Page 162 of Blackheart

Theyshouldbe scared.

That small moment of hesitation was enough. Shadows danced along the alley walls as I sprayed down the first three bastards with forceful black mist, poison violently suffocating their screams.

I cackled as I stepped over their limp bodies, approaching the remaining four who still held their swords high, but were slowly retreating.

“You are just as dark and evil as they say your kind to be,” a bald one with small, circular eyes sputtered, sweat beading off his forehead.

I stepped through a shallow puddle.

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”

He wielded his sword as if it were a shield. “You killed four men and you laugh!” the Draker spat.

“Because I like when men die after they try to kill me. I think it’s funny.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll laugh for you too.”

With that, I sprinted. The maskless Draker squealed like a hog and dropped his sword. That was fine. He had no need for it once I cracked Singer against his skull.

His body smacked onto the ground.

The remaining three bolted out of the alley in a full retreat.

Smirking as their bulky footsteps faded into the distance, I stuffed Singer into my boot and tied my hair back, hoping to better blend in.

I turned around, nearly running right into a tall and cloaked figure. I gasped and took a step back.

Wild, brassy hair was tied up on the man’s head, and his dark brown brows pulled together at the sight of me.

I should’ve ran with the Drakers.

“Your ol’ Whimcastor isn’t the only Dreamsoul in the realm,” the Witchlord said, his yellow teeth peeking out.

I formed a misshapen ball of mist that could rival Amzee’s droops and threw it towards his chest.

He grunted, raising a fist and summoning a dark cloud of grey. It swept my poison away before it could hit him.

“It’s late, Elorengail. Time for bed.” His dick hardened through his pants as he said my name.

An overwhelming sense of fatigue drowned me. I fought against it mentally, but physically my body was out of my control. My knees sank like anchors, shoulders following quickly behind.

I ground my teeth together, pleading for my limbs to work. The Witchlord snorted, nudging my chin up with his wet boot. I willed desperately to keep my heavy eyelids open, vision blurring.

“They call you the dark heir, you know.”

“Who?” I breathed.

“The people, and one day, the histories.”

He pulled his foot away, letting my face fall to the cold ground. Reality and darkness collided. I could not fight any longer.

Chapter 46

No Mercy

“There are whispers, too many to count, of Elorengail Steele. She is no princess, but a dark heir. They say she brands her name upon the skin of her victims, tempts men toward rivers steeped in poison, and carried off a babe as its mother fell to her doom.”

—The Lyonscliff Press, urgent edition

In the void,there were no dreams of castles or training.