The Myths of Ophelia (The Curse of Ophelia #4)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Damien

Bant sent a rope of gleaming light etched with inky threads rioting around the cavern, carving away walls and pillars, grand arches and a high-ceilinged foyer that allowed us to breathe for the first time in many millennia. Not that we relied on the air to exist, but the foreign, soothing inflation of my lungs nearly sent a rush of power to my head.

The seven of us gathered in the newly-defined space as Bant chipped away at worn stalagmites sand stalactites, revealing a design with a familiarity I could not place.

With his Spirit returned, he was the only one of us with strength enough to carry out this task.

My wings showered golden light upon the floor as I floated throughout the new space. Gaveny’s ocean-tinged power drifted among mine, and Thorn’s stormy clouds followed him as he zipped along the highest points, closely studying the detailing of the ceiling.

“It is grand,” Xenique observed, a bit skeptical as she hovered near a rubble-strewn staircase to nowhere. It stopped just out of sight, only the illusion of an escape. Beside her, Valyrie studied the ceiling as if looking for the stars, our two sisters’ unlit wings beating softly at their backs.

“It is as he demanded,” Bant gritted out, wielding another band of power to carve away an arch where an entrance would belong. I tilted my head at the precise placement, that inkling of familiarity budding further within me.

Ptholenix flew forward, placing the Angelglass he had reforged from shards in the spot.

“Firebird,” Bant snapped, and Ptholenix raised a quizzical brow. “Not there.”

“This is where he demanded,” Ptholenix stated calmly.

“That is where a tunnel shall be carved for rooms,” Bant argued, flexing his powerful arms as his light whipped out. So chauvinistic—the Engrossian always had been. And now, with his might unlocked…

Ptholenix sighed, his fiery wings crackling at his back with suppressed annoyance. “No, those belong beneath the staircase.”

I tuned out their bickering, sweeping a gaze over each nook and cranny. My wings fluttered as the discomfort grew.

“What’s wrong?” Gaveny asked, the ropes and scales of tattoos glinting across his shoulders and chest as he hovered before me, blocking out the senseless arguing.

“Ptholenix is correct,” I answered. “The Angelglass belongs in the arch.”

“I know he is,” Gaveny said, crossing his arms. “Bant will hear for his stubbornness if he does not comply. But that is not what I meant.”

The scar across my cheek twinged at the reference to the punishment our master would undoubtedly force upon his disobedient subject. The memory of Bant’s wings being torn by shards of Angelglass lashed through me, the former, stifled cavern cramped with the heavy iron scent in my mind.

Heated, Bant moved the Angelglass from the arch to the center of the room, the scars across his wings catching the light. Two large gashes never to sprout feathers in their wake.

Gaveny lowered his chin, insistent. I always suspected that out of the seven of us, the Seawatcher Prime Warrior had retained the most of his mortality. The strongest human mannerisms and thoughts spilling from him.

I swallowed. “I do not know what is wrong here,” I admitted. “But something about this is…amiss.”

Gaveny studied the pillars, brown hair shifting around his strong shoulders as he turned.

Before he could say anything, a cruel voice sliced through the foyer. “ Bant! ” We all shot to attention as our master floated from an adjacent tunnel. “Why is the Angelglass not as I directed?” He spun a pale hand toward the archway at the head of the room.

And it was only as Ptholenix smirked cockily at Bant replacing the glass where it had originally been—as that large arch of reforged mirror took up the spot of a door—that the reason for my discomfort with Bant’s design became evident.

Our master swept through the space, high and low, inspecting every inch.

“You have done a good job, Bant,” he drawled. “I will ignore the defiance this time.”

Bant’s powerful frame inflated, and Gaveny shot me a surprised look, but I could not respond. I was too busy sweeping the details carved into the ceiling and walls. How was it so exact?

“Now that the glass is whole again,” our master said, “look.”

He wafted a cloud of glimmering white magic toward the Angelglass, and as it brushed across the surface, the Chosen Child’s image shimmered to life. She sat on a bench, a book in hand and golden tendrils of power— our power—spun above her, as if it was nothing more than a light to study by.

A stoic silence settled across the seven of us, some enraged, some concerned.

“It’s pitiful,” Bant spat.

“It’s manipulative,” Valyrie added sharply.

Thorn released a high laugh. “ Kissed by Angels ,” he cooed. His wails from the day the child retrieved his crown fluttered through the air as if carried on those strands of shimmering magic. Kissed by Angels , he had repeated.

My wings ruffled at the thought, the other Angels shifting as we awaited our master’s direction. It was impossible. We mourned them for so long, they’d been forgotten to the rest of the world.

“The lock is poised to crack, despite any pity and manipulation your ranks may deem of the power,” our master finally said. The gold of the girl’s light reflected in his milky eyes as he hovered closer to the glass.

Bant raised his pointed chin, only a hint of wariness. “If I may,” he said, waiting for a nod from our master to continue. “What is pitiful and manipulative is not only the magic. It is the fact that another opponent sails for her shores, and yet this child does nothing.” Power ebbed around his ruffled wings, almost uncontrollable since the return of his Spirit. His emotions more volatile, as well. “She’s wasting time.”

Defensiveness whirled through me—only a taste of the protective emotion. Only ever a taste in this prison. But I had failed with the last chosen, and I would not fail again.

Before I could argue, our master asked, “Is she, though?”

A hint of satisfaction had my wings beating. On either side of me, Ptholenix and Gaveny noted the movement from the corners of their eyes.

Our master explained, “An enemy does indeed sail for her shores. One who could pose a threat to everything we’ve waited so long for.” His milky eyes shone. “But perhaps this is what we need. The queen may not know it, but she may be the ally we have been waiting for.”

“Sir?” Xenique asked, longing burning in her round eyes.

“The queen wants one thing. She will undoubtedly ask the girl for help, but should she mistrust this age-old enemy, it could be exactly what we need.” His smile was chilling. “Perhaps she will tip the scales in our favor by being precisely the adversary history has painted her as.”

And it was that word, painted , that had my gaze snapping to the ceiling. In my mind, the murals I had designed on ceilings identical to this rocky encompass flashed. Ones I had crafted with utmost care and passion and longing, placing them perfectly, like clues to future generations.

The discomfort I’d been feeling became a solid knot in my gut, this foyer so familiar and yet foreign.

For we hovered in a stony, buried rendition of my palatial home atop the mountains.

I lowered my gaze, catching my master’s milky stare. His goals splashed across my vision, stained crimson.

And a seed of unease grew roots in my unbeating heart.