Page 8 of Blackheart

The word ‘home’ was laced with lies. I longed to escape, to even get a glimpse of freedom. But there was nowhere else to go.

I pushed against his cloud. “Are you going to take this back?”

“You don’t want to keep it? A gift after our… misunderstanding the other morning.”

Warmth flooded my body as the blanket held me tighter. I looked down at it, eyes narrowing.

“Take it back.”

The corner of Lord Ansel’s mouth twitched into an arrogant smile. “Very well.” He snapped, and the blanket was gone. Crossing his arms, he watched as the cold practically punched me in the chest, goosebumps spreading across my body like wildfire.

I never knew the authorities to play games or ensure Imps woke up. Furthermore, I had never met a single Dreamsoul in my twenty-three winters. To my knowledge, they preferred living in the bastard kingdom of Castivian. It was bizarre thathewas our new Witchlord.

I gave him one last skeptical glare before turning away, hurrying home while cursing the cold.

When I returned, Luna was asleep on the couch, entangled with Riven. I quietly closed the apartment door and tiptoed across the room.

The Draker sat up, her head falling off his chest. He checked out the window, where the moon hung high in the sky, before turning back to me. His face twisted in confusion as he ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.

I should have looked away first, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Luna groaned, breaking the spell. “Elora?” she mumbled, voice muffled with sleep.

“Yes?”

“Goodnight,” she murmured, turning back into Riven.

“Goodnight, Luna,” I whispered, ducking into my room and shutting the door a little too fast. As I drifted off, I almost thought I could feel the cloud once again wrapping itself around me, soothing me to sleep.

Chapter 3

A Needle

“The Sapphires are remorseless and deadly, and must be held in dread. If that accursed cult sets foot upon our soil, let their passage be redeemed with blood.”

—Anonymous correspondence from Lyonsreach to Sir Riven Blacksword

Weeks went by,and to my relief, the Witchlord stayed away. He no longer bothered to frequent Widow's Way, nor did he come into Trista’s shop. He’d likely found other troublemakers to investigate.

With one annoyance gone, another emerged. Every night for a week, I’d dreamt of a sword in my hand. There was a man in front of me wielding one as well. Over and over, he’d perform the same attack, and I’d have to repeat the defense. The repetition was maddening. Again and again, just the singular move. I never attacked, only blocked continuously.

“You are the only man who would try this,” the stranger laughed.

I am not a man,I wanted to say, but I could not speak. I was silenced, caged, and stuck in the same motion.

Over and over and over and over and?—

Panting, I sat up in bed, clenching my quilt.

“I’m not a man!” I yelled out into the freezing bedroom. Sweat beaded down my forehead. Blinking a few times, my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The floorboards creaked outside my bedroom. Footsteps far heavier than Luna’s.

The soft brushing of knuckles weighed against the door. Riven had never come all the way to my room before. I was hardly dressed, only wearing my undershirt and underwear—the rest of my clothes strewn across the floor, desperately needing a wash.

Surely he wouldn’t barge in, would he? I grasped the sheets, waiting anxiously for the knock. What would he say? Did he know I had a nightmare?

The knock never came.