Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
A bsently, I watched wisps of clouds streak across a perfectly blue sky. The same refreshing breeze blew strands of honey-touched hair across my face.
It was a drastic change from the chill earlier that morning, but not surprising as we had travelled further inland. Ophelia was sheltered from the east by a row of impenetrable cliffs, which meant only Mom and I had to endure the frost-bitten winds regularly.
Why my mother and father had decided to live so far away from the rest of the town was a complete mystery to me.
Okay, not a complete mystery. Even if they never openly admitted it, I suspected it was because of me.
I had an aptitude for what most people deemed reckless behavior. My ‘lack of respect for the laws’ had gotten me in more trouble than I cared to admit. Most people were shocked I hadn’t already been struck down by the Gods.
I was lucky that my uncle was the chief, otherwise, I would’ve been banished and branded more times than I could count. There probably wouldn’t be a spare bit of untouched flesh left on me with all the reckless antics I got into.
The brands were small, a simple circle within a circle, but it showed defiance, and they stung like a bitch.
I knew my parents and uncle agreed that the further away from Ophelia they could keep me, the safer it would be. For everyone.
Not that I could see what the big issue was. It wasn’t like sword fighting with the boys, wanting to hunt, or learning to make weapons was worth banishment. But unfortunately, in Ophelia, and every other town in our realm, it was. At least for a woman.
The laws were archaic and stupid, but no one seemed to question them because they came from the very creation of our Gods. Apparently, humans evolution and growth as a society wasn’t allowed—not according to the self-proclaimed experts in the history of creation.
People feared a reckoning from the mysterious beings of our pasts—those who had brought magik into the world and created order in the chaos.
Before the birth of humankind, an earth-obliterating lightning storm ravaged the world. For endless days and nights, lightning tore across the sky, splitting mountains and boiling seas—until finally, on the millionth lightning strike, the Tree of Life cracked open.
Its roots reached the very core of the Earth, tethering sky to stone and feeding the world with incomprehensible power. And from the splintered wound, its magik bled out—thick and shimmering, the lifeblood of the Earth itself spilling into the wounded ground. Ancient. Alive.
It was from the blood, the Gods were born.
Eight in total.
Each fought to protect the Earth until, at last, the storm burned itself out.
As the centuries passed, nearly all of them found their counterparts, pairing off in balance and bond. All but two: The Goddess Elessandria, and the God Ezekiel. Left to their own devices, their paths spiraled into loneliness—and ultimately, into the creation of humanity.
My parents told me the story countless times, always with the same heavy look—as if to remind me why we clung so fiercely to laws that felt like shackles against my skin.
Even as my father taught me to parry and strike, he made me swear to honor the old ways. To remember the price that had been paid.
Eons ago, the ebony-skinned God Ezekiel became obsessed with fair Elessandria. He pursued her relentlessly, flaunting his power, his cunning. But Elessandria saw the darkness festering beneath his polished smile—and it frightened her.
She refused his affections.
Still, Elessandria longed for something more. She had watched the other Gods find happiness, had witnessed love soften even the fiercest among them. Desperate for a bond of her own, she created humankind. And in the heart of a mortal man—Massaeus—she found the love she had been deprived of.
Ezekiel, furious, vowed to destroy him. Fearing what he might do, Elessandria blessed Massaeus with a sacred protection. He was untouchable. To everyone but her. And those who dared defy fate–who sought retribution from the creature born of blood and bone–they paid with immortality.
They paid with death.
But Ezekiel was patient. Cunning. Determined. Making it his own personal mission to seek vengeance for a love which he was denied.
He lured Massaeus deep into a cavern carved from the bones of the earth—a place where light bent and lied. When Elessandria discovered her lover’s disappearance, she armed herself with her bow and followed the trail into the darkness.
Through twisting tunnels, with steady hands and a frantic heart, she searched—until she came upon a sight that chilled her to her very core: Ezekiel, bow drawn, poised to strike, aimed at Massaeus.
I would rather die than see you with another.
Without hesitation, Elessandria loosed her arrow, her aim deadly and sure—certain she was the superior hunter. But Ezekiel was a trickster. He had used the mirrored walls of the chasm to deceive her. Her arrow flew straight and true—and pierced the heart of the man she loved.
Although she had created mankind, even her magik could not reanimate Massaeus. Blinded by grief, Elessandria laid down her weapons, vowing never again to lift steel or bow.
Defeated, she claimed his body and carried him back to the realm of the Gods—a place no mortal could ever reach. There, she buried him at the gates of Elinthia, offering his soul as sacrifice in return for a single gift: a tree that would bear the fruit of the Gods—Ambrosia.
A fruit said to heal any ailment, even grant immortality—but only if one could find the hidden gates of Elinthia and forge the ambrosia into a weapon.
Elessandria chose exile, binding herself to the gates to guard them—so Ezekiel could never again pass into the realm of the Gods. In his rage, Ezekiel claimed the throne of Nexus, the underworld, and chained Massaeus' soul there for all eternity—a punishment for the love Elessandria had denied him.
The story had been passed down through generations—not as myth, but as fact. A truth so deeply etched into our history that no one dared question it. I didn’t know when the story had shifted from warning to law.
But in Ophelia, it was carved into stone.
And it was clear: If I disobeyed Elessandria’s final commandment—if I dared to take up a weapon—I would offend the Gods themselves.
And their vengeance would be swift
However, I didn’t believe that forbidding women from holding weapons was what Elessandria intended; Elessandria herself fought for the one she loved.
Why would she expect any different from me?
But it was now woven into the bones of the world–into root, rune, and sky–a law carved from grief, born of Elessandra’s agony–that no woman shall ever wield a weapon.
And I was meant to be bound by it.
A curse carved from someone else’s grief.
Worn like shackles I never asked for.
A thick aroma of deliciousness instantly brought me back to my senses as we trotted down the path into town. At the entrance road, two guards in blue utilitarian uniforms watched us walk by. Ophelia was safe enough that vigilance wasn’t urgent, but my uncle insisted on keeping sentries–just in case.
They nodded as we passed, their familiar friendly faces offering quiet acknowledgment of our place in the hierarchy: the sister-in-law and niece of the chief.
The first peaks of thatched roofs came into view, bright colored paint covering the homes. With each passing step, the rich scent coating the air became more intense.
Ophelia really was paradise. Everything from the bonfire getting set up in the center of the square to the children singing and dancing around the maypoles to the fresh scent of baked bread and meat roasting on the spit.
Olag sat outside on a rock wall, telling legends to a small group of children, and the sound of clanging swords reverberated as the men prepared for their tournament. Everyone had an air of excitement as the day’s activities continued.
My mother and I halted in front of the public stable, trying to avoid small children as they sprinted past, shouting as they played a game.
Being overly careful not to catch my dress on my saddle, I swung my leg over Stormfire’s rump, landing lightly on the compact earth. Smoothing a hand over my dress, I straightened, unease ebbing its way up my back, knotting between my shoulder blades.
A disturbing thought occurred to me. I hadn’t spoken to anyone, besides my mother, since my father was taken from me—not even my uncle or Sebastian. I had barely made it to my room without crumbling after I had witnessed my father’s body burn.
Would people look at me differently? Like I was wounded? I didn’t want to see pity in their eyes. That would straight-up suck, even more so than the usual looks of disapproval.
The Nexus with all of them!
I promised my father I would be strong, and no one was going to make me break that promise.
No one.
With a fragile kind of hope, I turned to my mother, who had gracefully landed beside me. “I can take Brown to the stables for you.”
Before she had a chance to argue, I wrapped my arms around her in a brief but tight hug, practically stealing Brown’s reins as I let go.
I knew she was eager to see her friends, specifically Aunty Triska. I, on the other hand, had nothing to do except wander around aimlessly until the sword fighting began, hopefully running into Sebastian.
It was my own stupid fault for making us so late; if we were a tiny bit earlier, we wouldn’t have missed the archery tournament, at least not entirely.
I turned, being lost in a sea of moss-covered rooftops that rippled and fell with the land, until it gave way to houses so immaculate, they looked like they had been carved by the Gods. Yet, compared to my house, they weren’t anything special.
My father had shaped our home like it had grown from the earth itself—his forge tucked between the roots of ancient trees, the stables cradled with wildflower meadows. Vines of jasmine curled around the pillars, weaving scented life into every beam, until it felt like the magik of the earth lay dormant inside the walls.
Even a private stream ran clear as crystal through a stretch of woods that had been my whole world. I’d spent thousands of hours beneath the canopy, hunting lagomorphs and honing my skills as a huntress.
Yet, when I saw the stables, I stumbled.
Beautifully reconstructed only a few years ago, the stables had been restored by my father, my uncle, Sebastian and I, our hands and laughter stitched into every beam.
Our blood and sweat were a part of that building, and no one could take that away from me. Instead of the hollowing pain I’d grown accustomed to when thinking of my father, I was overcome with a sense of pride.
Tracing my fingertips along an entrance beam, I felt close to my father—closer than I had since he’d gotten sick. For the first time since he’d died, I could picture the face of the man I loved, not the warped version his sickness had left him with.
Feeling emotionally lighter than I had in months, I walked down the aisles, not stopping until I found two empty stalls next to each other. Wasting no time, I set to work removing the saddles and brushing the horses. When I finally finished, I rested against Stormfire.
Warm air tickled my cheek, her whinnies bringing a rare smile, any remaining apprehension ebbing away. “Wish me luck, Stormfire.”
Stormfire whinnied again. With one last scratch behind her ear, I walked away—every step like a thread unraveling, growing heavier with each stride, until the stables vanished behind me.