Blackheart, p.1
Blackheart, page 1
Blackheart
Pixie Rella
Copyright © 2025 by Pixie Rella
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Art + Design by Jordyne Lucy
Scene Artwork Created by Ashley Griggs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
TRIGGER WARNINGS (Light Spoilers Included)
This tale contains mature themes such as violence, sexual content, emotional manipulation, strong language, coercion, and depiction of forced sterilization. Reader discretion is advised.
ISBN 979-8-9936278-1-6 (Paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9936278-0-9 (eBook)
First Edition, December 2025
Dedicated solemnly and tenderly to all of the Eloras out there, black as their hearts may be.
Contents
Glossary
Pronunciation Guide
Prologue
1. The Accusation
2. The Tallest Witchlord in all of Drakington
3. A Needle
4. An Unnatural Storm
5. Beyond Unforgivable
6. An Exceptionally Shitty Day in the Waywards
7. A Posse of Imbeciles
8. Dreadfully Deadly
9. Food, Warm Clothes, Blanket
10. The Draker
11. Lyonsreach
Part 2
12. The King’s Mark
13. The Best Gift
14. Kostini
15. The Vodka, and Then The Ransom
16. A Proper Bed
17. The Act
18. Oh, to be Light Natured
19. Take Me With You
20. A Name for A Name
21. The Worst Bard in All of Castivian
22. The River, The Arrow, The Fire
23. You’re Supposed to be Broken
24. Shadows and Goodbye
Part 3
25. Eiden
26. The Deed
27. You Should Come
28. A Princess with Nothing
29. A Wayward Reputation
30. The Tea
31. Charming, Yet Cruel
32. A Request
33. I’ll tell you everything
34. Black Roses
35. The Darkest Alley in all of Eiden
36. Moonhill
37. The Carriage
38. The Crow’s Whisper
39. Absolutely Feral
40. The Pell
41. The Meeting
42. The Wilting Silence
43. Puddles
Part 4
44. Nostalgic, Yet Horrifying
45. Blood
46. No Mercy
47. Terrifying, Beautiful, Dangerous
48. A Veritable Nightmare
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Glossary
As written by the Golden Scholar of Lyonscliff, under decree of King Clarke Lyonaire
“His Majesty welcomes knowledge where fear once ruled. I record what others shun.”
— Jon Harvington, Golden Scholar of Lyonscliff
Blackheart: Dark Natured being whose Nature manifests as a corrosive poison. Their blood itself is harmless, thank Fate, but when their Nature is released—by rage, defense, or despair, it becomes deathly. Even their tears are lethal. Common identifying traits include dark veins and eyes, as well as a black marking located on their hip.
Lyonheart: Light Natured beings able to wield healing and light magic. Typically identified by a brown, sun-shaped marking on their chest or back.
Dreamsoul: Light Natured dreamwalkers. If powerful enough, they can wield storm magic and even travel through their Nature itself. Identified by a unique constellation marking on their back.
Sapphires: A cult of those who have succumbed to blood magic. While their abilities are not yet fully known, it is believed they possess enhanced speed, strength, and illusionary magic. It is difficult to say how easily they can blend in with the rest of society—but if you see red-rimmed eyes, you’ve likely found one.
Flamecastor: Dark Natured wielders of fire. Can be identified by a red, shimmering mark on their face.
Nightcastor: Dark Natured shadow wielders. Typically identified by a crescent moon marking behind their left ear.
Stonesender: Dark Natured beings with the ability to wield earth magic and minor air abilities. They bear unique, stone-like markings across their palms.
Blackheart Pronunciation Guide
Amzee - AM-zee
Ansel - AN-suhl
Arielle - AR-ee-elle
Avan Shadewind - AH-ven SHAYD-wind
Castivian - Kas-tIv-ee-an
Clarke Lyonaire - kl-AR-k LIE-on-air
Clayvarie - KLAY-var-ee
Dayire - DAY-eye-er
Delaina - Del-LAY-nuh
Draker - DRAY-k-er
Drakington - DRAY-k-ing-tun
Draven - DRAY-vin
Dronis - DRO-niss
Elora Amona - E-lore-uh Uh-MON-uh
Fiera Poss - FEE-air-uh p-AH-s
Jocelynn Wrenavia - JOS-lin REN-A-vee-uh
Kostini - Kos-TEE-nee
Lestivia - Leh-STIV-ee-ah
Payn Vikesh - p-AYE-n v-EYE-kish
Riven Blacksword - RIV-uhn BLK-sord
Saffron - SAF-ron
Sitara - si-TAR-uh
Trista - TRISS-tuh
Xavian Steele - Ex-ZAY-vee-uhn st-EE-l
Valeska - Vah-LEH-skuh
Zephyros - zef-fear-os
Prologue
“It’s your fault!” Queen Delaina screeched. “All of you!”
Hooded healers rushed away with the limp body of little Princess Clayvarie, who would likely never wake again.
There was a price to be paid for what happened to the sole heir, and thousands would pay it. Those of privilege called for the mass execution of the Dark Natured. They would have gotten their way if not for King Clarke.
Yearning to surpass those before him as a peaceful ruler, he forged a plan to “save” us. Instead of slaughter, he forced us into an isolated city within towering obsidian walls. For this, some would say he was the worst to have ever sat on the throne.
It was no home, but a cage. Once inside, we never came out. Three winters confined had tamed many—
but not all.
Part 1
“It is hereby declared, that the Dark Natured are undoubtedly wicked, and such sinister abominations have no reason to lurk upon the common lands. It is not only merciful, but necessary that the vermin be confined within the Waywards. There is no place more fitting for the misbegotten.”
— Marker Dane, Lord of Lawship
Chapter 1
The Accusation
I moved through the Northern Waywards earlier than most, skirting along the shadows with my hands shoved in my pockets. Inebriated bodies littered the doorsteps of curtainless brothels while rodents skittered nearby.
I cut to the left, down a narrow and uneven path.
Dangerously tall, haphazardly stacked buildings lined the streets. The towering structures were daunting, but no match for the stature of the obsidian walls. No matter where I stood, the barrier remained in sight. A reminder that this place was no home. It was a prison.
Dawn neared, and others trickled into the mud and snow-smeared streets. They shuffled about in black and brown sweaters, shawls made of crude wool, and roughly knitted hats. I tied the top half of my hair into a bun as I hurried along, the rest of my dark hair a shield to the back of my neck.
Tucked away in the tight corner of an alley, a half-rotted sign hung diagonally from rusted nails.
‘Blackhearts Welcome’.
There were few places like that left in the world.
I pushed the creaky wooden door open.
“Mornin’, Elora!” Trista called out from behind the bar.
My shoulders relaxed, stiff joints thawing. I claimed my seat at the weathered counter, yawning as she slid me a pour of blackfire tea. The steam curled into delicate ribbons, tickling my nose.
A few other patrons were scattered about the shop, chatting among themselves at small wooden tables. Lodge Dugspur, a regular who frequently tipped well, sat on a barrel once used to crate fish. His companion straddled a rotting chair with three true legs, while a broken broomstick filled in for the fourth.
Trista flicked a piece of fiery hair behind her shoulder and stirred her brew.
I held my cup close to my chest, my voice barely a whisper.
“Any news of Arielle?”
Trista glanced around cautiously before her hooded eyes landed on me.
“I paid a Draker with mouth and tongue, all for him to tell me she was delivered to the castle for a trial. She could’ve pleaded her case, but they couldn’t settle her. She went entirely mad—even attacked a noble. No doubt, my niece is dead.” Trista let out a soft sigh and returned to her stirring.
I took a healthy draw of my own tea. A strong mug of ale would have been better suited for this conversation.
Arielle had always been one to push boundaries, yet I hadn’t expected her to be so foolish. There were rules within these walls, and she had broken the most dangerous one.
Using her Nature.
The seven Witchlords were rarely forgiving. It was even rarer to be sent before the king for a trial, and Arielle hadn’t even made good use of the opportunity. She could have survived. All she had to do was give herself a chance.
“What a waste.”
The front door of the shop swung open, a gust of cold air bursting in with morning light. Trista’s posture stiffened, her eyes wide in warning.
Thin floorboards groaned beneath heavy, measured footsteps. I tilted my head imperceptibly, chest tight as a cloaked figure towered behind me. A Witchlord. I had never seen one in Trista’s before. Casually, I took another sip.
“Blackheart,” he snapped.
My cup jerked, tea spilling over the rim. I rested it on the counter and turned to face him.
Witchlord Ansel stared down at me with cold blue eyes.
He’d just arrived in the Waywards as a replacement for Lord Zerys. I’d never interacted with him—or any Witchlord—beyond standing in the crowd during his introduction ceremony. They hardly ever spoke to us, and certainly not during my morning tea. I always minded my own, controlled my Nature, and never once tried escaping the obsidian walls. The Witchlords had no need to speak to me.
Until now.
Lord Ansel’s cropped raven hair was neatly groomed and framed his face in a way that complemented his angular eyes. A light blue pendant pinned his black cloak in the center of his broad chest.
He had no need for armor or fighting leathers. The Witchlords were the weapon.
Witchlord Ansel should have been out patrolling—reminding the Dark Natured of his presence. Instead, he stood before me, eyes roaming from my weathered boots to my ill-fitting pants, then up my chest before settling his glare upon my face. “You’ve been accused of using Dark Nature,” he cited, devoid of empathy.
I mirrored him, crossing my arms. “Which liar said that?”
Lord Ansel scrutinized me carefully. “Charles the Imp.”
Oh, for Fate’s sake. The accusation was nothing short of an attempt on my life. I nearly flew off the chair as words came spewing from my mouth. “Charles is a drunk! And that little shit is just upset that I continuously reject his advances.” I finally made eye contact. Perhaps he would detect the truth in my gaze.
The Witchlord’s eyebrows rose as he slid his hands into his pockets. “And you think you’re so desirable?”
I blinked, struggling to combine words that didn’t include ‘fuck’ and ‘you.’ The Witchlord smirked. My Nature stirred, the veins along my skin darkening. Itching for release.
“No,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
“Show me your hands,” he ordered.
Trista sucked in a breath. We both knew what would happen if he didn’t believe me—we’d not even enjoy one last tea together before my execution. A true shame.
I held my hands together protectively, fumbling for the right thing to say. “You’re not scared of my poison hurting you? My hands are… sensitive. I could accidentally—”
The other patrons turned their attention to us, faces pale. One by one, they discreetly escaped the shop.
Lord Ansel cocked his head to the side. “Put your hands out, Blackheart.”
Not once in the three winters of living in this hellscape had I ever been accused of breaking the rules.
As much as I wanted to argue further, I had no choice but to comply.
With shaking arms, I stood and presented my palms, pulling my poison in towards my core. Even so, my dark veins bulged, filling and rising on my skin.
The Witchlord reached for my hands, his fingertips gently bracing under my knuckles. An electric sensation raced down my spine.
He inspected my palms for all but a moment before dropping them.
“No trace of a leak.”
My shoulders sagged.
Lord Ansel offered no goodbyes as he took his leave, slamming the shop door behind him.
Trista’s freckled face was unnaturally pale. She held her dainty, blotched hand to her chest. “Mother of Moons, help us,” she breathed. “I thought you were as good as dead.”
I settled back in my spot, returning to my tea. With every sip, my Nature settled, and breathing came easier. I’d survived, unlike Trista’s niece.
“I don’t like him,” I announced. I didn’t care for any of the Witchlords, but he was somehow the worst.
“I don’t think anyone does.”
I rubbed my temples. “I know one person.”
“Don’t tell me she has her eyes set on him…” Trista shot me an incredulous look. “You need to tell that girl what just happened!”
“I’ll try.”
Chapter 2
The Tallest Witchlord in all of Drakington
“It is necessary for the Dark Natured to remain bound to the Church of Fate. Without such divine guidance, we are certain to damn ourselves. Heresy, the blackest poison, cannot be forgiven, nor overlooked. To guard against such corruption, I deem it vital that the Dark Natured be led in prayer before each day’s labor.”
— Kolson Strange, Minister of Spirit
My eyes blinked open to the darkness of my stale apartment. There was no comfort in staying in bed. The makeshift mattress was hardly holding together these days. Once sewn with scrap fabrics and stuffed with dry leaves, now sinking in and popping along the seams.
I wrapped myself in a threadbare blanket and padded across the room to my pile of laundry. I hadn’t dared to wash my clothes these past few days, for fear they would freeze. An abhorrent mistake I would not make a third time.
Footsteps shuffled from upstairs. A baby cried in a nearby apartment. A couple argued somewhere below.
The sound of families used to be a bitter reminder of an old wound. My mother, troubled and undeniably lacking in maternal instincts, was the only one of my family I could remember. She’d told me once that I had two brothers, but my father ran off with them before I was born. My mother ran off eventually, too.
I’d become numb to the morning commotion, despite how crowded our building became.
There was so little space within the ‘Wards that most of us lived in compact cottages stacked on top of each other. Many people climbed the outer walls and slid into their apartments through tiny, carved-out windows because no builders would bother wasting materials on stairs above the third floor. Luckily for Luna and me, our place sat only three stories high, and I never went a day without being grateful for the luxury of stairs.
Luna shuffled in, rubbing her shoulders, and cursing at the door for getting stuck on the frame. I sank onto our only piece of proper furniture—a brown couch that one of Luna’s customers had given her a while back.
A sympathetic smile slid across her face as she dropped her satchel onto the wooden countertop. “You’re up early again.”
With a blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders and knees curled up to my chest, I shrugged. “I can’t sleep. Too cold. And my head is killing me.”
I had worked well past midnight at Widow’s Way Tavern, drinking my way through the shift. I should have been used to the headaches by now, but the alcohol always took its toll.
“Well, I was quite warm last night,” Luna bragged, practically falling onto the opposite side of the couch.
“I’d imagine so.” I leaned forward, weighing my words. “If I had your job, it would be solely for body heat. Nothing more.”
Brothel work was understandably appealing. It paid well enough, and sometimes Luna seemed to enjoy being at work more than at home.
For me, it wasn’t the act that was intolerable. It was the expectation of entertaining. I could count on one hand the number of people whose conversations didn’t feel like torture. Pretending to enjoy them would wear me down long before the true service.
She bounced her shoulders and grinned. “It’s the coin for me. While I suppose the warmth is nice, the brothel keeps me from looking like you. Hungover and freezing to death and stinking like ale all evening.”
I winced. While I wasn’t hungover every morning, she had a point. The winters were the worst. Maybe I would be better off serving my flesh instead of ale, but I wasn’t like Luna—alluring and hospitable. People weren’t drawn to me; they were deterred.
