Chapter 1
The Accusation
I moved through the Northern Waywards earlier than most, skirting along the shadows with my hands shoved in my pockets. Inebriated bodies littered the doorsteps of curtainless brothels while rodents skittered nearby.
I cut to the left, down a narrow and uneven path.
Dangerously tall, haphazardly stacked buildings lined the streets. The towering structures were daunting, but no match for the stature of the obsidian walls. No matter where I stood, the barrier remained in sight. A reminder that this place was no home. It was a prison.
Dawn neared, and others trickled into the mud and snow-smeared streets. They shuffled about in black and brown sweaters, shawls made of crude wool, and roughly knitted hats. I tied the top half of my hair into a bun as I hurried along, the rest of my dark hair a shield to the back of my neck.
Tucked away in the tight corner of an alley, a half-rotted sign hung diagonally from rusted nails.
‘Blackhearts Welcome’.
There were few places like that left in the world.
I pushed the creaky wooden door open.
“Mornin’, Elora!” Trista called out from behind the bar.
My shoulders relaxed, stiff joints thawing. I claimed my seat at the weathered counter, yawning as she slid me a pour of blackfire tea. The steam curled into delicate ribbons, tickling my nose.
A few other patrons were scattered about the shop, chatting among themselves at small wooden tables.
Lodge Dugspur, a regular who frequently tipped well, sat on a barrel once used to crate fish.
His companion straddled a rotting chair with three true legs, while a broken broomstick filled in for the fourth.
Trista flicked a piece of fiery hair behind her shoulder and stirred her brew.
I held my cup close to my chest, my voice barely a whisper.
“Any news of Arielle?”
Trista glanced around cautiously before her hooded eyes landed on me.
“I paid a Draker with mouth and tongue, all for him to tell me she was delivered to the castle for a trial. She could’ve pleaded her case, but they couldn’t settle her. She went entirely mad—even attacked a noble. No doubt, my niece is dead.” Trista let out a soft sigh and returned to her stirring.
I took a healthy draw of my own tea. A strong mug of ale would have been better suited for this conversation.
Arielle had always been one to push boundaries, yet I hadn’t expected her to be so foolish. There were rules within these walls, and she had broken the most dangerous one.
Using her Nature.
The seven Witchlords were rarely forgiving. It was even rarer to be sent before the king for a trial, and Arielle hadn’t even made good use of the opportunity. She could have survived. All she had to do was give herself a chance.
“What a waste.”
The front door of the shop swung open, a gust of cold air bursting in with morning light. Trista’s posture stiffened, her eyes wide in warning.
Thin floorboards groaned beneath heavy, measured footsteps. I tilted my head imperceptibly, chest tight as a cloaked figure towered behind me. A Witchlord. I had never seen one in Trista’s before. Casually, I took another sip.
“Blackheart,” he snapped.
My cup jerked, tea spilling over the rim. I rested it on the counter and turned to face him.
Witchlord Ansel stared down at me with cold blue eyes.
He’d just arrived in the Waywards as a replacement for Lord Zerys.
I’d never interacted with him—or any Witchlord—beyond standing in the crowd during his introduction ceremony.
They hardly ever spoke to us, and certainly not during my morning tea.
I always minded my own, controlled my Nature, and never once tried escaping the obsidian walls.
The Witchlords had no need to speak to me.
Until now.
Lord Ansel’s cropped raven hair was neatly groomed and framed his face in a way that complemented his angular eyes. A light blue pendant pinned his black cloak in the center of his broad chest.
He had no need for armor or fighting leathers. The Witchlords were the weapon.
Witchlord Ansel should have been out patrolling—reminding the Dark Natured of his presence.
Instead, he stood before me, eyes roaming from my weathered boots to my ill-fitting pants, then up my chest before settling his glare upon my face.
“You’ve been accused of using Dark Nature,” he cited, devoid of empathy.
I mirrored him, crossing my arms. “Which liar said that?”
Lord Ansel scrutinized me carefully. “Charles the Imp.”
Oh, for Fate’s sake. The accusation was nothing short of an attempt on my life.
I nearly flew off the chair as words came spewing from my mouth.
“Charles is a drunk! And that little shit is just upset that I continuously reject his advances.” I finally made eye contact.
Perhaps he would detect the truth in my gaze.
The Witchlord’s eyebrows rose as he slid his hands into his pockets. “And you think you’re so desirable?”
I blinked, struggling to combine words that didn’t include ‘fuck’ and ‘you.’ The Witchlord smirked. My Nature stirred, the veins along my skin darkening. Itching for release.
“No,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
“Show me your hands,” he ordered.
Trista sucked in a breath. We both knew what would happen if he didn’t believe me—we’d not even enjoy one last tea together before my execution. A true shame.
I held my hands together protectively, fumbling for the right thing to say. “You’re not scared of my poison hurting you? My hands are… sensitive. I could accidentally—”
The other patrons turned their attention to us, faces pale. One by one, they discreetly escaped the shop.
Lord Ansel cocked his head to the side. “Put your hands out, Blackheart.”
Not once in the three winters of living in this hellscape had I ever been accused of breaking the rules.
As much as I wanted to argue further, I had no choice but to comply.
With shaking arms, I stood and presented my palms, pulling my poison in towards my core. Even so, my dark veins bulged, filling and rising on my skin.
The Witchlord reached for my hands, his fingertips gently bracing under my knuckles. An electric sensation raced down my spine.
He inspected my palms for all but a moment before dropping them.
“No trace of a leak.”
My shoulders sagged.
Lord Ansel offered no goodbyes as he took his leave, slamming the shop door behind him.
Trista’s freckled face was unnaturally pale. She held her dainty, blotched hand to her chest. “Mother of Moons, help us,” she breathed. “I thought you were as good as dead.”
I settled back in my spot, returning to my tea. With every sip, my Nature settled, and breathing came easier. I’d survived, unlike Trista’s niece.
“I don’t like him,” I announced. I didn’t care for any of the Witchlords, but he was somehow the worst.
“I don’t think anyone does.”
I rubbed my temples. “I know one person.”
“Don’t tell me she has her eyes set on him…” Trista shot me an incredulous look. “You need to tell that girl what just happened!”
“I’ll try.”