Page 163 of Blackheart

There was only darkness. Was I dead? Was this my eternity? I couldn’t move or speak. Only think and wait.

After what might’ve been an hour or a year, the faintest swirl of silver and black glimmered in the distance. It moved like a wraith, spindling and sliding through the void.

I wanted to call out to it, but I did not exist beyond my mind.

My soul pulled towards it. I needed it like it was a missing part of myself.

The silver swirl got closer and closer, until a sound echoed from it.

Xavian’s voice.

“Elora…” he called quietly. He was so far, but the swirl was right there.

Closer,my soul pleaded.

As if it understood, the swirl molded into me, revealing that I was nothing but a wisp of violet.

When the silver began to blend with me, reality and darkness blurred together. I could hear, and my vision slowly returned.

“Holy tits, I think it’s working,” Avan exclaimed, his red hair unruly. He appeared utterly exhausted.

We were at Lady Jocelynn’s house, sitting in the parlor. There was a black coffee table, with parchment and an ink pen on it.

“Princess Elorengail, are you in there?” Lord Draven asked calmly. He sat in a black armchair across from me.

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t. I stretched my fingers—Xavian’s fingers. It was difficult, and being in his body felt like holding a heavy weight. I couldn’t do this forever.

I grabbed the pen.

The weighted words came out sloppy as I scratched them across the page.

‘We tried.’

My consciousness was forced back, the whisper of my brother’s spirit rushing past me as we crossed soul paths, never meeting.

I sucked in air as my eyes flung open. I yanked my arms—wrists bound.

Cursing, I frantically pulled against the black cuffs holding me to a table. My legs cuffed apart.

There were no windows in the cool and dingy room, and only a single torch cast shadows across the cinder walls. As I caught sight of the two men across the room, my breath halted.

Ansel and Riven were against the wall, both bound by the same cuffs.

“Easy,” Ansel warned quietly.

“Don’t tell her what to do,” Riven bit out.

By the looks of the both of them, bruises and cuts along their arms and faces, it hadn’t been easy getting them here.

“Where are we?”

Riven’s eyes were dark, torchlight barely glowing within them. “Under the Southern Waywards.”

I frowned, glancing at the low, dark ceiling. There was one rounded door, likely locked. Aside from the table, the room was empty. The stench of bodily fluids was horrid. What horrors had the walls within this room seen?

“What day is it?” I rasped. “Where are Amzee and Beck?”

“The ships arrive tomorrow,” Ansel said, face full of quiet fury.