Page 1 of Blackheart

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 movedthrough 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 rarelyforgiving. It was even rarer to be sent before thekingfor 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.