Page 23 of Blackheart

As I weaved through the crowded, narrow streets, I rubbed my hands together, occasionally glancing up at the stars. Fate, or whatever was out there watching, had given us a clear night for the celebration.

It was unclear whether King Clarke was aware of the Orb Hazy tradition, but the Witchlords hosted the game every year as a reward and a reminder. We were caged for a reason. Because we were dangerous. The game refreshed everyone's memory, through orbs and bloodshed.

While most of the Waywards was a cramped shithole, there was one area clear of buildings that allowed space for the game. The only stretch of grass, tucked away in the farthest corner from the gates, with wooded land nestled at the bottom of the hill. If it weren’t for the slope, they would have built over it by now.

Towering behind the trees in the clearing below was the obsidian wall. Three times as tall as any of the buildings andshimmering like a threat. A glowing cage meant to protect the rest of the world from us.

It’s just a wall.

From my seat at the top of the hill, the clearing was practically a domed arena. We could see everything below.

All around, crowds of Dark Natured gathered with ales and eager eyes. Drakers were scattered about, some wearing masks and others drinking with their faces on display.

Three Witchlords stood in the middle of the makeshift arena, all dressed warmly in layers of black and talking amongst themselves. Preparing.

Four were absent, including Lord Ansel.

An uncomfortable wave of disappointment simmered through my chest. I’d wanted to know who he would pick and what his team's strategy would be. He didn’t act like the other Witchlords, and he probably wouldn’t play by the same rules, either.

The crowd continued to grow. It was my first time not being intoxicated for the event. Funny how much more I noticed when alone and stone cold sober.

Like how relaxed the weaker Dark Natured were. They stood casually, excited to watch without fear of being picked. The strong and large gathered with menacing patience, wishing all year to be chosen.

One of the Witchlords had already cast a golden orb of light in the sky above the arena, offering a glow of visibility. All three were Lyonhearts.

Light Natured. Better than us.

“But not him,”I mumbled as a tall figure walked onto the field.

Lord Ansel reached the center, falling into conversation with the other Witchlords. I hadn’t forgotten about the cloud blankethe’d offered me, or his electric touch when he’d checked for uses of my Nature.

The orb above the field suddenly pulsed, followed by a ring of light falling over the crowd.

“It’s time to begin, Waywards!” Lord Dronis boomed with a smile.

Chapter 8

Dreadfully Deadly

“Vitalis Depletion, what the unlearned so fondly call burnout, is the body’s rather dramatic protest when one’s Nature is wrung past reason. It often announces itself with nausea, soon followed by headaches, trembling, and a breath that feels borrowed.”

—Henvri Joye, High Healer

Even before welost our freedom, it had been taboo to use our Natures, for generations. The Dark Natured were assumed to be dirty, poor, and of terrible character. I never bothered with my Nature because of the sickness, but there were plenty of people dying for a chance to be reunited with theirs without consequence. They itched for the opportunity to release the darkness that idled beneath their skin.

The four Witchlords stood in their daunting cloaks, gazing up at the roaring crowds, subtly casting their attention to different sections as they surveyed the options for their teams.

Brutish Blackhearts, Nightcastors, Stonesenders, and Flamecastors stalked up and down the sidelines, chugging beersand rousing their spirits. Through every laugh, chant, and squeal, I sat still on the grass, knees to my chest.

Lord Ansel’s eyes searched the crowd, sliding from the left until they landed on me. I swallowed as he tilted his head from across the field.

Did he know where I had found suitable sleeping arrangements? Did he bear a grievance with it?

The silent battle lasted all but a moment before a grubby little green fuck yelled from behind me, “Look at yee! EeeeeeLOR-AH! Out of the tavern! So so prit-tee! It pains me eyes to look at yer stuns!”

I groaned. “What do you want, Charles?”

He boldly squeezed my shoulder with a slender hand. “A chance! Stop be’in a bitch! A bitchy witch!”