Page 65 of The Curse of Ophelia

“You martyred yourself,” I gasped. “Only the strongest of the Mystiques would have made that choice.” I smiled through the gentle stream of tears trickling down my cheeks. His eyes lit with understanding of the words I wasn’t saying.

He ducked his chin, but when his shoulders shifted, he groaned. My eyes scanned his body, taking in the unnatural stillness of him. Barely anything below his neck moved.

The world spun again. “You’re hurt,” I whispered.

But he’s alive, I reminded myself.

“I am,” he confirmed. Sweat stuck his auburn hair to his forehead, fresh drops forming despite the cooling air.

Silent tears fell from my eyes as I watched his eyelids flutter against the agony. He did this—risked his life—for me. One of my closest friends, who longed for a sense of where he belonged, sacrificed himself so that I could fulfill this twisted angelic prophecy. Fuck the Angels, I thought, not caring if they somehow heard me. Fuck Damien and the rest of them for this mission and all it’s brought upon us. I needed these people alive, and this journey continuously threatened that.

Cypherion bit his lips before elaborating. “My back. Something snapped when I collided with the wolves.”

There was so much pain layered beneath the thick tone of his voice. I swallowed my tears and the outburst that fought its way up my throat, knowing he needed me to be calm, to assume the presence he so frequently served for us.

“Can you feel your legs?” I asked gently, shifting slightly closer to look at the bottom half of his body. His feet did not move in their leather boots.

“Yes, I think I can move them, but the pain is too great to try.” A muscle in his thigh twitched and he clamped his lips together, the veins in his neck straining. Jezebel used her sleeve to wipe the fresh beads of sweat from his face.

“We’re waiting for the mountains to heal him,” my sister explained, taking over the story to let him rest. Our eyes met, and I saw her silent plea of relief in the way her jaw wobbled. I’m glad you woke up, her eyes said. And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him. Her gaze flicked over my shoulder, to Tol’s bloodied hands.

I shook my head.

“How long has it been?” I asked, glancing between her and Cyph, who had closed his eyes again and let his head fall back to the sand.

“Our guess is nearly six hours,” Jezebel claimed.

I inhaled that fact. I had been out for six hours. Left defenseless for that long. Lost that much time getting to the volcano. But— “There’s been no more attacks?”

Jezebel shook her head. “No, not a whisper of anything.”

“I can feel it,” Cyph clipped, eyes still shut. “The healing magic. Have for hours now.”

“You can?” I leaned in.

Cyph nodded, his lips tightening. “Yes, it’s tingling along my spine. It’s like…ice and fire at once.”

And when he said it, I felt it as well. Slowly, I peeled away the bandage Rina had applied. The edges of the wounds felt like they were rimmed in flame, but dancing inside—buried deep beneath the skin and inching upward—was what felt like a trickle of ice water.

The two sensations, heating and freezing, crawled toward each other in a deadly dance of burning and calming. Landing somewhere between pleasure and pain. Somewhere that I couldn’t name. If it had been a physical place, I would have basked in it, but I had a feeling it also had the power to kill me. This magic, whatever it was, was fickle. Good and evil in one.

I screwed my eyes up against the sensation, giving myself over to the magic that had been building within me for hours. My friends around me fell silent, barely breathing as the visible signs of healing set in.

I squinted down at my arm, watching as the blood on my skin and torn leathers hardened. The flesh did not stitch itself back together entirely, but it inched closer before our eyes until the wounds looked days old.

The mangled skin of my left forearm now bore a new mark. Beneath the Bind, a series of pink scars took shape, ringing my flesh as a reminder of what we survived.

“Whoa…” Tolek breathed.

My eyes flashed up to his, and we smiled at each other. He reached down to run a hand along my hair, crimson fingers a beacon. I averted my gaze, sinking into the guilt that washed through me.

*

The sun had climbed high in the sky and was passing back down. We could not be caught on the tundra when it set, but one look at Cypherion had me clamping my lips between my teeth.

He gave so much; I could give this time for him.

But it was Cyph who said, “We need to keep moving.” He had pushed himself to a seated position and reclined on his hands, though the curved arc of his spine and the buckling of his elbows did not look comfortable.

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