Page 96 of Blackheart

As she turned, Xavian gripped her dress and brought his mouth to her ear. “It’s a shame that you look better without this.” He ripped the fabric straight down the back, corset and all, dropping the garments to the floor. She leaned forward, arching her back, as he brought his face down and?—

I gasped and gagged, eyes flying open as I mercifully woke up. I shook the disgusting dream away, orienting myself.

I had spent most of the night searching for trouble, and when the sun finally rose, a port-side alley was the most secluded spot I could find to rest. I was still in the alley, and thankfully not in Arthur Pos’ daughter's bedroom.

I rubbed my face. The whole thing was so bizarre. In previous dreams, I’d been unaware of my brother’s advisors' names or faces. Yet when I arrived in Castivian, they were real people, as if I’d manifested them myself.

It was like Xavian was in my head somehow, and I wanted himoutimmediately. But if I went to the Silver Circle, demanding for him to get out of my dreams, I would sound entirely deranged.

My stomach rumbled.

This city had an abundance of food options, yet I still hadn’t adapted to eating regularly. In truth, I hadn’t adjusted to anything about Castivian. I was the only person carrying around something as warm as a cloak, and I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder for Witchlords or Drakers.

I dusted myself off and squinted at the midday sun before setting out. I’d handled two rotten men during the night, leaving me with plenty of coin for simple luxuries. Their weapons were of no use to me, so selling them would be next on my list.

The capital during the day felt so homey, like a dream. Street musicians played enchanted harmonicas and violins, while artists on balconies splashed paint onto canvases, and two women walked out of a quaint restaurant arm in arm before sharing a tongue-swept, parting kiss.

People here were happy.

One day, hopefully, everyone left in the Waywards would experience this.

Silver carriages led by black stallions waited outside of an obsidian theatre, just down the street from a dimly lit violet lounge. Bellows of sweet smoke seeped out, and low music played. I could see myself enjoying both one day.

A familiar laugh stopped me in my tracks. Trista sat at a bar that smelled of fresh fish, her red hair blazing. Cackles and hollers spilled out of the open door.

She caught sight of me, quickly setting her drink down. “Elora! Girl, get in here!”

Finding lunch was no longer a priority.

As I hopped right onto a barstool, she slid me a mug.

“It’s late for tea, is it not?” I asked.

Falling back into the familiar routine with Trista was easy, but it was the time and place I wasn’t sure about. We usually had tea at her shop on bitter cold mornings. The warm air flowing into the tavern was disgustingly muggy, like a storm was brewing.

“Oh, it’s never too late for tea.” She wore a strappy grey gown, flowing and unbound compared to the drab sweaters that had swallowed her up in the Waywards. From her sea-salt curls to her smug smile, she looked happy.

After everything that happened, especially with Arielle, I was glad for her.

“Drink!” she urged.

“I suppose I did just wake up.”

Both of us sitting on the same side of the bar was strange, but in the spirit of change, I relaxed and took a sip.

It was nowhere near as good as back in the Waywards. In fact, it tasted like dirt coated in the color grey.

I grimaced, placing the mug back on the counter.

Trista snorted, wrinkles tracing her forehead and crinkling around her eyes. “Drink again, please,” she laughed, forcing the mug back in my hands.

I warily took another sip.

“How have you been?” I asked, attempting to determine the flavor.

“Since finding out about this new tea—amazing. I feel like I’m seeing life for the first time, Elora. It’s all so clear now.” She lifted her finger, calling over the server. “Two shots, clear please.”

The shots arrived promptly, and went down our throats even faster.