Page 155 of Blackheart

Fear knotted in my stomach. “How could you know that?” I asked quietly.

He stared for a moment, his eyes somehow becoming icier. “If you weren’t to make it back, I would have to be dead. And I have no plans of dying in the Waywards.”

He gave me one last piercing glance before walking off without another word.

Chills ran through me as I once again thought of the worst.

No one ever planned to die in the Waywards, yet they did.

My appetite was entirely shot. I sat at a long table with Amzee and Beck, who were in the middle of a drinking game. They both scarfed down rolls and ale, formulating the most diabolical belches I’d ever encountered. Amzee had the giggles so bad at one point, I thought she might’ve had a hard time breathing.

They were truly celebrating our impending arrival, while anxiety had completely ruined me.

I’d asked to be here. I wanted to bring the Witchlords and Drakers crumbling down, and to bring the people of the Southern Waywards back to Castivian. Why was I overcome with this terrifying feeling?

I sat in silence with my arms crossed and feet propped up on a dining chair while Amzee and Beck continued their festivities. Riven showed up after a few minutes, and then finally, Ansel.

The lantern-lit room was just barely big enough for the table, with only a few decorations, including a map on the wall.

Riven sat next to the chair I’d propped my feet on. Ansel directly across from me. Riven kept his eyes on Ansel, as if to deter him from glancing my way.

“The marked map,” Ansel requested, holding a hand out.

Riven silently passed it over.

Ansel unrolled it, placing Amzee’s glass on one corner and a few coins on the other.

He leaned over the table to point to the Southern Waywards. “We need to get here, then, we will port…” He slid his finger across—“here.”

“Hm. Not too far, huh?” Beck said, nodding in approval.

Ansel shrugged. “Only a day’s distance, maybe less. The ships traveling behind us will be porting right outside of the Southern Waywards. If we fail, not only will the people of the Southern Waywards suffer, but the fleet will be at risk.”

Lord Avan’s father’s fleet. We needed those ships for the coming war, not just this.

I turned to Ansel. “Then what's the plan?”

“Once we make land, Sir Riven will meet with his contacts and enter the Southern Waywards posing as a Draker. He should go unnoticed while wearing his mask.”

Beck nodded as he listened. Amzee scanned the map while Riven flipped an unlit smoke between his fingers, surely awaiting the moment we could leave the tight, windowless room.

Ansel continued, “I will be in Witchlord attire, as I still have my pin. We will arrive at the gates of the Southern Waywards with the three of you bound as any Dark Natured captives would be. I will claim to be a Witchlord from the Northern Waywards, meant to be on leave for the spring traveling down south, when I found the three of you criminals. Of course, I’ll need to include that my travel plans have been ruined, and I’m not expected back at the Northern Waywards until Summer. Thus, I’ll be seeking residence for two weeks before returning north.”

I lifted my brows, impressed.

“Wow, you know how to come up with a lie,” Amzee beamed.

That he did.

“It’s only a good lie if they buy it,” Beck pointed out.

“Then I suggest you three prepare to be believable prisoners.”

He wrapped up the meeting, instructing us to be ready before sunrise and to pack light. We wouldn’t be able to bring anything into the Waywards.

I chose not to spend the final night on the ship with Riven. He needed rest. Instead, I tossed and turned in my own bed. It was as if the closer we came to returning to those obsidian walls, the more my mind and body rejected it.

Just as Ansel promised, we made landfall before sunrise. All day we travelled through the spring woods. Every so often, Amzee would ask Beck and I about what it was like in the Waywards. She could probably tell it didn’t help either of us to talk about it, so eventually, we all got used to walking without conversation.