Page 76 of The Trials of Ophelia

“There was someone else I could see more clearly,” Vale said, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t entirely recognize him, but based on the depictions I saw back in Damenal, I think it was your ancestor.” She nodded to me and Jezebel.

“Annellius?” my sister asked, perking up.

His gold-tinged form during the Undertaking fluttered through my mind, the wild inclinations bare in his appearance. And his eyes?—

“Were they magenta?” I inquired. “Annellius’s eyes?” I pointed at my own.

Vale shook her head, brows creasing. “Brown eyes.” That didn’t align with the being I’d spoken with during the Undertaking. “He was on his knees. Pleading. It was…” Her face screwed up again, pained at the memory. I’d never considered how seeing the paths of fate might damage one’s own present. “Horrible. He was distraught. Bleeding, but trapped in a vortex of wind. Even if allowed, I don’t think I would have been able to reach him.”

“How does he connect to the gods, though?” Jezebel asked.

“That’s the second reason the gods matter.” Vale chewed her words as if trying to recall the reading. Her fingers curled tighter around her water glass, tarnished silver ring digging into her skin. “There were seven orbs of light surrounding Annellius, like fireflies in a halo over his head. And it seemed like the gods were feeding them. They grew and grew, almost taking on winged-forms, then one at a time, they evaporated. Became mist above him, then collected, each compacting into a small golden speck, like a far-off star.”

“Seven orbs of light?” Cypherion asked.

“One for each Angel?” I suggested.

“Fed by the gods…” Tolek echoed.

I didn’t know what to make of that. Of the mere idea that the gods were somehow involved in a game of warriors and Angels. It undid lessons I’d been taught since birth. But I supposed that was common nowadays.

“We’re learning more about each Angel every day,” I said. “But perhaps we also need to learn of the gods. And maybe we even need to question Annellius’s motives.”

That was what Missyneth had said to me at the induction party, after all. Motivations tell a variant story from one’s actions. They often complete the picture.

“We don’t know why he wanted the emblems, what he did, or how he failed.” I looked around at my friends. “It’s clear after what we saw on the islands, this is bigger than any of us imagined. We need to expand our theories to match. We need to figure out what Annellius knew and the meaning of what Vale saw in her vision.”

And as I made such drastic claims, worry curled in my stomach. Was this the fate we were condemned to? Had I angered the Angels somehow and they’d left us this abstract task beginning to feel like a fool’s errand?

Or was it a god’s hand pulling these strings?

It didn’t matter, I supposed. If I had to do it, I would. I’d do whatever it took to ensure the safety of not only those in this room, but those across the Mystique Territory and alliance clans. Innocent people had been wronged beyond belief. After taking my vow as Revered, I would do everything in my power to stop it from happening again.

“Thank you,” Vale said, pulling me from my reverie, “for letting me help you.”

Before I could answer, a note flared to life on the ground beside me, the slight glow of mystlight setting my second pulse pounding.

Quickly, I unfolded it, and recognized Barrett’s hand immediately.

“What is it?” Tolek said, looking over my shoulder.

I couldn’t help my grin. “We have our next emblem.” I looked Cypherion in the eye. “Get those maps of yours. We’re heading to Bodymelder Territory.”

“Where?” Jezebel asked, an eager spark in her voice.

I extended the note bearing coordinates and a few words. “Have any of you heard of Firebird’s Field?”

The group sprang into action, discussing theories as I recovered my emblems from the ground. Holding the bloody shard of Angelborn, a plan unfolding of our next steps, the remnants of Angellight burned beneath my skin.

And the poison trapped in my scar writhed against it, feeling alive.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Damien

Bant’s wings draped against the floor creating a limp tent around him. Blood streaked his feathers, staining their speckled gray surface a deep crimson. As I tried to force my stare away, the steady drip of blood to the floor became a rhythm my heart might beat to, should it dare to do such a thing.

It was cruel to keep him bleeding this way when magic would usually heal him in seconds, but he deserved cruelty for his recklessness. Something akin to a long-dead shadow of hatred coiled in my gut, but it was dulled. Still trapped.

---