Page 87 of The Trials of Ophelia

Cyph grumbled, “Not you, too.”

“All I’m wondering is why? Why don’t you want to be Second?” He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “And don’t give me the line about only being half Mystique. I’m the only full-blooded one of us, and Spirits know I couldn’t do it.”

“You could,” Cyph said, spinning his empty glass in his hands. “For the record.” When I continued to stare at him expectantly, he groaned, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t—my mother. You know how she is.” His mother had been reclusive as long as we’d known him, but despite his reluctance to talk about it, it was clear it went much deeper. Cypherion had written to her every day since we left Palerman.

As far as I knew, no letters were returned.

“That happened out of nowhere when I was younger,” he continued, watching the fire. The flames cast shadows across his face. “One day she was there. The next—gone. Mentally, at least. And it was right when I thought she might start talking about who my father is. Ever since then, I’ve felt like it happened because I was never supposed to know.

“And if I’m not supposed to know that one basic fact about myself, how can I help lead an entire population? You have to be confident in yourself for these things. I don’t know who I am.”

“You know who you are,” I answered without needing to think. “You’re intelligent, dependable, compassionate, and strong. So you don’t know your father? Who cares? In some cases, that’s better.” Perhaps a bit of disdain for my own father was bleeding into my words, but I leaned on the table, invigorated now. “You don’t need to know who he is in order for you to be someone great. He has no say in who you become.”

“But what if it’s all fate giving me a sign?”

“Think of it this way,” I said, twirling my liquor glass. “You would still be the same man you are even if he showed up. You would still carry the same ideals. Who you are is a result of everything you’ve survived and achieved. An amalgamation of everything you’ve learned. And you’ve earned a good life for yourself, CK, fate be damned.”

He was silent for a long moment, watching his fingers brush dust from the cuffs of his leathers.

“Just consider it,” I pleaded.

Finally, eyes still averted, he said, “I have been. Don’t tell Ophelia yet.”

“I won’t,” I promised. And though I hated keeping things from her, this was not my story to tell.

“We’re leaving at first light,” he said, pushing to his feet, effectively ending the conversation. “We should get some sleep.”

“I’m going to stay down here for a bit,” I said, ignoring his narrowed stare.

Digging in my pack, I pulled out two of the books Ezalia allowed me to borrow from her archives. We needed information on the Angels and gods. The fact that we were traveling didn’t change that.

I was spending most of my nights with these books, avoiding sleep. Ever since Ophelia tested those Angel emblems, my nightmares had been worse. I could still smell the cursed Angellight if I thought about it, like windswept seas mixed with musty secrets and a tinge of cleansing. Was that what everyone else experienced when they saw Damien in the council chamber following the Battle of Damenal?

I grimaced at the reminder that I was the only one yet to meet the Angel. That summoning ritual was the closest I’d been, and that wasn’t even his full appearance. Only light.

Damien’s unholy cock, few things had scared me as much as the moment when I thought I wouldn’t be able to pull Ophelia back. The way she’d been consumed by that Angellight, as if her mind and spirit were on another plane, was terrifying enough. I’d been shaking when she finally came back to herself. These Angels could be damned to the Spirit Realm if they ever tried to take her from me.

I knew she had to do it, but dammit did I hate it. Hated the way I couldn’t do a damn thing to help. It intensified the darkest parts of my nightmares where she was taken from me again and again—the ones I didn’t know how to explain to her, that ended blood-drenched and horror-stricken.

I shoved away the concern now and held up the tomes for Cypherion to see.

“That one is a fairytale, Tolek,” Cypherion scolded, pointing to the thicker of the two, Tales of Seraphs and Steeds stamped into the cover.

“Well, sometimes we need a break. And look at this.” I flipped to a random page and turned the volume toward Cyph. “The stories are written in Endasi on the left, and transcribed to the common tongue on the right.”

“That is interesting,” Cypherion mused, not being able to interpret the language of the Angels.

“But for now, I’ll focus on this.” I waved my other book at him: Manipulative Magic: Meditative Practices of Mindshapers Dating Back to the Prime Warrior (Volume I).

Cyph’s brows flicked up at my choice, but I tucked away the story book and opened the other, not commenting on why I was so invested in unraveling Mindshaper magic in particular. He’d probably guessed, anyway.

The spine cracked with age. The scent of worn parchment wafted around me as Cyph retreated upstairs and I settled in with my journal.

This, I could do. I wasn’t as strategically inclined as Cypherion or a battle expert like my sister. I could hold my own in a meeting and would never turn down a fight, but those weren’t my strengths. While I preferred a different type of literature to the one currently in my hands, researching and constructing thorough reports of the findings, interpreting the past and what it might mean was a role I could play. Somewhere I wasn’t second place.

And if it could help Ophelia, I would never say no.

As my pen scratched against the paper, and I studied Thorn’s magic, voices drifted over from the only other occupied table in the room, low and melodic.

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