Page 43 of The Trials of Ophelia

I crossed the small tent space that wasn’t crowded with unnecessary belongings. A trunk for clothing, my pack from the travels here, a mystlight to ward off the crisp chill, and a cot. Aside from my weapons, it was all I needed.

I held up the crumbled bit of parchment bearing Ophelia’s familiar tidy scrawl: Found it.

“She’s not one to waste words, is she?” Barrett said, stepping aside so I could join him and Dax outside and handing me his own note.

What tale does the swamp tell, Prince?

“What does she mean?” I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders. Rebel trotted alongside, floppy ears bouncing. It was hard not to notice the wary looks warriors cast us as we walked through camp.

A tiny village—with only a smattering of cabin-style homes—had been vacated for the army, the families relocating north. They’d given their houses to the highest-ranking warriors. Barrett, Dax, and I had been offered one upon our arrival, but we took tents instead.

The further south you went in the range, the closer to Mindshaper Territory, the colder it got despite the fact that it was still autumn. The land surrounding the range, officially across the border, was icy and frigid. Here it was unpleasant but tolerable.

“Likely about my ring.” Barrett dropped his voice as we passed a huddle of warriors who fell silent, and proceeded to spin an unlikely tale of a seven-headed swamp monster guarding the family heirloom.

“It’s only a story, though.” Barrett mindlessly massaged the spot on his index finger where the ring used to be. Now there was only a white band of skin, even paler than the rest of him.

“Is it?” Dax asked. We both looked at him. “It could be true.”

“Those monsters don’t exist,” I began—that wasn’t what she’d asked, though. “But she wants to know of the swamp.”

“The location,” Barrett said, running a gem-covered hand over his jaw. As we reached our destination, the cabin’s windows warm and inviting, he put a hand on each of our arms, halting us. “The story of the swamp…the why. I think we have some questions to ask.”

They’d have to wait, though. War was on our doorstep.

Still, as we knocked and entered Lyria’s home, I considered that proposition. Why would an ancient, sacred piece of metal containing a sliver of Angel power be hidden within a swamp? And was there any way my father’s inquiries as to the Angels could be connected?

“Welcome to your first official briefing,” Lyria said, straightening from where she hunched over a polished wood table strewn with plans. Mystlight lanterns cast a gold glow across maps, lists, and coordinates, but I looked at the warriors around the table instead.

“This is the council we’ll be working with,” Lyria explained, catching my eye. Her long brown hair was braided back, and she wore her usual leathers. Dark circles framed her eyes. “Five generals total. And Esmond, our lead healer.”

The Bodymelder stepped away from the kitchen taking up the entire right side of the open first floor, dressed in a thick brown tunic accented with maroon and gold. Beyond him, the counter was littered with tonics, plants, and supplies I’d seen in Santorina’s office but wasn’t an expert on. We exchanged a brief hello, and Rebel trotted over to the fire, curling into a ball.

“That’s Rebel,” Barrett said, offering no more of an explanation.

“Right.” Lyria’s brow creased as she studied the wolf. “Anyway, this is Cyren Marvana. They’re mainly in charge of sessions.” A Starsearcher with long dark hair and triple-bladed daggers at their hip stepped forward. “And Amara Ridgebrook. Special forces. Archery.” This woman was clearly a Seawatcher based on the tan leathers and aquamarine studs woven into her sandy-blonde braids. I pulled out the history of the ruling families I’d been forced to memorize as a child.

“You’re related to Ezalia, right?” I asked.

“Her older and wiser cousin,” Amara retorted. She had those same sea-glass eyes as the chancellor.

“And Quilian Locke. He’s one of our Infantry Leads.” The final general waved cheerfully. When the deep-purple shawl over his leathers caught the light, bronze thread gleaming, I realized the strategy here. One from each minor clan.

That was only three generals, though, and Lyria had said?—

The door slammed open, wood shuddering against the wall, and a laugh slipped from Lyria. Clanking metal and aggrieved grumbles filled the silence as a flurry of cold air lifted the maps spread before us.

Head snapping around, something in my chest stuttered.

Mila stood with her back to us, removing her twin swords from her back and tossing them on the couch.

“Everything all right?” Lyria asked, not bothering to hide her smirk at her friend.

“More fucking bigots in the training circuit,” Mila snapped, finally spinning to face us. Her platinum braid whipped through the air, and the anger fell from her expression, amusement replacing it. Her lips pursed, head tilting, as ice blue eyes bore right into me.

“Well,” she said, sauntering toward the table, “look who decided to show up.”

Had her voice always had that lilt to it? I couldn’t be sure. After exchanging letters the last few weeks, I’d forgotten the smooth sound of it. Instead, I heard everything in a warm whisper, like one spoken in a ruined temple.

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