Page 78 of The Trials of Ophelia

Embrace the pressure. Allow myself to sink into what scared me—to really know the hollows and quirks and threats—rather than try to blindly scale them. But what if what I found within was too much?

“And if I’m not truly fit for this? What if the doubts are right?” It was easier to confess these things to Ezalia than the others, despite not knowing her as well. My family’s undying belief in me lifted my confidence on the worst days, but Ezalia spoke from experience.

“The fact that you worry about this shows how much you care. I’ve seen a lot of rulers across clans in my lifetime—and a lot of council members who aspired to rule. The difference between those who led successfully and those who didn’t was their intention. Anyone can strategize and enforce laws. What matters is how you prioritize those you lead because they are our purpose.” Ezalia placed a hand on my shoulder, her sea-glass eyes as soothing as a gentle tide. “Trust your instincts, Ophelia. The Spirits will guide you.”

Her words settled over me, my eyes stinging. It was something my father would have said.

As Ezalia left, and I stood alone on the terrace for those last few minutes, I envisioned him beside me. Us staring out over that distant sea together. His strong arm around my shoulder and encouraging words carried on the breeze.

Be with me, I sent the thought out to his spirit, wherever it may be. Guide us.

Always, I thought his voice promised back. It stuck with me as I left the suite and met my friends at the front of the manor.

Tolek disentangled himself from Seli and Auggie, who were still under the impression he was spending the day with them. I looked at him with a pointed stare that asked Are you okay? And he returned a grim one that said Let’s go, slinging a new bow and quiver of arrows across his back.

Through it all, my father’s promise echoed he was with me, I was on the right path, and it was okay to feel overwhelmed by it all.

And while I may be meant for a dark and bloodied future, as we left Gaveral, I tried to hold on to the beauty of the dawn, the comfort of my father’s spirit, and the reminder from Ezalia that it was okay to feel pressure in the face of the unknown.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Malakai

Mila and I had been conducting private training for three weeks when she pulled a sword from her back and pointed it at me.

She flipped it around in her hand and gave me a sly grin. “Do you think you’re ready?”

She may have been smirking, but the question was genuine. Was I ready to hold a real weapon? To challenge the beliefs drilled into my head through blades against my skin?

Removing my sword from its sheath, the blade whistled. I twisted it before me, adjusting my hand on the cold leather grip. It fit me perfectly—made for me. I was beginning to grow an affinity for the weapon that I hadn’t felt in years. I may not have used it much, but it was a constant.

As it rotated, a beam of sunlight poked through the clouds and the dusty window high in the rafters. For a moment, my heart stuttered, the cage I’d firmly sealed rattling in anticipation. But as light reflected off metal, I made myself watch. Made myself remember the long nights of moonlight bouncing off axes in my cell and what that triggered in my memory.

Then, I focused on the way the grip curved to my fingers. The weight of the weapon in my hand. I concentrated every fiber of my attention on dancing with the sword forged for me, perfecting each sweep of my arm.

I didn’t know how long I glided solo around the stables, Mila waiting patiently. But when I finally turned to her, it was with a confident nod. “I’m ready.”

Creeping forward as she had the day we’d fought Engrossians together at the temple, Mila transformed before my eyes. A predator stalking her prey. Except this time, I was the target.

Her leathers hugged her body from neck to ankles, every one of those scars hidden, thank the Spirits. It was hard enough to fight my own scars; hers would ruin me.

We circled, each cataloging every move the other made. Every flinch. Every twitch of a brow.

I waited for her to strike. I hadn’t fought her before—didn’t know what her style would be other than the few tells I’d picked up. She was smooth and controlled. Quiet and observant.

But when she finally feinted to my left, it was more than that. She moved like a mountain cat, graceful yet elegant. That alone was nearly enough to distract me.

I focused on my own body, though, as she taught me. On the contraction of each muscle as I dodged her strikes, on the places that burned and strained.

“What are you waiting for?” She quirked a brow when I didn’t immediately react.

“Learning,” I ground out.

“Tell me what you’re seeing.” Those damn blue eyes lit with the thrill of the match, and it sent a jolt through me.

“You stepped forward with your right foot, so I know your dominant side.” A smug smile. “You roll your shoulder after each harsh impact—probably an old injury.” Her eyes widened minutely. “And right now”—I adjusted my grip on my sword—“you think having me talk is distracting me.”

I swung, but she was ready.

---