Page 10 of The Curse of Ophelia

Their silence was a painful reminder of why I didn’t share my pain. Waiting for their responses in that empty space of vulnerability left me feeling exposed, each second like dragging a blade across an open wound.

“One needs to break fully in order to heal,” Cyph finally said.

I looked into his deep eyes that were wise beyond his years and thought back to the day he met our group when we were twelve. The day we had become complete. His understanding eight years later solidified that.

Cypherion had battled his own demons since birth. With a semi-absent but fully Mystique mother and a father who disappeared before he was born, Cyph had been forced to raise himself, giving him an understanding of the world the rest of us couldn’t quite grasp. It was in moments such as these that I was reminded of that.

Jezebel and I were obstinate rule breakers, but we always had our mother and father guiding us. Tolek was as reckless as they came, but he was born of a strong warrior heritage, both parents present in his home his entire life. Cypherion—he was not as fortunate.

How many nights had we dragged him back to Malakai’s house in the past eight years, just to ensure he could bathe and eat? Malakai’s mother always had an empty room for him, should he need it. When he showed up in the night, his own home too cold or empty, she never looked at him with pity, but rather gratefulness that he turned to us.

He may have been embarrassed, refused our larger attempts at care, but we had always looked out for him. He may not know where he fit, but it was never a question to Malakai, Tolek, and me. Just like it was never a question of whether Rina belonged with us, despite the fact that she was entirely human and had not a drop of Mystique blood in her veins.

I turned Cypherion’s words over in my head. One needs to break fully in order to heal. I knew he understood healing because each day he straddled the line of his heritage, his mother never revealing what bloodline his father was of. She didn’t speak of him at all. Cypherion’s head was full of questions of where he belonged in the world and how to feel whole—how to prove to himself that he belonged with us.

“Cyph is right,” Rina said, pulling me back to the present. “But I don’t think you’ll be able to break fully until you accept what is true.” Her words were quiet, and my blood ran cold at the implication.

Tolek’s hands clenched atop the bar, his entire body recoiling at Santorina’s words as if she had punched him. He closed his eyes and rolled his neck slowly, loosening the strain.

“I’m sorry,” Rina muttered. “But we can no longer deny it to placate ourselves or encourage outlandish behavior.” Her eyes were wide. Pleading.

“I know,” Tolek whispered with a stiff nod. His gaze flicked to me, and his hand twitched, as if he wanted to grab mine but stopped himself. He looked back to Rina. “I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept the fact that my oldest friend is gone. I understand why Ophelia refuses to—”

Rina whipped her rag against the counter, cutting through Tol’s words. Every one of her frustrations broke through her tight composure. Exasperation with always having to be the one to speak what we couldn’t—what I refused to believe.

“Truths aren’t always pleasant, Tolek. It has been two years of this, and we must move forward.” Her entire frame drooped. “Malakai is dead. He died during the last Undertaking.”

Chapter Five

The fire in the grate burned low as I worked late into the night, my eyes slowly drooping shut, begging for the reprieve my mind and body wouldn’t allow.

This was the first night in weeks that I did not find myself deep in a bottle of rum at the Cub’s Tavern. After Rina’s words last night, the world had begun spinning. The atmosphere was too warm, everyone’s voices making me claustrophobic. My skin felt like it was crawling to get off of my bones, and if I didn’t get away into the cool air, I might claw it off.

I had no desire to return tonight.

Instead, I busied myself with research. To my left, piled high on my father’s desk and casting an ominous shadow in the fading light of the fire, were books. Each spine divulged a different facet of the Undertaking. My nose had been buried in a volume that housed theories of the Spirit Volcano—Undertakings Past: The Rituals, Rules, and Ruptures of the Mystique Warrior Tradition—for the past two hours. The words were starting to bleed together before my eyes.

If only I could complete the Undertaking myself, maybe then I could tap into an unknown piece of knowledge that would unlock the key to what had happened to Malakai. My father, the Mystique Council, even Malakai’s own parents had completed the Undertaking, yet none of them offered any assistance. Why they didn’t understand my determination was a mystery to me, but when the Revered gave the order to forget the Undertaking, everyone obeyed.

The flames crackled, cutting into the silence of the study. My eyes snapped open. I could not rest yet. I planted my elbows firmly on the desk, cradling my chin in my hand, and continued to scan the page.

With sorceresses, warlords, and Angels haunting its depths, it is unknown precisely what Spirits will greet a fledgling warrior as they embark on their journey through the volcano.

That much I knew. Legends shared with us as young children explained the process of the Undertaking: one ventured into the Mystique Mountain Range against physical feats, climbed to the rim of the Spirit Volcano, and journeyed within. It was believed that the ancient land mass housed the souls of all Mystique Warriors past, as well as select other magical beings, and it was their choice to deem one worthy in the first step of the Undertaking—the mental challenges. Only those who had attempted the ritual and were approved by the Spirits knew what happened next. When a warrior entered the Spirit Fire—the final phase—they were tested emotionally, each journey unique.

I always believed that the Spirits of your Undertaking were tailored to each individual. Ancestors of your bloodline, predecessors of any gifts you wielded. Who were Malakai’s? If I had been granted the chance, who would mine have been?

The Spirits may grow greedy should a blessed soul cross their path, choosing to claim it as their own, harboring it as a true life among the dead in their realm.

I bolted upright, sending the leather wingback chair shooting out behind me. My pulse quickening, I reread the line to confirm what I took it to mean. In all of my lessons, never had it been said that the Spirits could claim someone during the Undertaking.

A blessed soul…

Certainly, a blessed soul would be one who was worthy. But beyond worthy, blessed implied touched by the Angels themselves. A child of the First Revered Warrior, the blood of the Angels running within their own.

Malakai…my mind flashed to his strength, power in both mind and body. His conviction as a future warrior. Blessed. Could Malakai have been deemed a blessed soul by the Spirits and now reside—alive and whole—within the Spirit Realm of the volcano?

My hands shook as I traced the black ink on the next page, all thoughts of sleep fleeing my mind.

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