Page 9 of Blackheart

His steps trailed back to the couch, silence filling the lonely space.

Riven seemed to spend every waking moment either working or tending to Luna. That couldn’t leave much time for sleep.

Maybe he deserved to beexhausted. After all, he was a Draker.

A month passed with similar dreams. Always a sword, always repetition. I never should have complained about the years I’d dreamt of castles and nobles. At least in those I simply watched events unfold around me, always feeling like I didn’t belong.

The dreams I had now left me exhausted during the day, as if I’d never slept at all.

I sat at a weathered table in the tailor house, tediously sewing a shirt that would be used as an undergarment for the Drakington forces. There were fifty of us Dark Natured working away, while only two Drakers paced around supervising, accompanied by a Witchlord lounging in the corner.

There was still no sign of Arielle’s return to the Waywards, further confirming she was in the burn pile. Its ash carried the deceptive scent of hot coals and cooking meat through the city. I shook my head as my stomach growled, repulsed that I could still have an appetite with the scent of burning flesh plaguing the room.

We were the hungriest during the winter—the time of year with the most fatalities, resulting in frequent bonfires. The sickness season had marked its arrival eight nights ago, taking a wave of Dark Natured with it.

Witchlord Dronis watched us from his corner, wobbling an orb of light between his hands like a game. It must’ve been nice, being allowed to use his Nature so casually.

A Draker faced me as I rethreaded my needle. There was no telling whether he was looking at me or someone else. Behind his mask and hood, he could have been closing his eyes for all I knew, but it certainlyfeltlikesomeone was watching. I stared back, just in case, imagining the little needle in my hand finding its way through that mask and straight into his eye socket.

I often wondered how those assholes felt being the middle class of the Waywards. The Drakers would never admit it, but the only thing they were good for was sitting and guarding. All the true power lay in the Witchlord’s wield, who answered only to the king.

Clearly,Dark Natured were at the bottom of the barrel. Maybe that made the Drakers feel good. They would never be nobility, but at least they were better than us.

With the rest of the kingdom already harboring enough hate for the Dark Natured, I’d thought we might have some camaraderie with one another. I learned quickly that it was quite the opposite.

Blackhearts were regarded as alley-piss. It was a Blackheart who had led to us all being caged in the Waywards. The man who’d committed the crime was long dead, but those of us left would pay the price for the rest of our lives.

Even the Imps, despite being classified as creatures instead of people, were regarded higher than Blackhearts. They had been forced into the ‘Wards, since they weren’t Light Natured and possessed bits of magic. The kingdom took no chances.

Flamecastors and Stonesenders ranked above the Imps. Nightcastors, like Beck, lingered somewhere in between. No one ever trusted a Nightcastor.

Drakington guards were all either highly skilled in swordcraft, previous squires, or the kin of Drakers before them. All Natureless, and all reportedly well-trained.

Those ranking the highest within the walls were the Witchlords. Only they could use their Nature and were proficient at it, too.

King Clarke had never set foot within the walls, and surely never would. When I was a child, he was merely a prince. Now he was a young king with a beautiful queen, Delaina of Jadehill.

Queen Delaina despised all of the Dark Natured for what had happened to Princess Clayvarie. The girl was still alive, but her condition, as they called it, was rumoured to be worse than death. Perhaps a new heir would be born, or someone else would be appointed. I’d likely be long dead before that day ever came.

I picked up my stone, pulling the thread taut before continuing to weave. Women seated nearby gossiped about the upcoming weekend festivities. It was our third year surviving here. The entire Waywards celebrated halfway through winter,hoping it would keep us going until spring. There would be another celebration for those who lived to see the flowers bloom.

It was difficult to imagine anything blooming in this place.

The Witchlords enjoyed the midwinter holiday, as they hosted a game themselves. Bets would be made, and we would be ‘reminded’ of why we belong here. That was their justification for allowing a few Dark Natured to use their Nature—to prove the danger of it. A handful of people usually died during the game, not that anyone cared.

The fatalities had no effect on the festivities. It was the most exciting night of the season without question.

I cursed as my thread snapped. Even though it set me back three steps, I had to be grateful. Life could be far worse.

Louie from upstairs had been assigned street duty. He spent his days cleaning bodily waste and carrying it off in buckets. He usually looked and smelled as if one or two had spilled on him throughout the day. We could always tell when he was climbing to his apartment by the stench wafting by.

Luna’s chore wasn’t ideal either. She had to scrub Drakington armor with nearly frozen water in the afternoons. Often, her fingers were littered with bruises and cuts scattered along her arms from slipping on the sharp metal.

It was annoying Riven wasn’t able to get her a safer assignment. What was the point in her sleeping with the king’s favorite Draker if she still had to endure daily torment?

The most sought-after job belonged to the hunters. They were allowed to leave the Waywards with Witchlord supervision for days on end, hiking through the woods in search of game. While still not allowed to use their Nature, they weren’t sitting in a cold tailor house with rumbling stomachs all day, pricking their fingers while weaving men's clothing.

Trista sat next to me, sewing away and babbling on. “What business do the Sapphires have with Drakington anyway? They have their own lands to keep. Lots of 'em too, I’m told.”