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Audio for sleep by hatch.
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Good evening everyone. KP here, and tonight you're getting something a little different from our usual the nightly episode. Tonight we are sharing the first chapter from Hatch's newest series, Shakespeare After Ophelia. This is for any of you who are Romantasy fans out there. Inspired by Shakespeare's Hamlet, this reimagining gives Ophelia the story and the fate she never had. Hatch's version takes place in a kingdom where the land is dying and magic is forbidden. Ophelia, rather than a helpless maiden, is instead confronted with a power and a dangerous romance. She ultimately must decide to either hide her true self and remain safe, or to claim her power and risk everything for love, freedom, and the future of her kingdom. So here is chapter one of Ophelia. If you enjoy this, you can hear the rest of book one wherever you stream Podcasts Books two and three are also available on Hatch. Tomorrow night, we are back with more episodes of the Nightly, but until then, enjoy.
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Welcome to Ophelia, a romantic, magical retelling of William Shakespeare's Hamlet. In this version, Ophelia is no longer a quiet witness to her own tragedy. This is the story of a young woman learning to claim her power, her desire, and her sense of self. In a world already coming apart. Ophelia is returning to her childhood home, Dacia, an island kingdom where people once wielded elemental magic. Water, air, fire and earth. At the southern edge of the island stands Elsinore Castle. This is where Ophelia will live and where she will reunite with her oldest friend, Prince Hamlet. Every map of Darkia has the same Beware the Changed. The Changed, those born with magic, were banished from the island centuries ago, outlawed by royal decree. And when they were cast out, the lifeblood of the land vanished with them. Now the island of Darkia is dying. And as the kingdom begins to fracture, Ophelia steps into a world of courtly intrigue, forbidden magic and dangerous love. One that will ask her not only who she is, but what she is willing to become. So pour yourself a cup of tea, settle in beneath the covers, and join us as we begin the story of Ophelia. The wind of Darkia had a particular bite to it, one Ophelia had forgotten in her decade away. It stung her cheeks as she rode behind her father, the gray sky hanging low enough to press against her thoughts. The land stretched barren on either side of the road. There were stone fields, cracked earth, and skeletal remains of bushes that once might have been green. Nothing moved except the swirling dust. Their horses kicked up. Nothing thrived on this island ever since magic had been outlawed. It was like the land had given up. It was hibernating, or maybe it had even died. Ophelia shifted in her saddle and glanced at the small clay pot tied carefully to her back. Inside it, a single orange seedling trembled with each hoof step. Its tiny leaves were as bright as captured sunlight. It was all that was left of her previous life, and she was hopeful the young plant could thrive even within Darkia's bleakness. Her father, Polonius, was an ambassador and diplomat for King Hamlet. This meant they spent years abroad seeing the world. The most recent assignment had been somewhere warm and lush. She had a garden, full and green and vibrant. Here, even the sky seemed tired. Yet as Ophelia looked over the stark countryside, something about it called to her. She had fought her father on returning to Dacia. Even though their return was an order from the king, she had dragged her feet, leaving behind the garden and life she grew. But now it took everything in her to keep from urging her horse to gallop, to feel the wind in her hair and the pounding of hooves on the earth. What was it about this place that tugged at her heart? Her train of thought was interrupted by her father's voice, carried back toward her. She had long since lost the thread of whatever lecture he'd begun at dawn. And remember, though Prince Hamlet is the sole heir to the throne, he isn't the only power to be reckoned with at Elsinore Court. Of course, she said, fidgeting with the leather reins in her hand. She didn't like to argue with him, preferring her own quiet thoughts to their usual clashing. He didn't even look behind to see if she was listening. She wondered if he had given up on his politically untested daughter now that she was nearly of age, nearly 21. Her father, Polonius, always preferred his work as a diplomat, while Ophelia yearned to be among the trees and other wild things. Ophelia drew another long breath, the scent of cold stone and ash flooding her senses. Then she heard the one thing she had been expecting and dreading since they had set foot on the island. Still, when we arrive at court, Ophelia, it would be wise more than wise, actually. Strategic, to reacquaint yourself with the prince. A marriage to him would mean security for us both. She laughed bitterly to herself, as if she could simply smile her way into the heart of anyone, let alone the most beloved man in Darkia. As if anyone could plan the affections of a prince like he were a piece on a game board. Still, a thin image rose unbidden in her mind, a lanky boy with sun bright hair and a lopsided grin, tugging her up the stairs of the watchtower before she could protest. Her childhood friend, Prince Hamlet. He had always been in motion, in trouble, and utterly alive. She had missed him once and fiercely, but ten years was a long time. Whatever juvenile friendship they'd had was surely gone, weathered away like the paint on the city gates ahead of them. Her mother might have known how to navigate all this, how to hold her father's expectations, the court's scrutiny, and still remain, somehow, herself. But she had been gone for nearly all of Ophelia's memory. Thinking of her led nowhere except heartache, and so she let the thought drift away as the castle gates came into view. They rose ahead of her, iron teeth set in a stone jaw waiting to close, tall enough to swallow a dozen riders at once. On either side, fresh painted signs glared down at them. The Sickness spreads in silence. Report any turning by order of the Crown. No shelter for the Changed. Not sickness, ophelia corrected silently. Magic, though no one used that word aloud anymore. Two hundred years since it had been outlawed, and still people lowered their voices to speak of it. They called it the Fever, or the Turning. Magic users were the Changed. Ophelia had never encountered a magic user and didn't expect to now that they were to be living in the castle. Magic didn't even exist anywhere else, only in Darkia, and only a long time ago. A quiet, invasive fear she hadn't felt since she was a child began to creep back in. The sickness scared everyone. Her father offered their papers to the gate guards, who scanned them with suspicion sharpened by routine. You've encountered none of the Changed on your way back to the capital? One asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. By order of Claudius, brother to the king. Any sightings must be reported. None whatsoever, her father snapped, obviously flustered by the notion he might converse with the Changed. The guard stepped back, unimpressed, and waved them through. Inside the city walls, Ophelia realized what felt different. Not just the signs, which were everywhere now, nailed onto doors, plastered onto cracked stone. It was the people. Their clothes hung looser on their frames, colors faded to greys and browns. Market stalls offered little more than onions to dried fish and withered roots, yet people greeted one another with smiles and cheer, as if determined to enjoy what little they had. Ophelia and Polonius wound through narrow streets toward Elsinore Castle, perched on the hill's crown. As they climbed, a shout tore down through the alleys. Stop. Changed. The crowd began moving in a frenzy, like fish when a shark is near. Ophelia's horse jolted sideways, hooves scraping against cobblestone. Polonius, who was ahead, was pushed along even further from her by the terrified crowd. The street narrowed sharply, and before she could steer the horse anywhere safe, a pressure fierce and invisible slammed into her air. A purposeful wall of wind, something deliberate and pushing. Ophelia looked up and saw a young woman mid air, not quite flying but not quite running either. The woman vaulted over a cart and landed 20 paces down the road, moving with a speed that stole the breath from Ophelia's lungs. She looked at Ophelia only for a moment, eyes focused and determined. Then she was gone. Air Magic, Ophelia whispered. The words had barely left her mouth when the horse tensed beneath her and bucked violently. The world tilted and she clung to its neck as hooves thundered past and people ran shouting. Ophelia's fingers dug into its mane, her eyes squeezing shut as she braced for the inevitable crash. Then the horse's head jerked sharply to the side. Whoa. Whoa, girl. Easy, easy. There you go, a deep, soothing voice offered. The horse slowed, then stilled. Ophelia opened her eyes and knew him at a glance. The angle of his shoulders, the way he stood, easy, assured, as if the world bent slightly around him. His hair was darker now, cropped shorter, but his mouth still held that same restless curve, always on the brink of smiling. One of his hands was wrapped in the horse's reins, another on its neck, keeping it calm. His winter blue eyes took her in and softened with recognition. Leah, he said quietly, using the nickname he'd invented when they were 10. You're back. He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. I heard you were returning, but gods look at you. Before she could gather her thoughts, he pulled her from the horse into a quick, fierce embrace. After a long journey in the cold hamlet, the prince was warm, steady, and real. Just as suddenly, he stepped back. They stood there, two people who had once known each other completely and yet did not know each other at all. Ophelia was suddenly very aware of her dusty travel, worn clothes, the skirt which had torn on the journey, and the flaxen tunic which had never flattered her pale colouring. Ophelia sighed. There was no point worrying over it now. His brows knit with concern. Are you all right? Yes, she managed. Just bruised pride, perhaps. She straightened. Your Highness, she added more stiffly. You are well, I trust? He laughed under his breath. I am less well now that you insist on your Highness. When you used to call me an idiot to my face. Perhaps you have grown out of deserving it. You look, Hamlet began, then shook his head. Different. I should hope so, she said. I was 12 when we left. You were 11, he corrected. You sulked for three days because you wanted to turn 12 at the midsummer fair. She stared at him. You remember that? Of course I remember, he said, almost offended. You tried to climb the outer wall to run away. I had to bribe the kitchen boy not to tell your father. Warmth curled through her. For all his careless charm, he remembered. And you? She asked lightly. You have changed as well. He arched a brow Handsomely, heroically. Taller, she said gravely. And your hair is worse. His laugh rang through the street. You've been gone too long, he said. Its dull without you. Im sure you've managed, she replied. You seem in the thick of things, as always. That is a very polite way of saying you're concerned I remain an idiot. I would never say such a thing at court, she said, smiling despite herself. Only in private. His expression softened, the humor fading. I hope you will. We have far too few people here who tell the truth. A chill traced her spine for a heartbeat. She glimpsed the world he inhabited now, constantly dealing with the pressures of duty and watchful eyes. The boy she'd known had grown into a man balanced between roles. Son, heir, beloved prince. You sound very tragic, Hamlet, she said lightly. We've only just arrived. Give me at least a day before you cast me as your confessor. The weight fell from him at once, replaced by the familiar, dangerous grin she knew too well. You know I've always enjoyed tempting you towards my many sins. You were my favorite accomplice. He then glanced past her and groaned. Ah, a doting father approaches. She turned to see her father forcing his way through the crowd. Heat crept into her cheeks when she looked back. Hamlet ran a hand through his hair, suddenly almost shy. Ophelia, I was in the middle of something. His gaze flicked down the street where the young woman had fled. Will you be at the ball tonight? She blinked. There's a ball? His grin widened. There is. My mother is hosting them monthly to keep the courtiers on their toes. He vaulted back onto his waiting horse, only back one day and already causing trouble by distracting the prince from his duties. Leah, you might be the death of me. Then he was gone, racing down the street, his golden hair catching the light like the sun just before it dips below the horizon. Polonius reached her moments later breathless and mortified. Ophelia making a spectacle before the prince. Truly, can you not manage a simple ride through the city? She merely nodded, trying to ignore his usual over dramatization. She turned to watch the now calm shoppers and vendors, their wary glances turning back towards their work and conversations. Her father continued on about composure and expectations, but her thoughts had already wandered far ahead. For the first time in years, in countless cities and foreign courts, in all the places they had wandered since her mother's death, something warm and hopeful unfurled quietly inside her. She carried it with her as they climbed towards the castle. Blooming gently like a seed that against all odds had found a place it might grow, Sat Satan
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thanks for listening to Ophelia. Tomorrow night we are back with more episodes of the Nightly if you like what you hear, check out the rest of Ophelia Book one wherever you get your podcasts. Books two and three are also available on Hatch Good Night.
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Sa. To learn more about our phone, free light and audio experience, head to Hatch co. You can also follow us at HatchPodcasts.