Page 2 of Blackheart

Witchlord Ansel stared down at me with cold blue eyes.

He’d just arrived in the Waywards as a replacement for Lord Zerys. I’d never interacted with him—or any Witchlord—beyond standing in the crowd during his introduction ceremony. They hardly ever spoke tous, and certainlynot during my morning tea. I always minded my own, controlled my Nature, and never once tried escaping the obsidian walls. The Witchlords had no need to speak to me.

Until now.

Lord Ansel’s cropped raven hair was neatly groomed and framed his face in a way that complemented his angular eyes. A light blue pendant pinned his black cloak in the center of his broad chest.

He had no need for armor or fighting leathers. The Witchlordswerethe weapon.

Witchlord Ansel should have been out patrolling—reminding the Dark Natured of his presence. Instead, he stood before me, eyes roaming from my weathered boots to my ill-fitting pants, then up my chest before settling his glare upon my face. “You’ve been accused of using Dark Nature,” he cited, devoid of empathy.

I mirrored him, crossing my arms. “Which liar said that?”

Lord Ansel scrutinized me carefully. “Charles the Imp.”

Oh, for Fate’s sake. The accusation was nothing short of an attempt on my life. I nearly flew off the chair as words came spewing from my mouth. “Charles is a drunk! And thatlittle shit is just upset that I continuously reject his advances.” I finally made eye contact. Perhaps he would detect the truth in my gaze.

The Witchlord’s eyebrows rose as he slid his hands into his pockets. “And you think you’re so desirable?”

I blinked, struggling to combine words that didn’t include ‘fuck’ and ‘you.’ The Witchlord smirked. My Nature stirred, the veins along my skin darkening. Itching for release.

“No,” I gritted through clenched teeth.

“Show me your hands,” he ordered.

Trista sucked in a breath. We both knew what would happen if he didn’t believe me—we’d not even enjoy one last tea together before my execution. A true shame.

I held my hands together protectively, fumbling for the right thing to say. “You’re not scared of my poison hurting you? My hands are… sensitive. I could accidentally?—”

The other patrons turned their attention to us, faces pale. One by one, they discreetly escaped the shop.

Lord Ansel cocked his head to the side. “Put your hands out, Blackheart.”

Not once in the three winters of living in this hellscape had I ever been accused of breaking the rules.

As much as I wanted to argue further, I had no choice but to comply.

With shaking arms, I stood and presented my palms, pulling my poison in towards my core. Even so, my dark veins bulged, filling and rising on my skin.

The Witchlord reached for my hands, his fingertips gently bracing under my knuckles. An electric sensation raced down my spine.

He inspected my palms for all but a moment before dropping them.

“No trace of a leak.”

My shoulders sagged.

Lord Ansel offered no goodbyes as he took his leave, slamming the shop door behind him.

Trista’s freckled face was unnaturally pale. She held her dainty, blotched hand to her chest. “Mother of Moons, help us,” she breathed. “I thought you were as good as dead.”

I settled back in my spot, returning to my tea. With every sip, my Nature settled, and breathing came easier. I’d survived, unlike Trista’s niece.

“I don’t like him,” I announced. I didn’t care for any of the Witchlords, but he was somehow the worst.

“I don’t think anyone does.”

I rubbed my temples. “I know one person.”