Blackheart, p.2
Blackheart, page 2
“I assume it was a good night then?” I rubbed my hands together between my thighs, eager to return to Trista’s. She always prioritized firewood in her budget. It wasn’t long before she’d open up shop, and I’d have plenty of time to warm up before my morning work.
Luna shrugged and sighed dramatically. “It would have been better if the new Witchlord had stopped by. Two weeks he’s been posted here, and he’s yet to come to Miss Soryl’s. Are you aware of how tall he is? It’s ridiculous.”
I hadn't had the chance to tell her about my encounter with him. Luna had stayed at work for the last two days, and I certainly would not be stopping by Miss Soryl’s to talk about a Witchlord. Especially when Luna had a dedicated paramour who might overhear.
“Pining after Lord Ansel when you have dear Riven warming your bed?” I asked, brow quirked.
Riven went against the rules by caring for Luna, and she loved it. As a Draker, he kept guard and ensured that we, the Dark Natured, behaved. She never admitted to actually caring for him, but too many times I had found the Draker sneaking into our apartment, his usual armor absent. Never leaving until the early hours of the morning.
I wasn't a fresh summerborn nor as dull as a soup spoon. She liked him.
Luna rolled her eyes. “Riven probably has plenty of others. Besides, if Lord Ansel came to the brothel, that would be work, and work doesn’t count.” She proudly tucked her mahogany shoulder-length hair behind her ear.
“Well. I guess you’re right.” I rested my elbows on my knees, innocently looking away. “I suppose you wouldn’t care to know where Lord Ansel was last night?”
“Elora!” she squealed, kicking my leg underneath the quilt. “Tell me immediately!”
“I saw him yesterday morning, as he was looking for me.”
“Looking for you?” Luna looked ready to strangle me if I didn’t spill faster. “Tell me you fucked him. If anybody gets him before me, it’s you.”
Grimacing, I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “No, I did not fuck Lord Ansel. The furthest thing from it. Charles the Imp accused me of using my Nature.”
Her voice softened. “A Witchlord believed you?”
The question jolted me.
“I guess. He checked my hands and left. But then...”
“There’s more?”
I nodded. It had been bothering me nonstop, which was probably why I was awake odiously earlier than usual. “He was at the tavern last night, sitting in the same corner he sat in a few days ago. Didn’t speak to anyone, just watched and ordered one ale.”
An ale he never bothered to drink.
“He didn’t speak to anyone?”
I shook my head. “Just watched.”
Paying attention to him felt weird, but it was hard not to. He was a brooding eyesore, Witchlord cloak and all. Everyone else had been drunk and reeking of barley and grime. His presence was off-putting.
Luna hopped off the couch and paced the small kitchen. “Perhaps I’ll swing by the tavern this evening. It is my night off, anyway.”
It had been some time since my best friend had visited me at work. I wouldn’t mind some sane company. Plus, maybe she’d finally see for herself how intolerable Lord Ansel was. “You should,” I said, forcing myself up.
Dawn was near, and soon the streets would be crowded with Blackhearts, Stonesenders, Imps, Flamecastors, and Nightcastors. The economy was rough in the Waywards, and everyone had a job to do.
I pulled my boots on and braced myself for the morning chill. “Enjoy your sleep,” I called as Luna snuggled into the couch.
Once out of the grim apartment, I ventured onto the winding dirt and snow-speckled streets. Drakers were posted all about, their dark grey armor embellished with the Drakington falcon across their chests. Daunting black hoods and golden masks disguised their identities. I typically tried not to think too much about who might be under the masks. It was one of the many reasons I couldn’t work in the brothel.
Luna often discovered too much.
There were countless Drakers, but only seven Witchlords within the walls. They didn’t stroll the streets often, but they were undoubtedly lurking, checking for forbidden uses of magic and whatever other useless shit they did.
During daytime hours, I had been assigned tailoring duty. Tasked with sewing clothes for the Drakington forces without pay. Everyone worked in the Waywards as payment for living here and the supplies that were sent in. If we refused to do our assigned job, we might as well climb into the burn pile ourselves.
Besides our assignments, we still needed to make money, which was why I slung ale at night.
Thankfully, my day full of sewing went by fast enough, and I hoped for the same with my shift at the tavern.
Being a bar maiden was preferable to being a tailor, at least at night I was paid for my work. There were also no Drakers over my shoulder telling me I wasn’t working fast enough, especially when I was already pricking my fingers from sewing too quickly.
I hurried through the back door of Widow’s Way toward boisterous voices and clinking glasses. It would only get busier throughout the night.
I relieved the day shift barmaid and strolled behind the bar. The tavern was packed with not only various Dark Natured, but also a few unmasked Drakers and two Witchlords. We were one of the rare spots that welcomed anyone, no matter their Nature or status. It was an unspoken rule that what happened in the Waywards at night did not linger into sunrise.
Hours passed like minutes as I bustled up and down the bar, serving ale and collecting coin. Charles the Imp had been kicked out earlier and lay pitifully on the ground outside. He carried on wailing and singing sorrowful songs, each one more miserable than the last.
I had considered killing him, but every time I had a perfectly breakable bottle in hand, Drakers hovered nearby.
Luna sat at the bar, circling her finger around the rim of her drink, and swinging her feet. Her long-sleeved beige shirt had only a few thin spots and hardly any stains. It showcased the little bit of cleavage she had and complemented her dark brown eyes. She was on a mission.
I topped off a regular’s glass and made my way to her.
“Where’s Riven?”
She gave me a warning look, overly worried about people finding out she was sleeping with the Draker. Some rumoured that Riven was the king’s favorite. Oftentimes, if there was a message needing to be sent to the capital, he was the one who rode to Lyonscliff.
I scoffed. “No one is listening to us.”
“You never know.”
There was a reason Drakers were disliked. They were Natureless people who did not care when we were sent into the Waywards. Beneath the masks were our old neighbors, business partners, and even lovers. It was a money-making opportunity for them.
When Luna was twelve, a lord’s family bought her out of the capital orphanage to keep the house clean. She had three adopted brothers and was impossible to console the day she found out one of them was under a Draker mask himself. She wouldn’t have ever known if he hadn’t bought her time at Miss Soryl’s.
She never hated Riven for being a Draker, though. She had him over to the apartment so often that he was the only one I recognized easily when maskless.
While Riven was quiet and likeable enough, he was not to be trusted. He was here to keep the Dark Natured in line and to maintain the peace. Any hint of an uprising and they burned everyone involved. The punishment was always swift. They’d slice the perpetrators' guts open and push them into the flaming pile of flesh.
My throat tightened.
“Did you hear about Arielle?” I whispered to Luna.
My discreet efforts were for nothing as the most prying Nightcastor I knew turned his attention to us.
“Where is Arielle?” Beck purred, slyly scooting his stool closer to Luna.
She smacked his arm and huffed. “Beck, you nosy bastard.”
While the tall, bronze Nightcastor didn’t frequent the brothels, he was a regular at most taverns. The low light caught glints of caramel in his soft curls. He tugged his full lips into a mischievous smile, the softness in his hazel eyes contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and nose.
A regular or not, it was none of his business. “I’ll tell you later, Luna.”
“You two are the worst gossips I’ve been around in ages.” He laughed and flicked me a coin for another round. Most Nightcastors loved gossip. They also all shared the same birthmark, a crescent behind their left ear. Some rumored the mark was actually a thief's hook for stealing secrets.
Every Natured person was born with some kind of indicator, making it impossible to conceal oneself. Mine was a dark design on my left hip. Some described the Blackheart mark as a flower entangled in sharp vines. Others described it as death overcoming its victims. Every Blackheart’s marking was unique, but the hip placement was a telltale sign.
I refilled Beck’s glass. “How about we trade? You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something,” I offered.
His inquisitive features relaxed into a saccharine smile.
“Deal.”
I set his glass down as the three of us leaned in, our voices hushed within the blaring tavern.
“Go on,” I nudged.
Beck’s mouth twitched.
“The king is ill. He will not make it to summer.”
Luna’s eyes narrowed. “A lying little loser is what you are. Go away,” she ordered, shooing him with sweeping hands.
I crossed my arms. The king was healthy enough, and only ten winters older than I.
“Tell me about Arielle,” he pleaded, any trace of playfulness disappearing.
I’d never seen Beck in any sort of desperation.
I sighed. “She’s dead.”
Luna spat her ale out. Beck did not react beyond the slightest flare of his nostrils.
“I thought you’d say that,” he said, turning back and scooting his stool away from Luna.
I was aware of the loudness of the room in a way I had not been before. Luna rubbed her temples.
“You look distressed,” I noted.
She eyed me, dumbfounded. “Of course I am. Miss Soryl is going to make me take Arielle’s customers. I’m going to need another drink.”
“Oh, hell.” I refilled her glass, offering loose promises of prayers and sympathies.
The front door flew open, and an unwelcome Witchlord sauntered in.
Third night in a row.
My frown settled promptly as he faced me at the bar, two coins in hand.
His tunic was noticeably wrinkled, bearing the marks from the day. His sharp eyes were framed by soft black hair, while his cheeks were cold and blotched. He was possibly the tallest man that had ever entered Widow’s Way Tavern, his head nearly scraping the ceiling.
He shifted, staring down at me impatiently.
I eyed the coins, the wet spots he’d trailed in from the snow, and lastly, his cold, blue eyes. “What can I get for you, Lord Ansel?”
Luna gawked from the other end of the bar.
“Water.”
“Water?”
He dropped two coins into my palm. “It's a clear liquid.”
I clenched my jaw. “I know what water is.”
He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Great. Water it is, then.”
I dropped the coins into my apron and fetched a glass. If he wanted murky water from a barrel, then fine. Luna caught my gaze, wildly motioning at the Witchlord. I shook my head.
Lord Ansel waited patiently. As soon as the glass was filled, I plopped it down in front of him.
“There's a seat at the other end of the bar,” I added, nodding towards Luna.
He leaned in to pick up the glass before standing to his full height. “I have a good view of what seats are available.” He settled in the back corner of the tavern, just as he had the past few nights.
I exhaled and marched back over to Luna.
She excitedly bounced in her chair, sloshing her drink. “Tell me everything.”
“He is not very fun.”
“Those are the most fun!” she playfully whined. Swiveling in her chair, she peered back at him.
I wiped the inside of a dirty tankard, gritting my teeth.
“He ordered water, then practically taunted me when I said he could sit next to you.”
She looked back again. “Perhaps I should go sit with him.”
My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. Perhaps she should not. “You’re worried about being caught with a Draker? Imagine what the others might think, or do to you if you associate with a Witchlord.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m going home then.”
I nodded, catching a coin as she tossed it. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
With Luna gone, there was no one to distract me from Lord Ansel’s peculiar behavior. For the rest of the evening, he sat alone in silence. He never asked for another glass of water; he’d barely touched the first.
Was he trying to catch me using my Nature? Did he so eagerly want a reason to add me to the burn pile?
He finally left towards the end of the night, like most patrons. While many went easily, there were always a few stragglers I had to practically drag out the door before I could clean up.
When I left Widow's Way, Charles the Imp was sound asleep on the icy street, and Lord Ansel stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a neighboring building.
“You’re still here?” I whispered, the Waywards chillingly quiet.
He gestured to the little green shit sleeping on the ground. “Waiting for the Imp to wake.”
The cold pricked my skin, snow dampening my hair. “He may not get the chance, exposed to these temperatures.”
Lord Ansel shook his head. “Imps have thicker skin than you and I. He’ll be fine.”
We both stared at Charles, whose mouth bubbled with spit on every exhale. As pleasant as it was to think about him freezing to death, I needed to get the precious little sleep I could before dawn.
“Well, enjoy watching the Imp.”
I had already turned on my heel when he spoke up.
“Do you want to know what he’s dreaming of?”
I cocked my head to the side. “You’re a Dreamsoul?”
All of the Witchlords had been Lyonhearts before, with magic of healing, light, and strength. Rare, especially in Drakington—Dreamsouls were the only Light Natured kind to exist aside from Lyonhearts.
He flicked out a wrinkle in his tunic. “With the gossip around here, I would’ve thought you’d know by now.”
“Can I speak freely, Witchlord?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t give a shit what your Nature is.”
Silence filled the space. Instinctively, I straightened my posture under his electric gaze. He was a Witchlord; I was a Blackheart.
“Respectfully,” I added.
“Do you want to know what the Imp is dreaming of or not?” he asked again.
I shrugged. “I’d rather be warm, but if you must share, go on.”
He rolled his eyes, flicking his middle finger and thumb together. A fuzzy grey cloud erupted from his hand and wrapped itself completely around me. Brief flashes of lightning buzzed gently, heating the Dreamsoul blanket.
I didn’t move or thank him. I stared only at the charmed cloud, breathing in the scent of crackling air before a storm breaks.
Lord Ansel nudged Charles’ head with his boot. “He's dreaming of Lyonsreach. Within the castle, he’s greeting guests for a ball. He’s wearing finery. A young maiden has called him handsome. He’s discussing politics with noblemen.”
The invasion of privacy was disturbing and fascinating, and all the more reason never to fall asleep near a Dreamsoul.
“Interesting.”
I also dreamt of castles and nobles, except I was never in the dreams. I just watched and woke up every morning sick from it.
“Go home, Blackheart.”
The word ‘home’ was laced with lies. I longed to escape, to even get a glimpse of freedom. But there was nowhere else to go.
I pushed against his cloud. “Are you going to take this back?”
“You don’t want to keep it? A gift after our… misunderstanding the other morning.”
Warmth flooded my body as the blanket held me tighter. I looked down at it, eyes narrowing.
“Take it back.”
The corner of Lord Ansel’s mouth twitched into an arrogant smile. “Very well.” He snapped, and the blanket was gone. Crossing his arms, he watched as the cold practically punched me in the chest, goosebumps spreading across my body like wildfire.
I never knew the authorities to play games or ensure Imps woke up. Furthermore, I had never met a single Dreamsoul in my twenty-three winters. To my knowledge, they preferred living in the bastard kingdom of Castivian. It was bizarre that he was our new Witchlord.
I gave him one last skeptical glare before turning away, hurrying home while cursing the cold.
When I returned, Luna was asleep on the couch, entangled with Riven. I quietly closed the apartment door and tiptoed across the room.
The Draker sat up, her head falling off his chest. He checked out the window, where the moon hung high in the sky, before turning back to me. His face twisted in confusion as he ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.
I should have looked away first, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Luna groaned, breaking the spell. “Elora?” she mumbled, voice muffled with sleep.
“Yes?”
“Goodnight,” she murmured, turning back into Riven.
“Goodnight, Luna,” I whispered, ducking into my room and shutting the door a little too fast. As I drifted off, I almost thought I could feel the cloud once again wrapping itself around me, soothing me to sleep.
Chapter 3
A Needle
“The Sapphires are remorseless and deadly, and must be held in dread. If that accursed cult sets foot upon our soil, let their passage be redeemed with blood.”
— Anonymous correspondence from Lyonsreach to Sir Riven Blacksword
Weeks went by, and to my relief, the Witchlord stayed away. He no longer bothered to frequent Widow's Way, nor did he come into Trista’s shop. He’d likely found other troublemakers to investigate.
