Page 24 of The Curse of Ophelia

No, I probably would not have.

The light pulsed with each breath the Angel took, and I found it odd that this being before me even needed to draw breath. Maybe it was an act to make me more comfortable. Despite all the questions running through my mind, I waited for him to signal that I could rise.

“Ophelia Tavania Alabath,” he spoke in a voice that dripped with antiquity. It pushed against the walls, filling every inch of available space. It was a melody in my veins, vibrating along my bones and coaxing me into serenity.

At the sound of my name, I raised my head. Having adjusted to the intensity of the golden gleam, I took in his sculpted cheeks, broad frame, and golden curls. My breath caught in my throat. The eyes, a deep purple set against his bronze skin, were recognizable to any Mystique child. They were depicted in stained glass windows and ancient watercolors, adorning every dwelling of Mystique Warriors. Hung in the foyer of my own home. Marked the center of Palerman in fountain form.

This was Damien, the First Revered Warrior, the sire of the Mystique Warrior Clan. And he had appeared to me.

His presence swarmed my room, blurring out everything around us. I imagined the only thing that would compare to this pulsing power was that of a god, but as warriors we kept no gods. Other races of magical beings on Ambrisk, like the fae and sorcia, worshipped one founding god each, but the warriors kept seven Angels to ensure our balance of power was upheld. Some minor clans’ magic was linked to the gods, and they even communed with them, but as our founders, the Angels were held above those ancient beings.

Trembling, I rose to my feet, pulling the blanket tighter around me. Had I chosen to meet the First Warrior, I would not have selected a time when I was still a bit drunk and wearing nothing but sheer undergarments. Though I was sure he was aware of my inebriation, Damien did not express any care.

“To what do I owe the honor?” I asked, unsure how one should greet a legendary Angel. These were not things taught in school.

“Chosen Child, the time of thy reckoning has reached us.” Damien’s voice wrapped itself around me, each syllable echoing through my bones.

“My reckoning?” I asked shakily. Why was he referring to me as Chosen Child?

Damien remained in his position, hovering at eye level just feet from my bed, and nodded, his curls falling across his forehead. He did not need to flutter his glorious, golden wings to stay afloat—his power suspended him. “At this, thy twentieth year, it is time that thou hear, a warrior born with blood of two is the blessed of me and you.” The words rolled in melody from Damien’s mouth, leaving little impression on me beyond confusion.

“What—”

“The task ahead will try thy spirit, but the Chosen is composed of strong merit.”

Try my spirit? I squinted up at him, my brow furrowing. It was impossible to decipher anything he said over the pounding in my head.

He continued, not fazed by my confusion. “Thy deepest wish awaits thee, once thou claims thy destiny. Ophelia, time is running short, for thou art our last resort.” The poem ended, but the words continued fluttering around me, a mix of rhyme and senseless song.

I blinked at Damien, but he said nothing more. “What does that mean?” I threw my arm out in exasperation, and the blanket slipped off my shoulder. The intricate webbing on the inside of my wrist caught the golden light.

The Angel’s eyes flashed to the vulnerable spot, and it pulsed with pain as the Curse’s roots burrowed deeper into my veins. As if the affliction could sense the presence before us and needed to claim me. Or hide. I could not be sure which.

Damien studied my wrist for a long, silent moment, and I waited for him to speak, but he did not utter another rhyme. His eyes returned to my face; the frustrating calmness still painted his chiseled features.

“Is this about the Curse?” I asked, my voice sharper than one should speak to any Angel, let alone the First Revered Warrior.

He opened his arms wide, as if to engulf the entire world. “It is about everything that will be nothing if you do not act.”

I rolled my neck, hoping that working out the tension budding in my shoulders would help me to understand his cryptic message. My head continued to throb. Everything that will be nothing. “Am I going to die?” If I could get at least one answer, maybe I could begin solving the riddle.

“Not even the Soulguiders or Starsearchers could predict your death, Ophelia. The fate is too precarious.” I really wished he would move in a less statuesque manner, but every sweep of his arm or bob of his head was rigid.

“But they are interpreters of everyone’s fate. It has all been written.” My grandmother had taught me as much of her people in the past twenty years, uttering prophecies her Soulguider genes bequeathed unto her. And the Starsearchers…they were even more notorious for translating one’s death as written in the universe. Where the Soulguiders made predictions about your future guided by the Goddess of Death and led souls home after they departed, the Starsearchers read astrological fates at the hand of the Celestial Goddess.

If anything was to befall you, the Soulguiders or Starsearchers would know of it.

But Damien nodded his head gently, locking those vivid eyes on mine. They were almost the same shade, more purple than my magenta. “Your fate has not yet been decided, Chosen Child.”

“Why do you call me that?” My tone was harsher than necessary, but I was never known for my patience. First Revered Warrior or not, Damien’s presence was infuriating me. Not simply his being, but his elusive answers that only sparked more questions. His appearance was imposing, his power and avoidance unwelcome.

I opened my mouth to ask him—unkindly—to leave if he was not going to answer. Before I could speak, he said, “You will see.”

I groaned at the Angel, but he only smirked at me, as if he understood my frustration and it amused him. At least that was a lively reaction. “If you succeed, you will right the wrongs you have staked your heart against.”

My mouth went dry, my grip on the blanket almost slipping. “The wrongs?”

He closed his eyes and nodded reverently. After a beat of pulsing light, Damien muttered, “Goodbye, Ophelia,” and his light shuddered. In a blink, the Angel had vanished.

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