Chapter 9 #2
The Angel floated to the shelves, plucking a book at random. It was one I hadn’t even read yet, a tale about ancient trials that seemed fascinating.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I snatched the volume from his hands and tucked it back into place, but his eyes lingered on the green spine.
“It was my home first if you recall.” His light spilled around the room as he floated to the window, illuminating the corners and nooks like they were made for it. He was far more vibrant than the first time we met, even more so than when we spoke outside the mountains just weeks ago.
“The palace has passed through many hands since your time.” I leaned against the mantel’s cool surface and fixed him with a stare.
“Never forget the one who built it, though. Never forget where you came from.” An echo of something I couldn’t name flashed across his sculpted features.
I uncrossed my arms, walking closer and propping myself on the couch. “Do you miss it?”
Damien was silent. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer me. Then, he whispered, “More than you know.”
It was a sentiment meant more for the night stretching beyond the peaks than it was for me, but I tucked it away. Damien and I may joke, I may push him, but an understanding rested between us.
“Cherish your time here, Chosen Child.”
The name stiffened my spine. “You were such lovely company until you called me that.”
He chuckled. “You were such lovely company when you were more respectful.”
“Oh, dear Damien, don’t you know I’m made of fire and jagged edges?” The Angel’s lips clamped together at the claim. “Will you ever explain why you call me that?”
“In time.” There was a hollowness to his eyes I hadn’t noticed the last time we’d spoken, a preoccupation worrying his purple irises.
“I painted those, you know?” He gestured to the mural decorating the ceiling, one of pink flowers spilling down long branches, a lone person beneath, stringed instrument in hand. From down here, it was hard to make out any more detail than that, the colors fading over the centuries.
I could picture it, though. The Angel, alive and mortal as any warrior, spending his days in this empty palace. Building our city from the ground up and leaving the tales of his life to look down on future generations.
His melancholy reached out to me, but though I recognized it, I also saw the reluctance. Those few statements had been enough of an ache to share. So instead of prodding his past, I softened my voice. “They’re lovely. Now, do you have a cryptic message, or shall I ask questions first?”
“Questions?”
“Last time you visited, you left with the confession that I carried a curse.” My fingers scratched at the black scars on my wrist. “You implied it was deadly. My previous affliction was false.” You were never at risk of suffering from that Curse.
Those words had plagued my waking and sleeping hours ever since.
“I know this has to do with Annellius Alabath.”
His flustered blink was barely perceptible. “You have learned more about Annellius?”
Satisfaction spread through me because until this moment, it had remained a theory. I recounted the tale my father had told me, barely having finished when Damien visibly swelled, became that ancient being I’d first met, consuming all space and sound.
He spoke in that archaic voice, dripping with power.
“Born again through the shade of heart,
the Angelcurse claims its start.
Seek the seven of ancient promise.
Blood of fate, spilled in sacrifice.
Strive, yield, unite,
Or follow the last’s lost fight.”
The proclamation crawled down my throat, taking root in my blood. Became one with my flesh…strive, yield, unite…until those words were all I knew, all I heard.
They pounded, consumed, became every facet of me. A shrieking command shuddered down my bones, its roar excruciating, my body seizing. Vaguely, I was aware of gripping my head. Of falling to the floor. Heat barreled through my body.
And as suddenly as Damien had transformed before me, it was over. I was left shuddering and sweating on the rug of my office. Angellight pierced my eyelids, dried the moisture beading on my skin.
“What the fuck was that?”
“I’m sorry.” There was a faint hint of genuine emotion in that apology, but not enough. “Unite them.”
“What?” I choked out, vision blurred.
“Only you can know—” His words were strained. “Fate will fight back—”
A command. There were legends about these things. Back when the Angels roamed Gallantia, before they’d even officially been Angels, an explicit command—threat—from a being with their level of power was lethal. If it was broken…it killed its target.
There was a pained intake of breath, one that said so much more than his words ever could—and the light faded.
Damien vanished, voice echoing in my ears. As I stumbled to my feet, another night came back to me: the last time I’d visited my clearing and found the spear waiting for me.
“Fucking Damien,” I breathed, staggering to the side table to pour a glass of water. Fingers curling around the wood, my shoulders rounded, the weight of Gallantia weighing on me. Follow the last’s lost fight.
Annellius. It had to be about him. There was lore that he’d been given a task; my father said it himself. Whatever it was—whatever he failed—was left to me.
Seek the seven. Unite them.
Only you can know—
Fucking Spirits, I was done with the secrets. I’d promised no more lies after the Undertaking. Forgiveness and trust, those were the pillars of who I was trying to be moving forward, and for the most part, I’d stuck to them.
But those were regarding secrets about myself. If I went against a command from an Angel and shared this prophecy, the repercussions could take the lives of others.
Fate will fight back. My stomach clenched.
I couldn’t let anyone else suffer fate’s wrath. And that meant that no matter how much I wanted to tell them, I couldn’t.
One lingering pulse of heat flared through me—familiar. The same as that broken piece of Angelborn, burning like the prophecy’s power. Was it connected?
“Spirits of all hells,” I cursed, wandering to the window.
Damien’s last words haunted me. I’m sorry.
Whatever this Angelcurse was, it was dangerous. The shaking tenor of the ancient prime’s voice grating against my bones confirmed as much.
And it was intended for me.
“Why did you ask me to leave?” Malakai’s voice was heavy—with accusation or hurt, I couldn’t tell. My head still swam.
I stalled with one hand against the door to our bedroom, facing away from him, fingers curled against the wood.
Three seconds. That was all I allowed myself. With my eyes closed, I dragged a breath slowly through my lungs, channeling every bit of strength left in my drained body. Then, hating it, I slipped into the mask I’d grown accustomed to wearing.
Only you can know—fate will fight back—
I looked over my shoulder. Malakai sat on the bench at the foot of our bed, elbows braced on his knees. Defeated. That was the word that came to mind from his drooped head, hair wild as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Cowardice twisted my gut, cool and slicing as a blade.
I was unable to give this broken man one sliver of the truth.
One tiny step that might help him toward healing.
Help us. But I wasn’t willing to reveal Damien’s words.
Not when I didn’t understand that warning myself, and not when there was already overwhelming pain between us.
Sharing would only add one more thing we needed to reconcile while trying to heal.
And if I was honest, I was still hurt by the way Malakai had allowed me to bind myself to him without knowing. By the secrets he had kept.
Maybe I wanted some of my own.
Moving forward was a challenge, trying to navigate our hurt yet shrinking in loneliness. If I could, I’d remove the weight of the world from his shoulders. He’d carried it for too long. But then, I’d crumble beneath it—neither outcome was fair.
“You didn’t want me to hear what he said.” When his gaze lifted, lashed anger burned me. Malakai was pulling back the curtain I’d drawn over our problems.
“It was about the Rapture.” I tugged that curtain tighter, striding across the room on legs much sturdier than I felt.
Mystlight flared along the dressing chamber as I entered and headed straight for the vanity. The scent of honeysuckle and leather wrapped itself around me.
Dammit.
“Talk to me,” he commanded.
I didn’t answer, but a warm hand rested on my shoulder. My Bind heated and a twinge of sorrow clanged through my still-broken heart.
“That one worked,” I told him, brushing my lips over his knuckles.
“I think it’s easier when we’re closer.” Physically and emotionally. The latter was the one we’d been struggling with.
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” My voice was hollow. I looked in the mirror and found my eyes matching it.
“It would help if you told me what’s going on.” Gently, Malakai turned me to face him. “Talk to me,” he repeated.
Talk to him. The words echoed through my ears, bouncing around my head and filled the cavernous space between us. The suite, the palace, the entire Spirit-forsaken city itself. Talk to him. As if he showed me the same consideration.
It was petty. It was cowardly. It was weak and childish and certainly not the behavior of the Revered I claimed to be, but fuck them all, this was not a matter of weapons and strategies. This was a battle of the heart, and it proved to be as brutal as warfare.
It was with cruel satisfaction that I looked into Malakai’s eyes, his accusations from earlier still swirling between us, and said, “I’m taking a bath.”
He was silent, but his pupils enlarged, giving away his anger.
We refused to break eye contact as I slid the straps of my gown off my shoulders and let it pool at my ankles, my undergarments following.
Malakai didn’t give in to the bait, and I didn’t invite him to join me as I strode to the bathing chamber, shut the door behind me, and turned on the tap. Over the water rushing into the sunken tub, I heard a door slam.
Once the room was full with enough steam that I could no longer see my wan reflection in the mirror, I sank into the tub. Thank the Spirits that the magic of our mountains provided an endless supply of deliciously hot water.
I scrubbed at my skin, needing to wipe away more than the sweat sticking to me. The taint of my atrocious behavior, the gross satisfaction coating me, and the fear gripping me with Damien’s prophecy—I needed to do away with it all.
With floral-scented soap and a rough brush, I scrubbed. I scrubbed and scrubbed, as if that would cleanse me of thoughts of curses and sacrifices.
But a part of me knew—those things were unavoidable.
The water had grown cold, my skin raw, but my temper had barely simmered.
And my thoughts—those had not calmed at all.
But I had yet to hear Malakai return, so I rose from the tub, used one of the fluffy towels to dry off, and spent an exorbitant amount of time applying lotions to my skin and oils to my hair.
Rarely had I given in to such beauty routines before the war. After the treaty, we’d stopped spending on luxuries, but my body had been so worn after the journey across the territory and the Undertaking, it couldn’t hurt to pamper myself.
Moving forward, I wanted to employ all of my tactics.
If my opponents saw youth and beauty as a fault, I’d turn them into strengths.
Use them to get beneath their skin. Beauty could be a weapon sharper than the finest blade, and I was fighting battles at every turn.
Much like showing my core guard as a family, these other sides of me made me whole, a person rather than an emotionless figure.
Unfortunately for my opponents, my arsenal just became much more expansive.
After combing my hair longer than was necessary and still not hearing any movement outside the door, I emerged from the bathroom.
Selfishly, I was glad Malakai had yet to return.
While bathing, I’d turned Damien’s prophecy over in my head carefully, picking it apart for hints as to what was being asked of me.
No—demanded. This was not a request.
Blood of fate, spilled in sacrifice. The words chilled my very bones.
As if carried on a wind, I drifted across the room to the sideboard bearing our weapons.
It was there—that haunted dagger with the Engrossian gems. The one that belonged to Lucidius. Malakai had cleaned it, wiping away the visible stains of its cursed past, but they lingered.
Firelight bounced off the blade as I lifted it, the volcano flashing through my mind.
Veins of lava bathing the battle in an orange glow as warriors fell one by one.
Sparks and shouts. Lucidius’s weight pressing against my chest, hands around my throat.
My blade dragging across his flesh, blood claiming the end of that life.
But not all threats were thwarted that day.
The Engrossian dagger swallowed up the light as I brought the sharpened edge against my palm.
The metal was cool, biting into my skin, but I barely felt the sting; it wasn’t deep, just enough for a stream of red blood to bubble to the surface.
Crimson beads slowly filled my palm, running down my wrist.
The blood caught the light. It was…ordinary. I had seen plenty of bloodshed—much more than I wished to see in my short life. This was nothing special. Why then—
The door opened. “Ophelia…” His voice trailed off as he took in the scarlet staining my arm, soaking into my silk robe.
“Ophelia, what in the fucking Spirits?” Malakai rushed to me, using his shirt to apply pressure to my wound. He retrieved the blade from my hand, wiping it off on his pants, and placed it back on the dresser.
Within minutes, the cut healed over thanks to our quick healing made even quicker while in the mountains. My palm and arm were left crusted in streaks of crimson.
“Ophelia…” he hedged. He dropped his shirt to the floor, lifting my chin with one hand and holding my wound with the other. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because when I saw my blood dripping down my arm, only one word came to my mind. One word that I had no fucking clue how to explain. Removed centuries ago, yet alive in me.
Never at risk of suffering from that Curse.
Your blood is strong enough to cause and end wars.
Destruction.
What in the name of the Spirits did it all mean?
I had no answer, but that word echoed through my mind, ominous and cautionary all at once.
Angelblood.