me for eternity. The jarring snap to a horrid reality when I’d been lost in a bubble of blissful naivety, believing maybe I could have beautiful things, like stolen moments in that bathing room with Tolek. Until the life-changing explosion had grabbed hold of reality and shaken it, flipped it, broken it, taking out a structure that stood for millennia and my father with it—my father who had been the most resolute structure in my life.

As if she read my mind, Jezebel passed through the gleaming palace gates and said, “The temple…”

“Yes?” I asked when she did not continue.

“You’ve done good work there.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s for him.”

“I think”—Jezebel worried her lip—“Father would be overcome with gratitude at what you’re doing to honor him, but he would want you to keep moving. To say the Spirits’ blessings for the fallen but give your heart to the living.”

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