Page 7 of Angel in Absentia
The more she repeated the phrases, the emptier they sounded. She used to speak to her plants; now, she whispered to the memories of him and the ghost of her family. In the end, all that remained was a single question. After all of her work, sacrifice, and effort, why did she still feel so restless?
Why was it all still not enough?
CHAPTER 3
NOT ENOUGH
HE TRAINING SWORD cut through the mirage of her clouded focus.
Not enough.
The phrase had done anything but grow more subtle in the past few hours. After watching her people celebrate, Clea had retired to her bed, hoping rest would help reset her befuddled mind. Instead, vibrant scenes of the forest barged into her thoughts with realism and force. Images from King Kartheen’s castle surged through her with that same message:
Not enough.
Reminders of it pushed her harder. Clea restrained a shout as she swung her sword in progressively sloppier motions as anger and exhaustion wrestled their way through her muscles. It helped that she rather despised the brute, repetitive boredom of sword training.
Instead of feeling more at ease, her victory and the acceptance of her newfound strength only caused her to reflect back on the events with more staggering clarity. Her brain seemed intent on cooperating with her troubled conscience, bombarding her with dreams. She hadn’t so much as thought about King Kartheen’s castle in months, but ever since seeing the ruins in their final battle, it continued to revisit her.
It struck her that despite all of the Venennin they’d fought and slain, she still hadn’t faced ones as powerful as she’d experiencedin that castle. She’d seen Ryson remove the curse from her body, destroy it, and introduce her to a vast world of ice and darkness beyond them both. He’d described Venennin capable of creating curses so dark and powerful they’d nearly killed her whole family without so much as showing themselves. Curses had wiped the memories of the people of Virday, but Clea was convinced they hadn’t met any of these enemies yet. Not truly.
When Ryson had been free to manipulate the cien of the medallion, the dark chill of his power had felt so sharp, violent, and dangerous. In healing him, she remembered standing in that vast empty crater of his soul, a crater that had once housed an ocean of dark energy. He’d once been sifted, wounded to such severity that his body no longer recognized pain.
They had yet to encounter other sifted Venennin, Venennin she knew were out there somewhere. Venennin who were nearly impervious to the frailty and temptations that Veilin used to defeat so many today. A blast of expulsion had stunned Cacivus by intoxicating him, but Clea imagined expulsion would only further focus a sifted Venennin, intensify their pain, dial them in, make them more dangerous. Pleasure dulled the mind. Pain sharpened it. Sifted Venennin had exchanged one for the other, transforming themselves into walking weapons.
Not enough.
This time she did shout, slamming the sword down into the sand and then discarding it before walking back off to the edge of the arena. She wiped the sweat from her face as she huffed strong, ragged breaths. The edges of her tunic were tinged dark blue in sweat, her previous bath replaced with the gloss of training. She braced calloused hands on her knees, beads of liquid tracingdown the subtle curve of her nose and chin, pattering into the brown sand at her feet as she panted.
She really did hate sword training.
“Oh, there you both are,” a deep and melodic voice called, a voice as sultry and soft as the woman who produced it.
Clea straightened, looking at the barrier of the arena where rows of large, empty steps for seating led up to an entrance faintly lit by torchlight.
Iris found her way down the stairs on soft bangled feet, wearing layers of loose brown clothes that did all but completely hide a figure of dramatic curvature, if not by sight, then by reputation. Her loose clothes moved with the subtle shifts of her body as she stepped into the sand, passing a rigid and glowering Dae, whom Clea had nearly forgotten was standing there.
Perhaps she’d gotten so used to his glowering presence the past year or so that it simply seemed natural to have him around, especially during sword training. That’s exactly what Dae was. A sword. A glowering, heavy, sharp object. Ironically, he was also one of the best swordsmen she’d met, perhaps the best in Loda. Impressive. Though, Clea had wondered often if the trade-off of such adept skill was the loss of a pleasant personality. The fact that he hadn’t commented on her sloppiness in training meant he truly was in a sour mood.
Iris’s loose shirt hung off her shoulders like the tassels that dangled from her sleeves. She curled tanned, painted fingers into a bunch of dark red hair. Her hair was once lighter, but she’d dyed it since their campaign.
Dae visibly tensed as she walked up behind him, wading through the sand as she reached a hand and stroked Dae’s shoulder. He looked like he was in pain. Iris eyed him with amusement before trailing a purple fingernail along his chin and causing him to pull away. The muscles in his chin jerked as he growled, “Iris.”
“Down, boy. I’m just saying hello,” Iris purred as she passed him. She was perhaps the only woman in all of Loda who wasn’t at least a bit intimidated by Dae and his namesake. In fact, despite not having any fighting prowess at all, Iris seemed to be one of the most fearless people Clea had ever met.
Iris curled Clea into a soft embrace, paying little mind to the sweat on her body as she pulled her close and buried Clea’s face in her soft red hair. “Dear, Clea,” she said, “Dae won’t be able to relax until he sees a smile on those taught lips.” She pulled away and pinched Clea’s lower lip.
It was still a risk for people to touch her, and it visibly made Dae uncomfortable.
Yvan, being from Virday, made the same mistake almost daily when Clea and Yvan had first become friends. Yvan, both casual and with a pervasive lack of decorum, had once placed an affirming hand roughly on Clea’s shoulder in the presence of several soldiers in the Golden Army. Clea, not wanting Yvan to fall under any criticism, had quickly removed it before anyone could notice. Yvan, not understanding Clea’s response and seeking to reaffirm her thoughtful gesture, had placed her hand on Clea’s arm, which Clea swatted off even faster only to invite the same result until Yvan and Clea were engaged in an odd cultural slapping match. Each fought with the best intentions in mind until Dae managed to wrestle himself between them and maintain order.
“She has yet to formally return to the city,” Dae replied as if explaining his behavior. “She hasn’t eaten anything or visited her father.”
“Oh? And you think sitting here staring at her will help?” Iris scoffed.
“We were talking,” he explained.
“Didn’t look like it,” Iris chirped back with a raised eyebrow.
