Page 6

“You’re right,” Cypherion finally said. “I’m sorry, Ophelia.”

“Me, too,” Jezebel muttered.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” I assured, though I swore I heard Tol’s voice saying, Yes, they do. I wasn’t sure whether it made me want to laugh or scream. Instead, I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “Let’s just do our best.”

Jezebel, Cypherion, and Malakai led the way to the stables. As Rina and I followed, she leaned in to whisper, “I may have kept him alive physically, Ophelia, but Tolek’s heart is beating because of you.”

And in a way, she was right.

Not a day had gone by since the battle that I hadn’t felt Tolek’s spirit. It was such an intrinsic part of me, like it outlined the frame of my bones. It was the shell of my ribs that protected my cavernous heart.

I’d carried it with me my entire life and continued to do so as I mounted Sapphire and traveled to the city limits, ready to be inducted as the next Revered of the Mystique Warriors.

Chapter Two

Ophelia

Sapphire’s steady pace lulled me into a sense of calm as we approached the mountainside clearing where the ceremony would be. A spot away from the city. Away from the loss and destruction and echoing holes of grief.

The path below her hooves widened the closer we got to the entrance. In the distance, a low hum of voices carried on the crisp autumn breezes. Since Malakai and Santorina weren’t ascended warriors and couldn’t officially be part of the procession, they went ahead to join the crowd.

“Cypherion,” I said, stopping him from leading my sister and me onto the path. My voice was casual, pretending nonchalance, though my fingers fluttered over the reins. “You should enter after Jezebel, just before me.”

Cyph’s jaw tightened, shoulders stiff. Deep blue eyes flicked between Jezebel and me, marred with doubt and annoyance. Licking his lips, considering his opponents, Cyph finally sighed. “Fine.”

It was a small win, but one I’d take. The tiniest signs meant everything in ritualistic ceremonies, and having Cypherion before the Revered was a step in the direction I hoped he would take.

My heart rioted as Jezebel led our line into the ceremony site. A hush fell across the crowd, all eyes landing first on my sister and her silver mare, then on Cypherion, and finally finding me, perched atop my sapphire-maned warrior horse, adorned in leathers and a sky-blue cloak, weapons catching the sun.

As we passed, I met the eyes of every warrior I could. Flowers were crushed in fists, but they were clad in leathers and quiet awe. There were hundreds present—all those who were unable to join the war effort due to age, injury, or choice. Young and old, they stretched deep across the mountainside, but I had to etch their stares into my mind. To remember who placed me on the pedestal. The Spirits may have appointed me Revered, the Angels may have fed their blood into my veins, but I was nothing without the warriors surrounding me.

I committed both the hope and hurt in their expressions to memory. Let them carve places across my heart as I made my way to the dais in the center of the crowd.

With a stroke down Sapphire’s mane after I dismounted, I said a silent thank you for being my steadfast companion these months. Then, I turned.

And my eyes landed on my mother—on the Bind on the fourth finger of her left hand. My eyes stung, but I lifted my gaze to hers.

I’m proud of you, she mouthed.

I inhaled that sentiment, holding the air in my lungs until I was certain I wouldn’t cry. We’d never seen eye to eye, my mother and I, but we set aside our differences following the loss of my father.

Thank you, I mouthed back, and I ascended the dais.

Missyneth, the Master of Rites and the only surviving member of the former Mystique Council, waited for me. She’d shrunk to a withered shadow of her former self since Daminius, mourning the loss of her fellow masters and warring with a guilt I understood. But today she stood beneath an arch of peonies and eucalyptus, smaller blossoms and sprigs of baby’s breath tucked between them, and the sheen in her eyes spoke of promises.

“Ophelia Alabath,” she began as I removed my spear.

A ring of seven candles lined the platform, each etched with a sigil of an Angel. Beside Missyneth, a worn ledger was propped on a medal podium, the thin stand woven of florals much like the Mystique Band tattoos that declared rank. And beside that, a folded pile of blue silk and a halo of golden vines awaited me.

“Master of Rites,” I greeted.

“You stand before the Mystique Warriors today, prepared to swear the Oath of Reverent Guard, a historic vow. The words the Prime Warrior, Damien, bequeathed unto his successor prior to his ascension to Angel. The promise passed hand to hand, mouth to mouth, among Revereds for millennia.”

“I do.” I projected so every warrior present would feel my oath along their bones, even those who were not here. This vow stood for those Spirits already called away, too.

I tightened my grip on Angelborn, swallowed my sorrows, and slipped into the countenance of Revered, the memories of those gone holding my bones upright.

Missyneth bowed her head. “Please kneel.” My knees pressed into the white velvet cushion she’d set before me. “Extend your weapon of severance.” I balanced Angelborn in my palms. Starfire remained at my hip, and a piece of me longed to swear the oath with both, but the spear was the gift of the Revered, forged in the fire of the Spirit Volcano and, until recently, carried a piece of Damien himself. Angelborn was the clear choice.