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.

"No one, yet." I take a sip of my frothy drink. "I'm hunting."

"Hunting." He juts his chin at me. "Wearing a lot of red lately. Non-stop hunting, then?"

I purse my lips. "Why all the questions tonight, Hendy?" I drum my fingers on the sticky counter. "You're normally the reason I come here. Quiet, unimposing."

"Sorry," he says, shoulders drooping as he leans in close to me, lowering his voice. "Something's up, I think."

I quirk an eyebrow. "You think?" I tighten my grasp around my cup. "What did you hear?"

Many meet here to exchange secrets, contraband. Information, too; spies enjoy the dark corners of this place to huddle together and share knowledge for a price.

Henderson doesn't care. As long as it doesn't interfere with business, he doesn't stop criminal dealings.

Exivaria isn't perfect. It's a pleasant place to live. But that doesn't mean there aren't individuals with nefarious intentions here and there.

They don't concern me, as long as their hearts aren't black.

"No rumors," he snickers, "but I felt something the other day." He smells like herbs drenched in brandy; a smell I used to recoil at but am now used to.

"Go on." My interest is piqued; humans shouldn't feel power shifts. "What was it?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Fuck it, I know you dabble in all that woo-woo shit, so you'll understand." He grips the edge of the counter and draws his body lower. "It felt...well, woo-woo."

"Magic?" My heart stops.

If humans like Henderson are experiencing atmospheric shifts at the same time that I am...that's not good. Only goddesses, angels, and mages can detect such magic in the air.

I'm the only magical being in the area.

"That," Henderson snarls, "and it was malicious, too. Dark."

Malicious. Dark. Words most in Exivaria aren't familiar with.

"Should I be worried?" He moves away, shaking off whatever he'd been feeling, and wipes down the counter. "Business has been good, and I don't want that to change."

I bite the insides of my cheeks. "Probably nothing." There's no need to cause a commotion before I've found the root of the problem. "Goddesses going through the motions, or something."

"Goddesses," he puffs out a laugh, "great answer." He shucks his graying hair over his shoulder and twists to the basin to wash a dirty glass.

Henderson, like most who come to this tavern, isn't much of a believer. There's no set religion in Exivaria, but it's known that the goddesses created the continents and oversee them. Supposedly, according to the citizens.

Henderson knows I dabble in woo-woo stuff, but he doesn't think there are seven supernatural creatures ruling over our world. Many are like him; they know of something protecting them, but they aren't positive what.

I'm about to issue a snarky retort to Henderson when the tavern door creaks open, a chilly breeze wisping in from outside.

Everyone in the venue stops what they're doing, turning to the source of the change in temperature. It's late, and it's unusual for patrons to show up now. Knowing Henderson, he's getting ready to throw us all out for the night.

When the door doesn't close right away, I set my drink down and twist to the arrival, as someone moans, "close the damn thing, will ya?"

It's a cold evening here in Hazelvale, and many of us take refuge in this toasty bar before returning home.

I startle at the sight of a blocky silhouette taking over the entire doorway. The outline is bulky. A stranger.

"Sorry," they say, their voice low-pitched, gravelly. The door slams shut behind them, and they shake off dust and dirt from their cloak. "Sit anywhere?"

Henderson watches the man take a few large steps into the tavern's foyer. "I won't tell you where to sit."

When I return to the newcomer, I'm able to better see him, illuminated by the torches lining the stony walls.

A man.

I slide my hand down my leg to reach for the dagger I stash in my boots. My powers are sufficient to ward off any threat, but a knife may help to sway this guy from causing trouble.

It's not rare for outsiders to surface here, but this one is unexpected. Large, imposing.

For all I know, he's not here with good intentions.

But there's no hint of mischief on his face. Light stubble peppers over his squared jaw, melting up into his coarse mane of shoulder-length, dark blond hair. His blocky shoulders aren't slumped, nor are they covered in menacing armor. His giant frame barely fits inside the grimy cloak he's wearing.

His eyes, while dark, aren't unfriendly. They rove about the area, passing over me. He's investigating, checking to make sure this place is legitimate, isn't he?

Having assessed the tavern, he rubs his massive hands together, his lips lifting into a soft smile.

As he unfastens his cloak, I'm absorbed in his every motion. The way he removes the fabric, deftly tosses it onto the coat-rack, and presses down on his tight shirt has me captivated.

I don't know why.

His trousers are fitted to his thunderous legs. They're muscular. Thighs of a man who's been working in the fields all his life, squatting as he lifts loaded wheelbarrows of hay above his head. His arms are defined, bulging, like they could heft fifteen people in the air without effort.

I suffocate a gasp at his chest, so chiseled under the poorly sized shirt he wears, its fabric gluing to him.

I gulp. He's shaped like a damn god, and I have no idea how to hide my intrigue.

I'm not supposed to have any intrigue.

He barrels into the room, every step quaking the ground beneath him. He settles at the closest table, dropping his heavy body onto a chair.

I can't move. This doesn't happen to me, ever. I've come across beautiful people, sculpted to perfection, created for ogling and for giving pleasure; but this man is something else.

Who is he? I've never come across such a scrumptious individual who steals the breath from my lungs. He makes my face swell up with heat, and my inner lips quiver with need.

No one makes me quiver with need. Not even the most talented of heartthrobs—and I've played around with a few.

Why does he feel so warm, so familiar, and why does he make my extremities tingle?

"Oh," I say out loud, picking up on his scent now that he's closer. A scent I know well, and that shouldn't be here.

Magic.

I don't have the energy to break my gaze from this man; I'm stuck in my seat, salivating.

Salivating? Me, an angel of love?

This man must be incredibly powerful to play such tricks on my heart, to fool my body into wanting him so fast.

A mage? There aren't any in the area. They're a dying breed. Some say they're 'lucky ones', hand-picked by the goddesses and gifted with certain abilities. But I haven't encountered one in centuries. They rarely venture into Hazelvale.

Or a direct descendant of the goddesses? I shake my head; those are even rarer.

He could be another angel, but I'd have known if one of my kind was in the vicinity. Rules, structure, delimitations—he wouldn't dare enter a territory he's not assigned to without permission.

A rebel? Or could he be that enticing of a man that he radiated pure lust and sex?

No, it's more than that. He drips with appeal, but it's not all natural. A glittering aura swirls around him, making him luminescent; a golden hue that shimmers off his tanned skin.

The only way to figure this out is to read his heart. If it's red, I'll quit questioning this. But if it's dark...

I take a sip for liquid courage—the more I look at him, the more I want to disrobe him—and narrow my gaze on his chest.

He's peering at the parchment drink menu, not noticing me. I focus on the thumping within his ribcage, reading each pulsation, tracing the veins shooting from one end of the member to the other.

I tense, pulling away.

He's blank. Blank.

"No," I whisper, further digging into his torso. "That can't be."

A colorless heart? Impossible. Nonexistent.

It's not real.

Who the fuck is this guy?

I should barge up to him and shove my hand against his chest to delve my powers deep within for a better read; but I still can't move. I'm still entranced by his gorgeous physique and the way he makes me shiver with fascination.

My tongue clicks in my mouth. Something burns in my throat. A flicker of heat ignites in my abdomen, trailing into my lower half.

I have to get closer to him. But I can tell that the closer I get, the more I'll want him. And wanting him is a distraction. I encourage sexual pleasure for others, but I can't let it overwhelm me.

Not when we all might be in danger because I can't see what color this stranger's heart is.

He's the embodiment of male beauty. A face carved out of smooth stone, a kissable mouth. Hands that know their way around a woman's body, fingers with precise stroking capabilities to bring one to the brink of a climax.

Tall, rugged, delicious. No one else in the room seems as absorbed as I am.

I don't want to share him.

I have the sudden urge to get into his head. To get to know him. How did he become so well-built? Why is his skin so glowy, so hypnotizing? Where did he come from, and what brought him here, to Hazelvale?

It's like he walked into my tavern, created for me. Like destiny placed him on my path.

But I don't have a destiny. Angels of love don't fall in love and marry and have children and build families.

But that image—a happy life with a sexy man like him—won't leave my thoughts. It keeps swarming in, prying past my reservations, my rules.

If it were only physical lust, I may be able to walk away; but there's more brewing inside me than ever before.

Feelings.

Feelings? I don't have those. I can't have those. I'm not equipped for them. I have a heart, but it's not supposed to beat for anyone.

So why is it pounding up a storm whenever my gaze rests on his chest?

I've heard of this. Love at first sight. A rumor, something humans use to excuse their lustful advances.

It's not something I should ever experience.

"That can't be it," I say, finishing my drink. "But there's only one way to be certain."

I have to approach this man. Figure out who he is, before he topples my entire system upside down.

I have to know what he is, and why he's able to sneak into my heart like that.

Wordcount: 2,346
TOTAL: 7,594