Chapter 2
The Tallest Witchlord in all of Drakington
“It is necessary for the Dark Natured to remain bound to the Church of Fate. Without such divine guidance, we are certain to damn ourselves. Heresy, the blackest poison, cannot be forgiven, nor overlooked. To guard against such corruption, I deem it vital that the Dark Natured be led in prayer before each day’s labor. ”
— Kolson Strange, Minister of Spirit
My eyes blinked open to the darkness of my stale apartment. There was no comfort in staying in bed. The makeshift mattress was hardly holding together these days. Once sewn with scrap fabrics and stuffed with dry leaves, now sinking in and popping along the seams.
I wrapped myself in a threadbare blanket and padded across the room to my pile of laundry. I hadn’t dared to wash my clothes these past few days, for fear they would freeze. An abhorrent mistake I would not make a third time.
Footsteps shuffled from upstairs. A baby cried in a nearby apartment. A couple argued somewhere below.
The sound of families used to be a bitter reminder of an old wound.
My mother, troubled and undeniably lacking in maternal instincts, was the only one of my family I could remember.
She’d told me once that I had two brothers, but my father ran off with them before I was born. My mother ran off eventually, too.
I’d become numb to the morning commotion, despite how crowded our building became.
There was so little space within the ‘Wards that most of us lived in compact cottages stacked on top of each other.
Many people climbed the outer walls and slid into their apartments through tiny, carved-out windows because no builders would bother wasting materials on stairs above the third floor.
Luckily for Luna and me, our place sat only three stories high, and I never went a day without being grateful for the luxury of stairs.
Luna shuffled in, rubbing her shoulders, and cursing at the door for getting stuck on the frame. I sank onto our only piece of proper furniture—a brown couch that one of Luna’s customers had given her a while back.
A sympathetic smile slid across her face as she dropped her satchel onto the wooden countertop. “You’re up early again.”
With a blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders and knees curled up to my chest, I shrugged. “I can’t sleep. Too cold. And my head is killing me.”
I had worked well past midnight at Widow’s Way Tavern, drinking my way through the shift. I should have been used to the headaches by now, but the alcohol always took its toll.
“Well, I was quite warm last night,” Luna bragged, practically falling onto the opposite side of the couch.
“I’d imagine so.” I leaned forward, weighing my words. “If I had your job, it would be solely for body heat. Nothing more.”
Brothel work was understandably appealing. It paid well enough, and sometimes Luna seemed to enjoy being at work more than at home.
For me, it wasn’t the act that was intolerable. It was the expectation of entertaining. I could count on one hand the number of people whose conversations didn’t feel like torture. Pretending to enjoy them would wear me down long before the true service.
She bounced her shoulders and grinned. “It’s the coin for me. While I suppose the warmth is nice, the brothel keeps me from looking like you. Hungover and freezing to death and stinking like ale all evening.”
I winced. While I wasn’t hungover every morning, she had a point. The winters were the worst. Maybe I would be better off serving my flesh instead of ale, but I wasn’t like Luna—alluring and hospitable. People weren’t drawn to me; they were deterred.
“I assume it was a good night then?” I rubbed my hands together between my thighs, eager to return to Trista’s. She always prioritized firewood in her budget. It wasn’t long before she’d open up shop, and I’d have plenty of time to warm up before my morning work.
Luna shrugged and sighed dramatically. “It would have been better if the new Witchlord had stopped by. Two weeks he’s been posted here, and he’s yet to come to Miss Soryl’s. Are you aware of how tall he is? It’s ridiculous.”
I hadn't had the chance to tell her about my encounter with him. Luna had stayed at work for the last two days, and I certainly would not be stopping by Miss Soryl’s to talk about a Witchlord. Especially when Luna had a dedicated paramour who might overhear.
“Pining after Lord Ansel when you have dear Riven warming your bed?” I asked, brow quirked.
Riven went against the rules by caring for Luna, and she loved it.
As a Draker, he kept guard and ensured that we, the Dark Natured, behaved.
She never admitted to actually caring for him, but too many times I had found the Draker sneaking into our apartment, his usual armor absent.
Never leaving until the early hours of the morning.
I wasn't a fresh summerborn nor as dull as a soup spoon. She liked him.
Luna rolled her eyes. “Riven probably has plenty of others. Besides, if Lord Ansel came to the brothel, that would be work, and work doesn’t count.” She proudly tucked her mahogany shoulder-length hair behind her ear.
“Well. I guess you’re right.” I rested my elbows on my knees, innocently looking away. “I suppose you wouldn’t care to know where Lord Ansel was last night?”
“Elora!” she squealed, kicking my leg underneath the quilt. “Tell me immediately!”
“I saw him yesterday morning, as he was looking for me.”
“Looking for you?” Luna looked ready to strangle me if I didn’t spill faster. “Tell me you fucked him. If anybody gets him before me, it’s you.”
Grimacing, I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “No, I did not fuck Lord Ansel. The furthest thing from it. Charles the Imp accused me of using my Nature.”
Her voice softened. “A Witchlord believed you?”
The question jolted me.
“I guess. He checked my hands and left. But then...”
“There’s more?”
I nodded. It had been bothering me nonstop, which was probably why I was awake odiously earlier than usual. “He was at the tavern last night, sitting in the same corner he sat in a few days ago. Didn’t speak to anyone, just watched and ordered one ale.”
An ale he never bothered to drink.
“He didn’t speak to anyone?”
I shook my head. “Just watched.”
Paying attention to him felt weird, but it was hard not to. He was a brooding eyesore, Witchlord cloak and all. Everyone else had been drunk and reeking of barley and grime. His presence was off-putting.
Luna hopped off the couch and paced the small kitchen. “Perhaps I’ll swing by the tavern this evening. It is my night off, anyway.”
It had been some time since my best friend had visited me at work. I wouldn’t mind some sane company. Plus, maybe she’d finally see for herself how intolerable Lord Ansel was. “You should,” I said, forcing myself up.
Dawn was near, and soon the streets would be crowded with Blackhearts, Stonesenders, Imps, Flamecastors, and Nightcastors. The economy was rough in the Waywards, and everyone had a job to do.
I pulled my boots on and braced myself for the morning chill. “Enjoy your sleep,” I called as Luna snuggled into the couch.
Once out of the grim apartment, I ventured onto the winding dirt and snow-speckled streets.
Drakers were posted all about, their dark grey armor embellished with the Drakington falcon across their chests.
Daunting black hoods and golden masks disguised their identities.
I typically tried not to think too much about who might be under the masks.
It was one of the many reasons I couldn’t work in the brothel.
Luna often discovered too much.
There were countless Drakers, but only seven Witchlords within the walls. They didn’t stroll the streets often, but they were undoubtedly lurking, checking for forbidden uses of magic and whatever other useless shit they did.
During daytime hours, I had been assigned tailoring duty.
Tasked with sewing clothes for the Drakington forces without pay.
Everyone worked in the Waywards as payment for living here and the supplies that were sent in.
If we refused to do our assigned job, we might as well climb into the burn pile ourselves.
Besides our assignments, we still needed to make money, which was why I slung ale at night.
Thankfully, my day full of sewing went by fast enough, and I hoped for the same with my shift at the tavern.
Being a bar maiden was preferable to being a tailor, at least at night I was paid for my work. There were also no Drakers over my shoulder telling me I wasn’t working fast enough, especially when I was already pricking my fingers from sewing too quickly.
I hurried through the back door of Widow’s Way toward boisterous voices and clinking glasses. It would only get busier throughout the night.
I relieved the day shift barmaid and strolled behind the bar.
The tavern was packed with not only various Dark Natured, but also a few unmasked Drakers and two Witchlords.
We were one of the rare spots that welcomed anyone, no matter their Nature or status.
It was an unspoken rule that what happened in the Waywards at night did not linger into sunrise.
Hours passed like minutes as I bustled up and down the bar, serving ale and collecting coin. Charles the Imp had been kicked out earlier and lay pitifully on the ground outside. He carried on wailing and singing sorrowful songs, each one more miserable than the last.
I had considered killing him, but every time I had a perfectly breakable bottle in hand, Drakers hovered nearby.
Luna sat at the bar, circling her finger around the rim of her drink, and swinging her feet. Her long-sleeved beige shirt had only a few thin spots and hardly any stains. It showcased the little bit of cleavage she had and complemented her dark brown eyes. She was on a mission.
I topped off a regular’s glass and made my way to her.
“Where’s Riven?”