Page 9 of The Trials of Ophelia

She always had a comforting yet aloof presence. Perhaps it was the familiarity. She stood in every meeting, attended every ceremony, and though she only spoke when necessary, there was a certain reliability I’d grown to expect with her.

“Typically, it takes a lot to be touched by an Angel, Ophelia.” Her eyes swept over me. Over the scars on display between my leathers and the necklace beating against my sternum. “You’ve seen him haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

Missyneth nodded, watching the dancers and letting that soak in. “Angellight is a substance of pure power. It can do miraculous and dangerous things when wielded by a true source.”

“A true source?”

“An Angel,” Missyneth clarified. “From what I’ve learned in my studies, nothing else retains that power.”

Amid the music and revelry, the unspoken question settled between us, heating my emblem necklace: why now?

Missyneth cleared her throat, turning toward me. “I can offer you two pieces of information.” Goosebumps prickled along my skin. “The first, after all the time I’ve spent honoring the Spirits, it is clear to me that yours sits differently on the plane among us. I don’t know what, but I know it means something.”

A chill gathered at the Bond and trickled down my spine.

“The second is advice.” Her voice was far off now. “Always inquire, Revered. Motivations—as you’ve learned with the Engrossian Queen—tell a variant story from one’s actions. They often complete the picture. Whatever is within you, whatever drew that light from your soul, it has a motive as well.”

She didn’t know about the active Angelblood in my veins, yet her blue eyes burrowed into mine as if they could see it. That agent within me squirmed—riled until I thought the snap of power I’d felt at the induction ceremony would crack again.

But nothing came.

Instead, a throbbing pushed against it, centered in Kakias’s scar. It battled my Angelblood, twisting painfully through my arm.

“Oh, and Revered.” I blinked to focus on Missyneth. Worry creased her brow. “Keep an eye on your sister. The Spirits send tidings.”

“Thank you,” I bit out, stifling a cry as the scar pulsed again. “I have to go.”

With her warning about Jezebel echoing in my head, I fled the ballroom, stumbling onto an empty balcony and gripping the railing. The metal was cold beneath my palms, but I wrapped my fingers tighter. Took deep breaths.

Keep an eye on your sister. I would always watch over Jezebel.

My arm flared with pain again.

And my spirit sitting differently on the plane? I didn’t have the capacity to determine what that meant, but foreboding resounded through my gut, and my body hummed with the taint of ancient wars.

Eventually, the pain subsided, but I was still out on the balcony, trying to decipher what Missyneth could have meant, when my mother found me.

I shoved aside the thoughts and focused on her. “Enjoying yourself?”

“It’s been a beautiful day, darling. We’re so proud of you.” Her red-rimmed eyes tore at me. They were always like that these days, even when she hadn’t been crying. A permanent reminder of her loss.

“Thank you.”

“You know he would be, too.” Those words were small, but I recalled my father’s stare across the Sunquist Ball, pride glinting in his eyes. The memory ached, but it was the good kind of pain, the reminder that while he was gone, I had pieces of him to hold close.

“He is, I know it,” I assured my mother, swallowing my own grief. Keep pushing, I reminded myself. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Grandmother and I head back to Palerman tomorrow with Akalain.” Malakai’s mother had accompanied them to the mountains for the ceremony. She’d looked happier than when I’d last seen her. She’d even given me playful grief over no longer being with her son, before squeezing me to her and whispering she wanted me to find true happiness.

“I’m glad you came.” I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around my mother’s neck. Hers came around my waist, and in that embrace, years of hostility unfolded between us. The weight sitting on my chest dissolved.

My mother and I had been adversaries for much of my life, different ideas of what and whom I should be pulling us apart. But recently, I’d come to understand all she ever wanted was to keep me from the loss I’d suffered. To protect me, even if she showed it through regulations.

When my father died, we lost the buffer between us and had been forced to face those differences head on. Though I’d rather have my father alive and happy, arms wrapped around us now, these past two months sharing grief with my mother had healed wounds unspoken between us.

Pushing back, she whispered, “Keep an eye on your sister, wherever you go next.” Worry wavered her voice, but she knew by now she couldn’t keep us from the war. It was of our own making, the very breath in our lungs. Instilled in our blood and building our bones.

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