Page 72 of The Curse of Ophelia

A flash of mist soared past me. Not the smoke I fell through, but a white cloud.

It circled around me again, and I tried to follow it, but it was too quick.

Then, solid braces caught my body, cradling my back and legs. My head snapped back at the contact, but it didn’t hurt. None of it did, beyond the welts on my body. Whatever caught me had cushioned my impact.

I was tipped onto my feet, nearly toppling over at the vertigo from the sudden stop. I looked above me. The mouth of the volcano was so high up, the space I was in now as large as my family’s estate in Palerman. My head spun as I took in the cavern, thick pillars of rock supporting the walls. To my right, the blue-white pool of flame flared, flowing in a quiet whirlpool, tendrils shooting high into the air. It was so much larger with my feet on the ground; it swallowed up a quarter of the cavern, molten white lava flowing into and out of the stone floor, dripping down the walls. Everything flickered—beckoning me—heightening my vertigo.

I fell to my knees and vomited up black smoke and ash.

When my body stopped heaving, I rose to my feet, wiping my mouth on my torn leathers. Before me stood three beings—no, they did not stand.

They floated.

Their feet hovered inches above the ground, and those feet—their entire bodies—were made of mist. Tinted white as if the color was being leached out of them, they were a stark contrast to the rock, fire, and smoke.

My jaw dropped, for as often as I had imagined this, I had never truly known what to expect when I came face-to-face with Spirits.

“Hello, Ophelia,” the largest one greeted me, floating in the center of their formation. The edges of his misty-white form were rimmed with gold. “We have been waiting for you.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Mouth agape and limbs trembling, I stared at the Spirits for a moment that stretched on, before falling to a knee, hand over my heart.

“Spirits of Mystique Warriors past, I come to thee for thy trial, honor, and permission so that I may pass through the Spirit Volcano and ascend as a Mystique Warrior.” The words tumbled from my mouth in awe. As a teenager, I had recited the greeting for hours, until my tone and reverence were perfect, but none of that rehearsal mattered as it flowed from my lips. The essence of the Spirits before me pitched my speech beyond my control.

I didn’t lift my eyes from the ground, watching the way the flame flowed through the volcano’s thin veins beneath my feet. Sparkling trickles of reds bled into oranges, faded into yellows.

After a moment, one of the Spirits spoke, his voice deep and warm. “Rise, Ophelia Tavania Alabath.”

I did as I was told, straightening my spine and shoulders. Despite the state of my appearance, I stood proudly. These injuries, the wrecked leathers, even the soot coating my flesh and hair, had delivered me to this moment.

The Spirit in the center, the golden-edged one, had a broad chest and shoulders even larger than Cypherion. His long hair fell below his collarbones, wild, as I assumed his demeanor was. “You come to us to grasp your destiny. We come to you to test your spirit.” It was the same voice that had told me to rise. Though the words were ominous, he sounded somewhere between friendly and authoritative. “Each of us will present you with one riddle. One lyrical puzzle to determine your strength of mind. Then, we will decide your worth.” Decide if I was to progress to the next level or rot in this flame-wrapped cavern for eternity.

I nodded, swallowing my intimidation, but I could not remain silent. “What are your names?” I needed to know these Spirits, to understand them. They had each been chosen for my Undertaking specifically, and deciphering why might lead to clues for these riddles.

The one on the right answered, his voice gruff to match his frown. “Inane girl. You do not question us.”

“Peace,” the golden-edged one said, turning to his companion. “She may ask us any questions she likes. We may answer however we please.”

The harsh one scoffed, his slender body shimmering with the motion, but he folded to the one in the middle. “I’m Hectatios.”

The Spirit on the left spoke next, her voice high and chilling. “I am Glawandin.” Her oval face was flawless, with porcelain skin and delicate features. She smiled slightly at me, but only with her lips. When she shifted, the light caught her eyes. Instead of irises, they were solid orbs of milky white fog.

Blind. Glawandin could not see. I tucked the piece of information away.

“And I am Annellius.” He brought a hand to his chest, dipping his chin. His wild hair cast shadows on the hard planes of his face. “Annellius Alabath.”

“Alabath…” I breathed over the name.

“A distant ancestor, many generations prior.”

His hair—flowing on a gust of warm wind—had a white tint to it, but beneath that film, I recognized the original golden shade. It was my father’s and Jezebel’s. It was mine. An Alabath Spirit.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” The tension eased from my shoulders as I spoke to my distant relative, settling into the Spirits’ presence. “If I may ask, why does your frame glow gold while your companions do not?”

“Ah, unfortunately, that is not an answer I can provide.” His magenta eyes—my eyes, I realized with a jolt—lit up.

“Your eyes…” I lifted a hand to my own.

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