Page 8 of The Trials of Ophelia

I’d been a prized possession thus far, passed from hand to hand, as the halo upon my head glinted. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh on my limbs, my stomach grumbling, but I wouldn’t give up the smiles on my people’s faces for anything.

It was the first genuine joy I’d seen from them since Daminius, and it nurtured a seed of hope in my gut.

“I know you didn’t want to participate,” I continued. “But it’s where you belong.”

“You’re welcome.” He only half faced me, looking intently over the rows of cured meats and cheeses.

Impatience burst my seams. “How long are you going to avoid the topic?”

“How long are you going to insist on discussing it?” he snapped.

My eyes narrowed. “I know you think because you’re not a full-blooded Mystique you’re unfit.”

“I am.”

“I am not even a full-blooded Mystique!” I whispered harshly. “Neither is Malakai or Jezebel. Do you think they are unworthy of anything?”

He was quiet for a long moment, fingers drumming on the table. The most contemplative response he’d shown since I approached him weeks ago with the offer.

“Cypherion, you are the only one right?—”

“Not today, Ophelia.” He looked at me then, vulnerability cracking the surface, blue eyes swimming with pain. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight. We should be celebrating.”

I’d been giving him space for weeks, and we were approaching the time when I couldn’t put off the decision. Now that I was officially inducted as Revered, I needed to formally name my Second. There was no one better suited than Cypherion.

But his damn false reservations about his upbringing stopped him.

By the ever-loving Angels, Cypherion was the most worthy. With a truly good heart, and a natural instinct for strategy, he effortlessly achieved the balance of caring and calculation so many strived for. Not only a powerful warrior, but a naturally investigative and fair mind, he tried to understand others. Spirits knew that was something politics often lacked.

Since Daminius—since Vale—he’d allowed that tendency to slip, but it didn’t make him any less. Those emotions truly only made him more fit. We were all complex, and those who embraced all sides of themselves were often the strongest.

But I would lay aside the argument for tonight. He couldn’t be forced into a position he didn’t think he was qualified for. I’d have to show him how wrong he was.

“For tonight, we’ll celebrate,” I confirmed, raising my glass to him. “To me, the Revered of the Mystique Warriors, and to my friend, who will one day stop being so blind and see the greatness within himself.”

He rolled his eyes, but tapped his glass to mine, a small smile lifting his lips behind the rim.

Sipping the sparkling wine, I settled for that.

“Now,” I said, my eye catching a sweeping blue robe across the room, “I have another matter to attend.”

Cypherion sighed. “You should really learn to relax.”

“Perhaps one day,” I muttered, setting my nearly-full glass on the banquet table and heading to the edge of the dance floor.

“I thought you would at least wait until tomorrow,” Missyneth greeted me.

“We leave for the war front soon,” I said, ignoring the swirling in my gut and lowering my voice, keeping feigned interest on the crowd moving with the flow of the music and nature’s magic in their blood. “I figured we could talk while everyone is distracted.”

Missyneth nodded with the far-off stare of a scholar lost in thought. “I’ve never seen it before,” she finally said. “In neither of the two induction ceremonies I performed did Angellight appear.”

“How did you?—”

“Please, Revered.” She smirked, cocky, and it reminded me of Damien himself. “I may have never been graced by the Angel, but I’ve studied enough to recognize his gift when I see it.”

“And in those studies, did you ever find hints of what could cause his light to come from something…else?” I knew the emblem at my neck held a bud of his power, but I didn’t share that. Something had to ignite it. Before, it had been my blood, but now…

Missyneth twisted the sleeve of her robe, leathers peeking out beneath it. Most acolytes stuck only to the draping cloth rather than having official leathers crafted, but Missyneth had carved her own path. I admired that.

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