BLEEDING HEART | ONC 2024

03 - HER

I spent days recovering from the blacksmith. It haunted me—the blood from his wound, the scream of his heart as my flames pierced it. The wafting dust and cinder from his body as it erupted into flames and vanished. The stupefied gazes of the women I'd committed the crime in front of.

They don't remember; I always wipe the memories of any witnesses. Goddesses forbid any humans discover that I exist to prevent something they know nothing about.

It would cause chaos.

It doesn't make me feel good to slay darkened hearts, no matter how many times I've done it. Guilt always weighs on my chest sometimes for weeks after the fact, and it takes much silent reflection and isolation to rid the stain from my soul.

Still, I continue my task, pursue my goals. Whether or not the goddesses will allow me to proceed with tearing hearts apart to fulfill their wishes, I don't know. But the doubt won't stop me.

Hearts will darken, and I'll be there to eradicate them.

I have no choice.

A few days ago, as I exited my favorite bakery with treats in a basket, I sensed a shift in the atmosphere. A pulse in the air that I recognized as magical, but that didn't make sense to me.

Why would there be magic floating about? I was the only one authorized to use it.

The goddesses rarely, if ever, descended into the human inhabited side of the world. Angels were assigned in regions; this one was mine, and no one would encroach it without informing me first.

So I stood at the edge of the shop, glaring around the avenue, watching every person that passed me. Breaking into their minds, analyzing their hearts, searching for traces of power.

I found nothing, and should have been reassured by that, but...something wasn't right.

Something had breached into Hazelvale, and I wouldn't rest until I figured out what.

After several days of scouring the city for signs of spells and witchcraft, I needed a break. Hunting without knowing my prey...not an easy task.

I end up in my favorite tavern, Hazel's Vale, sipping on a meady cider as I unwind from the week's events. I'm tired.

The cider's thick, honeyed taste slicks down my throat and coats it comfortably, allowing me to relax.

"Red?" The barkeep shoots a look at my dress as I shift my cloak over it, to prevent wandering gazes from lusting after me.

I squint at him, sneering. "Yes, red."

Those who don't know me have no clue what my color-coordinated wardrobe means; but the barkeep, Henderson, has been privy to my secrets for a long time.

He doesn't know what I am, but I ensure peace and prosperity in the world, often by bloody means. Many times he's let me sneak behind his bar to slice open a darkened heart. He never questions me when there's no body, only a lingering charred stench that clung to the brick walls for weeks.

"Who?" He shoves a cloth into a cup, peering across the dim room, studying every occupant. His eyebrows wiggle and his owl-like eyes are sharp, inquisitive. He's a small man, but sturdy.

It's not a big building, nor is it cheap or well-frequented. If anything, Hazel's Vale is a hole in the wall that most don't notice, or don't bother visiting.

I come here because it's close to the temple, and Henderson is discrete and charitable. The chairs are mismatched, the tables lopsided and unbalanced, and there's an aroma of spilled liquor and sweat, but it suits me.