Page 238 of The Legacy of Ophelia
As Levi followed, he shook my hand, clapping my shoulder welcomingly. “Don’t worry about Bren. If he didn’t kick you out already, he likes you.”
“Or he’ll at least tolerate you,” Cor added.
“Better than the alternative.” I supposed, though I was determined to get to more than justtolerates you. “Can I help with those?” I gestured to the bags Cor carried.
He handed me one, beaming. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.”
“I mean it,” Levi assured me. “If Brennan didn’t approve, he would have already said it. He’s a grumpy fucker, but he’s a great judge of character.”
As we crossed through the gate onto their quaint property, Cor nodded, adding, “He’s extra protective of Mila since...”
Since they lost their youngest brother.
Mila had explained that after that loss, all of the Lovall children grieved in their own ways. She’d gone off with Lyria, and each of her brothers had their own stories in the past few years. None of them joined the recent Engrossian-Mystique battles. She hadn’t even told them she had until it was nearly over. They would have joined out of obligation, and she swore if it wasn’t solely their choice, she couldn’t be responsible.
So damn admirable, my General.
“I get it,” I said, following Cor and Levi up the steps. “And I wouldn’t want anyone to be less protective of her. Spirits know, I am.”
Levi and Cor both laughed, the latter saying, “Yeah, you’ll be fine here.”
The front porch was crowded with mismatched wicker furniture, the paint chipping along the railing making the place feel lived in. Twin doors stood in the entrance, dark, shining wood with clouded glass in the center of each.
Mila pushed them open, the rest of us trailing after. Brennan, Levi, and Cor headed through the sitting room and into the hall beyond.
The walls of the foyer were lined with expertly painted portraits and a few classic renditions of landscapes, but the ones that caught my eye were of the family. Five children at every stage of their lives.
Mila as a toddler with eager, angular blue eyes and two braids adorned with bows.
Mila and all of her brothers as children in formal wear they looked less than pleased about.
Mila in a gown that hugged her waist, skirts pooling around her like a waterfall and her short swords strapped across her back. Both beautiful and strong.
“That one is from after I completed my Undertaking.” She tilted her head, and I realized four other portraits lined the hall, one of each brother. “My mother painted them.”
“Shepaintedthese?” I blurted.
Mila smiled fondly. “She’s very talented.”
“Did they have reservations about you and your brothers completing the Undertaking after Brennan since you weren’t the oldest?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Mother never attempted hers, and I think she always regretted that. So, they encouraged us to chase our dreams.”
My own experience within the Volcano flashed through my memory, the scar on my chest aching. Though my ritual wasn’t traditional, it had been empowering. Made me feel like I could conquer anything. Every warrior deserved that feeling.
I studied the portrait of Mila. The sharp set of her gaze. The way the moon overhead reflected perfectly in her eyes and illuminated her features. How her hair and skirt fanned out behind her as if on a breeze. The entire thing tightened my chest.
“I wouldn’t discourage our children either,” I muttered absently.
Mila leaned into my side, her arms tight around my waist. She didn’t respond, but her answer was clear in the soft smile. In the way her eyes lined with silver. One day, we’d have that future. And we’d help them claim whatever they dreamed of.
“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding to a portrait on the opposite wall above the mantle. It was clearly done by a less practiced hand but had the same lighting effects as Mila’s. The woman had a square face and strong stature, but something about her seemed familiar.
Mila looked over her shoulder. “That’s my great grandmother. She died before I was born, but she practically raised my mother. That was how she envisioned her afterher Undertaking. It was the portrait that started the tradition actually.”
I studied the woman’s expression, the hair on my arms standing up. “How did she die?”
“Disease,” Mila said, and as she went on, my stomach sank. “It was slow moving—not hereditary—but something that plagued her her entire life. It left her body scarred.”
