Page 87 of The Curse of Ophelia

“For reasons much more convoluted than I care to discuss right now, the spear belongs to you. Not Malakai. You are meant to be the Revered of the Mystique Warriors, Ophelia—proved the most powerful warrior of your generation. Not Malakai. The Alabath blood, descendants of the Angels, runs through your veins.”

“It was removed from our bloodline. Annellius confirmed it.” I couldn’t get myself to speak the word Angelblood aloud, and I did not know if Lucidius would know who Annellius was, but it was the only thing I could think to say. The only explanation that everything he said was false, and the mysteries he was spinning were merely a labyrinth of lies.

“Was it now?” Lucidius turned away, but I saw a hand slide within his cloak. “Regardless, your life is a promise I have staked my loyalties on.” He paused. “So, you see why you have to die.”

I sensed the attack right before he turned.

I shoved Malakai to the ground, diving in the opposite direction. Lucidius’s dagger grazed my temple as it flew past me.

Blood sprayed across my face as I rolled, obscuring one eye.

I jumped to my feet, unsheathing Starfire from my hip, and turned to face the Revered. One of the most renowned fighters alive. His movements were swift. Deadly. He did not care if I walked out of this cave. To him, my life was dispensable. A prize, he had said.

It was a blessing, then, that I felt the same about his.

I fought bitterly, but Lucidius was much more practiced. He met each swipe of my sword easily, like I was a child with a stick. I cursed him for suspending formal Mystique training for the past two years, but the blame only fueled my anger further.

He swung his sword, a massive weapon with a silver hilt inlaid with black stones—not the blue gems typical of Mystique weapons. This was Engrossian. Curious that he did not carry an ax.

The lethal point skimmed the front of my leathers, nearly gutting me. Malakai screamed in distress, but I was quick. I spun around Lucidius, raising my sword at his back.

He turned and met my blow with unprecedented speed, the force throwing me backward.

Lucidius stalked toward me. In a flash of silver, a blade sailed past his ear, grazing the skin. Malakai had recovered Lucidius’s dagger and chucked it at his father in a rage. He could barely stand, but he fought for me. Always protecting me.

I met his steel expression, and the nod he gave me said everything. He believed in me to end this. He gave me permission to, no matter how painful it would be to see his father die before him.

“You’ve always been a nuisance,” Lucidius growled at his son, ignoring the blood flowing from his ear.

I lunged while he was distracted, but the Revered countered my move. We became a flash of silver blades, my golden hair, and his swirling cloak as we danced around the cavern. Both of our strategies were merciless, each aiming for the demise of the other.

He swiped his sword to my right. I lunged to avoid it, but he was ready. A blade, small and quick, sliced against my upper arm. In the moment I took to react to the pain, Lucidius raised a booted foot to my chest and shoved.

The crunch of my skull and spine colliding with the wall echoed in my ears. I collapsed to the floor.

Two roars punctuated the air as my vision faded: Lucidius, victorious—and Malakai, a tormented strangle I hoped to never hear again.

Chapter Forty

Dim mystlight filtered down as my vision focused. I braced my palm against the floor, clenching my eyes over a wave of nausea.

Metal, not rock, chilled the side of my body, and my fingers brushed something flaky. Dried blood. However long I had been unconscious—for the second time in as many days—had been long enough for the blood dripping from the wounds on my arm and head to solidify beneath me. I scraped it with my nails while my brain caught up to my senses, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Lucidius. Malakai. The Engrossians. Was it all true? The deluge of information the Revered—no. He did not deserve that title.

The deluge of information that man had poured into me overwhelmed me as I pushed myself to a seated position. I touched the spot on my arm where Lucidius’s dagger had sliced. The wound had already healed over, tender pink skin replacing the blood.

Bars surrounded me on three sides with rock at my back. Metal barriers and solid granite. Caged. Like an animal, Lucidius had thrown me into this metal box, wounded and unconscious. Every inch of my body throbbed when I struggled to my feet. Though I was healing, my muscles were exhausted. The cracking of my body against that wall reverberated through my skull, but nothing critical must have broken because I was able to stand.

My vision flickered before me at the sudden movement, and a wave of dizziness buckled my knees. The bars caught my fall. Cold metal—so out of place in the volcano—bit into my flesh as I wrapped my hand around one.

“You should sit down.” Malakai’s voice was gentle as he spoke, and the familiar sound flooded me with relief, before my memories caught up with me, burning a hole in my chest and filling my throat with a rotten taste of betrayal.

I turned to my right. A cage identical to mine was built into the rock wall. Malakai watched me from inside of it. He appeared much more alert than he had been in the cavern, but wary. Not from the drug—which had passed through his system by now—or from any newly sustained injuries, but from the look of fury on my face when my eyes met his.

“Ophelia…” he began, his voice utterly broken.

“How long have I been out?” I interrupted.

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