Chapter 45 Blood #2
I turned away, hiding my blush.
Ansel did exactly what he said he would. He dreamt with all six of the other Witchlords’ blood, and felt confident only two could be swayed.
He updated our group in the morning as we dined in the planning room. Amzee and I had made a breakfast of eggs, toast, and jam.
We were in the kitchen when Riven had finally arrived back, bags under his eyes. Amzee had sent him to her room to sleep, and he’d only offered a nod before retiring.
Beck sauntered back into the room after pouring hot water for his tea. “Hmm… So when the time comes, it will be three against four Witchlords?”
“That’s if Ansel is able to convince the two to join us,” I reminded him.
Amzee popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “I can be very convincing,” she offered between bites, thick blonde hair spilling out of a bun on top of her head.
Ansel was entertained, but not bought in. “I will handle the Witchlords. Each of you have your own tasks. The ships arrive in one week. Every minute counts.”
Everyone except for me had a real job. I couldn’t tell if I was truly watching the house, or if it was watching me. I wouldn’t put it past Ansel to claim it’s a real job just to ensure my womb stays safe.
I spent the morning cleaning up, thinking about my Castivian history books, identifying the gaps in my head where I needed to reread in the evening.
Around noon, Riven woke, and while I wanted to request he lay me out on the planning table and tend to my princessly needs, I lingered in the bathroom until he was gone. I couldn’t be a distraction. Lives depended on us.
The sun set by the time Ansel and Beck returned, shadowing through the front door with sacks of weapons in tow: swords, daggers, and even mallets. My eyes widened as the heavy weight of them hit the floor in front of the fireplace.
Beck was winded, while Ansel flashed a devious smile. “Well, Blackheart, now you’ll be guarding the house and the weapons.”
I met his stare with a smile of my own. The plan was working.
Beck sank into the velvet couch, cracking his neck. “Amzee and I found groups that we’ll be able to distribute to the day before the ships arrive.”
Everything was coming together. There were people willing to fight within the Waywards, and we could put blades in their hands. I thought back to my days in the tailor house, where two Drakers would guard while dozens of us worked.
Two Drakers could not have contained dozens of us.
It was all an illusion, one I had every intention of seeing fade when those gates opened.
To my surprise, Ansel privately pulled me aside. He sat with me for over an hour, going over his entire day and every interaction he’d had with the other Witchlords. One of them was secured, while the other needed more convincing.
I was quiet most of the conversation, taking it all in. He did not treat me like I was less than him, but as his partner. It was such a simple, but serious concept. I wasn’t quite able to grasp it.
Five days went by, each smoother than the next.
Amzee grew the rebellion numbers every day.
Beck had created a map, marking points with low security and weak spots in the walls.
Riven conspired among the Rogue Drakers, and while he did not talk much about it, he spent some of the longest hours out in the Waywards.
Ansel secured both of the Witchlords, promising high-paying positions in Whimcastor Hold upon our safe arrival to Castivian.
All while they worked tirelessly, I stayed inside. I studied and copied the map Beck had made. I cleaned, rested, meditated—well, I tried to, at least. Most of the time I lay in bed in silence until I eventually fell asleep.
I also practiced with my Nature, with and without Singer. I only managed as much as I could before burning a hole in the floor, but at least it was something. Staying busy was the only thing that made the time go by.
Then one day, as I was studying with the fireplace lit and stew on the stove, the blue light of Ansel’s orb went dark.
I grabbed it, tapping it in a frenzy.
Nothing. Lifeless.
I tapped it again—spoke to it even. “Ansel?”
Nothing.
No one was home yet, and it was well past dark. My heart thundered in my chest. The ships would arrive in less than two days. We had to be ready for them.
A terrible, deep instinct weighed me down as I stared at the dark orb.
Bolting out of the comfort of my chair, I made for the heavy sacks of weapons in the living room. They were my responsibility.
I ran to the kitchen, finding a simple hammer under the sink. I yanked the rug away from the floor in front of the fire, before kneeling down and placing the back of the hammer in between planks of hardwood. It took some grit, but I pulled six planks up.
I would never be able to carry the entire sacks. Instead, one by one, I moved the weapons into the floor. Some were heavier than others, and all I could do was drag them. When I’d unloaded all five sacks, I put the floor back and replaced the rug.
My anxiety picked up, unfathomable scenarios becoming real in my head. I put my boots on, sliding Singer into one. The lifeless orb wouldn’t blend in inside the Waywards, so I hid it within the depths of my armoire.
In all black, I exited out the first-story window, becoming one with the night. The last time I’d used a window as a door had been with Riven. My stomach churned like spoiled milk thinking about the possibilities of where he was now.
I made it safely into the winding streets. It was dark, moonlight and the occasional lantern being the only light. Rowdy taverns held the night owls, while many paths remained mostly empty. I peered inside each establishment, searching for my friends or my husband… or Riven.
I had no success.
As the night went on, less and less of the stacked buildings remained lit.
The hair on my neck stood as I resorted to searching down an even darker alleyway. My eyes had adjusted, but it wasn’t enough. I crept forward, listening closely for any sign of my group.
Singer hummed in my boot—a warning.
I pulled her out, gripping her with both hands as I swung around. The stone club lit up as my Nature coursed through it, illuminating a crimson spray as Singer smacked into her target.
My attacker's body dropped dead.
He was not the only one behind me. A group of unmasked Drakers stood there, weapons ready.
“You’re good at hiding, Princess,” one rumbled like thunder.
Panic engulfed me. They knew I was here, and they knew who I was, but there would be no running. I could fight or die.
I chose to fight.
Screeching as my Nature ran through me and into Singer, I wacked a second Draker in the face, death swallowing him before he could move.
I tightened my trembling hands around my club.
“It’s clear why you pack of swine hide behind the mask,” I taunted.
There were seven Drakers. My Nature was wanting after the first kill. It was ravenous. I took a step towards them, marking my intentions like a bloodstain on a fresh sheet of snow.
“Now, which one of you fucking idiots wants to die next?”
I caught a glint of fear in their eyes. At that, my Nature hummed in pleasure.
They should be scared.
That small moment of hesitation was enough. Shadows danced along the alley walls as I sprayed down the first three bastards with forceful black mist, poison violently suffocating their screams.
I cackled as I stepped over their limp bodies, approaching the remaining four who still held their swords high, but were slowly retreating.
“You are just as dark and evil as they say your kind to be,” a bald one with small, circular eyes sputtered, sweat beading off his forehead.
I stepped through a shallow puddle.
“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”
He wielded his sword as if it were a shield. “You killed four men and you laugh!” the Draker spat.
“Because I like when men die after they try to kill me. I think it’s funny.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll laugh for you too.”
With that, I sprinted. The maskless Draker squealed like a hog and dropped his sword. That was fine. He had no need for it once I cracked Singer against his skull.
His body smacked onto the ground.
The remaining three bolted out of the alley in a full retreat.
Smirking as their bulky footsteps faded into the distance, I stuffed Singer into my boot and tied my hair back, hoping to better blend in.
I turned around, nearly running right into a tall and cloaked figure. I gasped and took a step back.
Wild, brassy hair was tied up on the man’s head, and his dark brown brows pulled together at the sight of me.
I should’ve ran with the Drakers.
“Your ol’ Whimcastor isn’t the only Dreamsoul in the realm,” the Witchlord said, his yellow teeth peeking out.
I formed a misshapen ball of mist that could rival Amzee’s droops and threw it towards his chest.
He grunted, raising a fist and summoning a dark cloud of grey. It swept my poison away before it could hit him.
“It’s late, Elorengail. Time for bed.” His dick hardened through his pants as he said my name.
An overwhelming sense of fatigue drowned me. I fought against it mentally, but physically my body was out of my control. My knees sank like anchors, shoulders following quickly behind.
I ground my teeth together, pleading for my limbs to work. The Witchlord snorted, nudging my chin up with his wet boot. I willed desperately to keep my heavy eyelids open, vision blurring.
“They call you the dark heir, you know.”
“Who?” I breathed.
“The people, and one day, the histories.”
He pulled his foot away, letting my face fall to the cold ground. Reality and darkness collided. I could not fight any longer.