Page 17 of Emylia

My parents told me the story countless times, always with the same heavy look—as if to remind me why we clung so fiercely to laws that felt like shackles against my skin.

Even as my father taught me to parry and strike, he made me swear to honor the old ways. To remember the price that had been paid.

Eons ago, the ebony-skinned God Ezekiel became obsessed with fair Elessandria. He pursued her relentlessly, flaunting his power, his cunning. But Elessandria saw the darkness festering beneath his polished smile—and it frightened her.

She refused his affections.

Still, Elessandria longed for something more. She had watched the other Gods find happiness, had witnessed love soften even the fiercest among them. Desperate for a bond of her own, she created humankind. And in the heart of a mortal man—Massaeus—she found the love she had been deprived of.

Ezekiel, furious, vowed to destroy him. Fearing what he might do, Elessandria blessed Massaeus with a sacred protection. He was untouchable. To everyone but her. And those who dared defy fate–who sought retribution from the creature born of blood and bone–they paid with immortality.

They paid with death.

But Ezekiel was patient. Cunning. Determined. Making it his own personal mission to seek vengeance for a love which he was denied.

He lured Massaeus deep into a cavern carved from the bones of the earth—a place where light bent and lied. When Elessandria discovered her lover’s disappearance, she armed herself with her bow and followed the trail into the darkness.

Through twisting tunnels, with steady hands and a frantic heart, she searched—until she came upon a sight that chilled her to her very core: Ezekiel, bow drawn, poised to strike, aimed at Massaeus.

I would rather die than see you with another.

Without hesitation, Elessandria loosed her arrow, her aim deadly and sure—certain she was the superior hunter. But Ezekiel was a trickster. He had used the mirrored walls of the chasm to deceive her. Her arrow flew straight and true—and pierced the heart of the man she loved.

Although she had created mankind, even her magik could not reanimate Massaeus. Blinded by grief, Elessandria laid down her weapons, vowing never again to lift steel or bow.

Defeated, she claimed his body and carried him back to the realm of the Gods—a place no mortal could ever reach. There, she buried him at the gates of Elinthia, offering his soul as sacrifice in return for a single gift: a tree that would bear the fruit of the Gods—Ambrosia.

A fruit said to heal any ailment, even grant immortality—but only if one could find the hidden gates of Elinthia and forge the ambrosia into a weapon.

Elessandria chose exile, binding herself to the gates to guard them—so Ezekiel could never again pass into the realm of the Gods. In his rage, Ezekiel claimed the throne of Nexus, the underworld, and chained Massaeus' soul there for all eternity—a punishment for the love Elessandria had denied him.

The story had been passed down through generations—not as myth, but as fact. A truth so deeply etched into our history that no one dared question it. I didn’t know when the story had shifted from warning to law.

But in Ophelia, it was carved into stone.

And it was clear: If I disobeyed Elessandria’s final commandment—if I dared to take up a weapon—I would offend the Gods themselves.

And their vengeance would be swift

However, I didn’t believe that forbidding women from holding weapons was what Elessandria intended; Elessandria herself fought for the one she loved.

Why would she expect any different from me?

But it was now woven into the bones of the world–into root, rune, and sky–a law carved from grief, born of Elessandra’s agony–that no woman shall ever wield a weapon.

And I was meant to be bound by it.

A curse carved from someone else’s grief.

Worn like shackles I never asked for.

A thick aroma of deliciousness instantly brought me back to my senses as we trotted down the path into town. At the entrance road, two guards in blue utilitarian uniforms watched us walk by. Ophelia was safe enough that vigilance wasn’t urgent, but my uncle insisted on keeping sentries–just in case.

They nodded as we passed, their familiar friendly faces offering quiet acknowledgment of our place in the hierarchy: the sister-in-law and niece of the chief.

The first peaks of thatched roofs came into view, bright colored paint covering the homes. With each passing step, the rich scent coating the air became more intense.

Ophelia really was paradise. Everything from the bonfire getting set up in the center of the square to the children singing and dancing around the maypoles to the fresh scent of baked bread and meat roasting on the spit.

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