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.
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 be exhausted. 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 certainly felt like someone 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.”
I was sick of hearing about the Sapphires' threat, especially because our workload had increased since our kingdoms were on the brink of war. The Sapphires had taken over Lestivia easily enough, but those were peaceful lands. Drakington was far larger, with far more resources.
Trista chuckled. “You know the madman calls himself a king now, too?”
Considering Saffron had taken over Lestivia, he was a king, though the Sapphires were more cult than kingdom.
“Focus on your work, inkweeds,” a Draker barked through his mask.
The word inkweed stung no matter how many times we heard it, because that is not what, or rather who, we were. They loved to call Blackhearts that, as it was easier than learning our names.
Witchlord Dronis dragged his attention to Trista’s sour face before turning to the Draker who’d ordered her silence.
His dark skin glowed against the orb of light as he paused his tossing, cradling in one hand.
I almost thought he would challenge the Draker and order his silence as well, just because he could.
Then he resumed tossing the orb from one hand to another, like nothing had happened.
A scream pierced the air. I whipped around, dropping the garment. Everyone in the room stilled as more followed from outside the tailor house.
“Sapphires!” a voice cried, as if Trista had summoned them herself.
I clutched tightly to my needle as a knot twisted in my stomach.
“Hide yourselves,” Lord Dronis ordered before storming out, the Drakers following close behind.
As everyone began rising and running to back rooms and closets, I walked to the window, tiny needle still in hand.
Dark-blue cloaks and red eyes flooded through the gate. Drakers charged towards them on entry, swords held high. My heart skipped as blood smeared the walls like paint. Hundreds of Sapphires pushed forward, blurs of navy and crimson coating the street.
“What in Fate’s name,” I breathed.
Lord Dronis drew out a grand sword, his veins rippling with gold.
Transferring his Lyonheart Nature into the blade.
It flowed through him with a blazing intensity until the sword was bathed in golden flames.
Without mercy, he sliced into the first Sapphire to cross him, severing the man’s head from his body through aureate, fire, and steel. He leaped to his next target.
Even with Witchlord Dronis striking them down one at a time, there were so many Sapphires—too many. Hooded and quick, they descended upon the Drakers.
Evidently not everyone had been warned to hide, because as Dark Natured ventured out of their jobs and homes to examine the commotion, the Sapphire’s targets changed.
They weren’t going for the Drakers anymore.
They were coming for us. Like insects drawn to an oil lamp, they hauled toward the Dark Natured.
I backed away from the window, hands trembling. Did they hate us as well? Had they come all this way to kill us?
It was early. Luna would still be at home sleeping. Vulnerable, with no idea what was coming.
I ran out the door into the bloody streets. Moving away from the gates, I sprinted past dilapidated buildings, ignoring the sounds of slaughter behind me.
The farther I made it, the more unaware people were. We were under attack, and they didn’t even know.
“Get inside!” I shouted, never stopping. “Sapphires are within the gates!”
Some gave confused looks, while others appeared excited, as if they too might try to go through the open gates.
They’d never survive to see the other side of the wall, but that was not my problem.
I ran into my building and up the stairs, barging into the apartment only to find Riven leaning back against the kitchen counter with Luna’s mouth around his —
I gasped as he shifted away from her, his warm face going pale.
“For fuck’s sake, I eat in here!” I scowled, blinking hard as I tried to erase the memory.
Luna shot up, holding in a laugh and wiping her mouth while Riven pulled his pants up. I never knew his arms and chest were covered in tattoos, nor had I wanted to. He quickly reached for his shirt off the counter before running a hand through his hair, taming it back.
“You’re supposed to be at work,” Luna said playfully, offering a smile.
I did not return it. I had been concerned for her life. I still was.
Stone faced and anxious, I pulled the door closed behind me, pressing my back against it as if the lock wasn’t enough to keep it shut. “Sapphires tore through the gate. We’re being attacked. People are dead!”
Riven’s eyes shot up, dark brows pulling together as he noticed my weapon—well, the needle tightly fisted in my hand.
Luna's face fell.
“Are you certain they’re Sapphires?” Riven asked quietly. “Not the Dark Natured attempting another revolt?” It was rare to hear him speak. His eyes bore into mine, waiting for an answer.
Shoulders tense, my face heated. Never had I experienced such intense attention from a Draker, and certainly not from the one bedding Luna.
“I’m sure of what I saw. They’re Sapphires. Lord Dronis is fighting them off,” I insisted, tripping over my words.
Riven grabbed his Draker gear and sword, quickly putting himself together. I shuffled to the side as he rushed to the door.
“Stay here,” he commanded, bumping my shoulder before locking the door behind him.
His steps faded as screams neared our apartment. The attack had made it far past the gate.
Sapphires were truly in the Waywards, and my already small world was closing in.