Page 34 of Blackheart

“That’s all I need,” he said with certainty.

For better or worse, I placed my life in his hands. He put the hood over my head and a gloved hand on the back of my arm, guiding me towards the Northern Wayward’s gate.

The blinding darkness wasn’t scary, but trusting a man was.

The rowdy festivities continued, voices and commotion growing louder and the air sour as we passed taverns. My new bag bounced against my back as we walked. It wasn’t too heavy, but certainly not empty. I’d yet to have the chance to even look through what Lord Ansel had given me.

“Dronis,” Riven said casually as we came to a stop.

“You’re late,” the Witchlord replied, his voice deeper than most.

My body tensed. Lord Ansel was kept from knowing that the king had requested me, but Lord Dronis was privy to such information?

“Apologies.”

A slow whine followed a click as the gate creaked open. Riven pulled me forward once more, but we only made it a few feet before being stopped.

“Wait—”

Lord Dronis’s voice was so close.

“Yes?” Riven asked sharply.

“May the Mother guide you well.”

I stilled, exhaling shakily into the hood. The Witchlords enforced that we follow the church of Fate, with no exemptions or mercy for those found worshipping another. For Lord Dronis to say such a thing out loud was heresy.

A distant commotion caught my attention. It was hard to make out, but it was certainly something I’d never heard before. It wasn’t coming from within the Waywards, but beyond. The darkness under my hood made the sound feel intimidatingly closer, like a march.

“You as well, Brother,” Riven said as he tugged my arm.

His pace quickened to a jog while I followed, blind as could be. We were out of the Waywards. The moment would have felt liberating if I could have seen it for myself.

The marching became louder, followed by other unfamiliar sounds. Were they wagons? There was clinking, too. We slowed and started an uphill trudge, my shoulders bumping into tree trunks every so often.

Then there was a huff. Not from Riven, but an animal?

He pulled the hood off my head, revealing a horse standing in the moonlit woods. There was no jail wagon and no rope to tie my hands. The black stallion waited patiently, coat shining and mane swaying gently in the wind.

The bizarre sound was getting closer, but I could hardly see through the woodline.

“What is that?”

Riven strapped a pack to the stallion before stretching his hand out, motioning for me to give him my bag. I complied, dropping it off my shoulder and tossing it in his direction.

“Not our concern.”

It certainlysoundedconcerning, like a million stomps, working their way toward us.

Riven remained unbothered, helping me onto the horse and then sitting in front of me.

“Don’t fall,” he said before setting off for the capital.

As we rode, I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of Luna.

The majority of the ride was through the woods. A couple of hours passed before Lyonsreach—the famed castle carved into the top of a cliff—peaked over the trees. It sat above the wintry capital of Lyonscliff, which was beautiful from a distance but a notoriously annoying climb.

The black stallion picked up speed, racing along the cobblestone path.