Page 151 of Emylia

I faltered as my eyes swept over her bed again; one of my father’s shirts sat folded on top of perfectly made emerald-green bedsheets as though my mother slept with it every night. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

My heart stuttered as I forced myself to move, ignoring the hurt that squeezed my heart. I didn’t have time to be sentimental.

I approached her wardrobe; another depiction of the Gods was fastidiously carved in the wood, bringing the images to life; Elessandria stood in a long flowing dress, next to the Tree of Life, her hand grazing along the trunk as she stared at it with a fondness that was ethereal.

I stopped for a moment and looked closely at the Goddess’s hand grazing the tree. An odd sensation swept through me as I remembered my own hand running over the roots of what probably was the same tree. Chills raced up my spine.

With great care, I meticulously searched my mother’s wardrobe, being careful to return everything back to its original position. If I didn’t find anything to prove my suspicion, I didn’t want her to know I’d been going through her stuff.

After finding nothing in her wardrobe, I moved to the dresser, rifling through each drawer. But again–nothing. No sign, no secret, no proof that she was anything more than what she claimed to be.

The chest at the end of the bed was my last chance. My final hope–and the sharpest edge of my fear. The thing I was most afraid to open.

I reached for it with hands that shook. If I found nothing, I’d have to believe her. And if I did find something… then she was liar.

Dark oak wood had been used to carve the chest, and the shiny surface was coated in clear lacquer. I faltered as I studied the faces of Elessandria and Massaeus, the man she had fallen in love with. Her eyes captured her adoration, the way she felt for him was undeniable, it would have broken her soul when she accidentally killed him.

I ignored my growing anxiety, convincing myself that I needed this closure, it far outweighed the guilt of rummaging through my mother’s private things.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the lid, gently releasing it as it rested on the hinges. On the top was an almost desiccated book. It looked like a soft breeze could disintegrate the pages. I wouldn’t be surprised if it originated from the dawn of time. I set it aside, being careful not to damage it.

Underneath the antediluvian book was a folded-up white piece of material. Gently, I unraveled it. My breath hitched. Three breathtaking brooches stared back at me, each of the brightly colored gems sparkling in the sunlight. Reverently, I picked up the first one.

The first insignia had a black base, edged with gold detailing. A labradorite gem sat at its center, catching the light in fractured, shimmering hues. Four teardrop marks framed the top, bottom, left, and right—each holding a unique symbol, delicate and precise. Runes circled the outer edge of the signet. My mother had taught me a little of the old language—the one the priestesses used before the Warlord Crixus claimed the kingdom. I knew enough to read what was carved here.

This brooch marked her as a high-level priestess.

I expected as much.

The second insignia was pale gold. A green gem glowed from its center, encased in a thin golden ring. From there, delicate leaves unfurled outward, etched in radiant lines—an unmistakable emblem of the earth and Callisto. At its edge, runes again—broken up by four simple marks spaced evenly around the circumference.

The mark of a healer.

Again, expected.

A breath stilled in my chest as I reached, reverently, for the final insignia. The moment my fingers brushed the metal, it warmed beneath my touch.

At its heart, a magnificent purple gem pulsed with light. It wasn’t just reflecting the sun—itstoleit, casting violet rays across the room. Runes ringed the outer edge, interrupted at four points—north, south, east, and west—by identical amethyst stones. Intricate patterns swirled in the spaces between. Symbols I couldn’t name, yet couldn’t stop staring at.

This signet radiated something the others didn’t. Ithummedbeneath my skin. I could only decipher one word. But I didn’t need more. I couldfeelit.

Magik.

It was the mark of a magik wielder.

My mother was a mage. And she had kept it from me.

She was a Gods-damn liar!

My blood boiled, tears stinging my eyes. Even though I had suspected it, the confirmation brought a level of hurt I hadn’t expected.

My mother was the reason why I was connected to this power. I was a motherfucking mage, and she’d never told me. Was she scared of the power I would possess? Afraid that I wouldactuallybe the death of us all?

Rage consumed me, flaring from me as lightning bolts danced between my fingertips. Gods, the anger was so easy. Like it was akin to the rage that had always burned in my soul.

I had always gotten along with my parents, as easy as breathing. They got me in a way no one else did, so this treachery cut straight through my heart, branding it so deeply with hurt that I struggled to breathe. A lightning strike struck outside, close to the house.

I had never fit in.

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