Red. Pure.

Red. Pure.

Light red—oh, the innocence.

Red. Pure.

I count the hearts as they pass me, not paying much mind to their owners, their shells; the humans containing them, keeping them safe. I don't care what gender they are, where they come from, whether they wear rich fabrics or rags.

All I need to know is what is inside their ribcages.

"Oh." I shudder, a whiff of something new, something bad entering my nostrils. "Oh, dark red," I say to myself, focusing on a new person's face while ignoring all the others.

This one I'd have to remember, in case its heart darkened further.

I refocused, attuning to the atmosphere around me. The bustling marketplace, the calls of merchants selling their wares, the foot-traffic forcing me to keep to the shadows of the colorful stalls.

The dark heart is close to me, and I draw my attention to it. To him; a man of moderate size, with a plump but not unpleasant face.

He walks by me without noticing me, hauling a heavy bag loaded with blacksmithing supplies.

Good—I don't want him to see me in this state, my curvy figure covered up, my face drenched in shadows.

I normally hide my identity while I'm on the prowl for impure hearts. Today I'm not as well hidden as I should be, but I wasn't expecting this.

A heart that may turn bad without a moment's notice? A rarity. I habitually have more of a warning.

He's fast; I barely keep up with him as he strides down the busy main avenue of Tavalon. It's a crowded one, leading all the way to the castle doors, but I doubt he's heading there. Royal blacksmiths are more inconspicuous, and rarely step outside the sturdy stone gates for anything.

Plus, knowing King Taro of Tavalon, he already has a handsome retinue of strapping young men to serve him and his weaponry needs.

No, this one works for the common folk. The way he walks with mild confidence, head held high, shows he knows his way around. He's not wincing or complaining, clearly used to heaving that large bag with him.

Maybe he works in a nearby shop or is from out of town. I'd say he's too young to possess the skill to own and manage a store. An apprentice, perhaps?

"Good morning, Druvena," calls the baker's assistant as I weave by the windows of Totally Tarts, the best local bakery in the area. I reel in my drool at the sight of fruity pies, all gushing with scarlet juice.

"Hailey," I nod politely, too hurried to stop and take a sample of whatever she whipped up this morning.

I often swing inside and take a whiff of the delicious scents, maybe take a few treats to go, but not today.

Today, I'm hunting a dark heart. Today, I'm seducing a dark heart. It's the only way to keep track of him without stalking.

I wave at Hailey as I urge my feet to pick up the pace. In this dress—long, frilly, cumbersome, matching the local style—it's hard to navigate the dusty pathway between shops, to avoid the multitude of citizens as they go about their business.

My boots are worn with age and use, and I know I need to replace them; but if anyone catches me sporting something too new, they'll ask questions. They'll think I have money and have an interest in me.

It's best for someone like me to remain in the shadows. Most know me from afar, without being aware of my name, my purpose, or where I live. Some have seen me frequenting taverns, filling up on mead. Others might have spotted me dashing out of the city on the back of a dark mare.

But few have any idea who I really am. What I am.

It's bad enough that Hailey recognizes me so easily. Anyone else...

I zoom in on the blacksmith's left hand as he takes a sharp turn into a less frequented alley. There's no ring on his finger, but a faint, lighter patch of skin signifies there was one, at some point.

Separated? Widowed?

Or does he remove his wedding band to better take advantage of single-life pleasures?

I've seen this alley before. Not an area of ill-repute, per se, but not in the best corner of town, either. It houses a few decent taverns, a not-too-shabby lodge, and a store of cursed antiques.

"Cursed," I cough as a carriage whips by, roughing up dust from the pavement. I slither into the alley to avoid any further debris.

For something to be cursed, it'd have to be magical, first. And as far as the people of Tavalon are concerned, magic doesn't exist.

I know better, but it's not my place to educate them.

The dark-hearted man stops before a two-story building of deep oak and layered metals. He's at a lavender-tinted door, where he sets his bag on the ground to readjust his trousers, his coat.

For a man who works with his hands, he's not too rough-looking. Fairly clean, hair brushed back from his forehead, eyes the shade of a dove's wings. Bulky, but not too much; gruff, but not unattractive.

I'd slept with far less appealing targets.

He knocks on the door, perking up to wait for the answer.

"Lavender, hm?" I purse my lips, maintaining my spot a few feet away, pretending to peer into the window-display of an adjacent tailor. Ruby cloaks and heeled boots look back at me, and I'm tempted to go in and buy them at once. "Interesting."

Doors aren't necessarily color-coded here in Hazelvale, the capital of Tavalon, but we all know what a lavender door means. It houses women of no virtue, who are forbidden from walking the streets for their business. Instead, they hang out their windows, breasts spilling from their low-cut gowns as they whistle and tease passersby.

I have no qualms about what they do behind closed doors; if anything, I encourage it. Ladies of the night are my friends, my allies without knowing it.

As an angel of love, I rely on them to help me with my tasks, though they have no clue how useful they are to me. Their antics, their performances keep humans satiated and out of trouble.

The door creaks open, and a young, barely clothed woman shows herself, her voluptuous body barring the blacksmith from entering. "Yes?"

"Not a client," says the blacksmith, raising his palms, taking a step back. "I'm here to see your mistress about some weapons. Mevrana, I think her name was?"

"Mevrana," the girl says, leaning against the door-frame, her gaze roving from the man's head to the tips of his leather boots. Her eyes glisten with interest. "Weapons?"

I pull up the hood of my cloak, leaning in closer.

Sex-workers needing weapons? That's interesting.

Hazelvale isn't devoid of violence—Exivaria isn't a utopian world, though it's close—but it's rare to need knives or spears while touring the town. In my millennia of overseeing this place, I'd seen no rebellions in the streets, no fights—at least none that drew deadly blood—and nothing warranting the need of a weapon for protection.

What happened here that the Madam requested a blacksmith to personally visit her for weapon-crafting?

I don't mean to be so curious—all I want is to ensure this man's heart doesn't go black—but I can't move away. I inch closer, tuning my magic to better hear the conversation as the blacksmith loiters before the doorway.

Within this distance, I see deeper inside him, beyond his barreled chest and into his rib-cage. His heart is indeed dark, but there's still a red glow to it. No black streaks, no tinge of blood, nothing that indicates he's seconds away from committing the crime of heartbreak.

A crime he doesn't even know exists.

I don't think he's a danger to the world but allowing him to enter a place loaded with women all more enticing than the next...it's a risk.

Especially if he's veering into the awful fantasy of cheating.

I have to stay near and assure myself that he won't succumb to one of the ladies while he's inside.

I know Mevrana; a mostly docile, quiet woman who sees to her girls and doesn't get involved in much. But I've also seen her naked...and she's well-endowed. Convincing. Alluring. A few times I spied on her nights—

No, not the time or place to reminisce over that.

It's part of my role, as an angel of love, to glimpse humans in their acts of lovemaking. Yes, it's bit on the morally gray side, I know, but this was assigned to me by the goddesses themselves. And if the goddesses give you a task, you execute it without question.

I serve the seven goddesses of Exivaria, our thriving world that's been peaceful and prosperous for millennia. It's thanks to them that we're all able to live here, on the continent of Tavalon, in Hazelvale, with minimal violence and death.

I'm not embarrassed to say I heavily contributed to that peace, ensured that prosperity. By keeping watch over all human hearts, I've been able to prevent all sorts of catastrophes. To thwart all manners of nefarious prophecies.

My main job—hunting dark hearts—has been essential to Exivaria, and I'm proud of it.

Thanks to me and my kind, the word heartbreak is nonexistent in human vocabularies. Thanks to us, heartbreak has never occurred here. It has no roots, cannot flourish. Never has and, if I continue to succeed, never will.

I'd do anything to keep it that way.

The blacksmith still hesitates at the door. "Would it be better for her to join me out here?"

I study his heart; the darkness dims slightly, a flicker of light streaking through.

Perhaps he's not a risk at all. His hesitation to enter a house of pleasure tells me he won't be too difficult to sway from the darkness that began to concentrate in his heart. In truth, I doubt he even suspects it's there.

He's respectful towards women, including those whose profession was far from respectable.

I itch to go home, no longer feeling the need to monitor this man. The warmth of my chambers within the temple of Drenaris—the goddess ruling over Tavalon—calls to me, begs me to return to it.

It's been a few days since I've lounged on my velvet chaise, taken a bath in my golden tub, or had sweet dreams while wrapped in my silky sheets.

I've been out here, in the city proper, working. I recently returned from an adventure to northern Tavalon, where rumor of an angry woman drew me to investigate. Since then, I've been roaming about Hazelvale, loath to leave the inhabitants to their business.

I have trust issues.

"No rest for the wicked," I tell myself, smirking.

My kind are considered good, in the eyes of the population. Angels are mythical creatures, and while we're a tad robust and rebellious, we are agents of the goddesses. We operate for them and ensure their word is heeded, their myth worshiped.

Some believe, some don't; I don't care much about that.

I only care that hearts remain red and pure, and that humans continue to enjoy themselves without pain.

I love my job, my vocation. Love, affection, sex—these are my passions, and to sense their vibrant, red, positive energy swirling around me keeps me happy.

And if I'm happy, so are my humans, right?

I decide not to enter the house with the blacksmith, but I remain outside, waiting, just in case. I'm never wrong, but one can never be one hundred percent sure of a person's heart and its purity. There are tricks, spells to hide one's true intentions.

Any heart that's not entirely red is untrustworthy.

Leaning against the thick, wooden wall, I glance at my nails, painted red. My favorite color, eye-catching and mysterious. Shocking to most, which is why they keep their distances around me.

A sudden sexual energy thrums within me. My sharpened hearing picks up on a woman's moans, inside the building.

I startle at first, hoping it's not the blacksmith—he's only been in there for five minutes—but then relax when I don't hear any grunts from him.

I lick my lips, letting the sensation curl through me. Sex. So pleasant, so enrapturing, capturing all my senses, tingling my extremities. I don't partake in the act too much myself—most don't have the stamina to match my needs—but I thrive on others climaxing all around me.

It's tempting to lift up my skirts and touch myself to the delicious sound of the woman's pleasure. I also detect the squeaks of the mattress thumping against the wall, and it makes me want to join them.

Before I can indulge, I shake my head, stopping myself. I've done worse things, of course; but I won't fall this low.

A twinge of something sharp wraps around my heart, blocking the desire in the air.

"Fuck," I say, peeling off the wall, glowering at the lavender door.

It's his heart, twisting with darkness. It's hard to read behind the thick walls, but I sense it all the same. Tremors of pain, like shockwaves of lightning, seep into me, making me dizzy. My body yearns to fold forward, to crumble onto the stoned pathway.

I hate it, that feeling of a heart going bad. Centuries have passed, and I'm still not used to it.

I straighten up, shaking out my curls, rolling my shoulders. Preparing.

I can't tell what's provoking him, but I can't let it get any further.

A blackened heart is a heartbreaker, and those aren't allowed.

"They told me at any cost," I say with a sigh, pulling on the ropes of my cloak, tying them tight. "And I don't take their words lightly."

I paid a weighty price to get here, to reach this level of peace in Tavalon. I'm not backing down because I might get caught.

This man is dangerous, and risks infecting all the women inside. Heartbreak is a disease—once it takes hold of a heart, it spreads. I can't have that. The goddesses won't have that.

Blood gushes through me, racing in my veins.

Kill.

I bunch my fists at my sides, glaring at the door. His heart is pulsating on the other side. I can't tell what he's doing, what he's thinking, but it's not good.

Kill.

I reach my arm out, unclench my fist, press my palm to the door.

You must kill.

I'm not sure the goddesses ever meant for me to murder anyone who came close to heartbreak status. Maybe I was supposed to capture them, bring them back to our temples for questioning, for incarceration. They didn't leave me a set of instructions.

Whatever other angels of love do on other continents doesn't concern me. My instinct is to maim, incapacitate, eliminate.

I never ask for permission, and I do what I think is right, but they never punish me for it.

So I murdered a lot of people to ensure only the pure hearts remained; is it a big deal?

Not if I don't get caught.

In Exivaria, murder is a sin. But is it sinning if I'm cleansing the world?

I push the door open, my fire ability licking up my arms, into my veins, jarring out of my fingers.

A rush of negative energy slaps my face, thrusting me backward.

He's married. He's going to cheat.

"Oh no, not today," I say, shoving up my cloak's sleeves, rubbing my hands.

What they don't teach in our temples is that you don't have to atone for sins right away. You face them at your death, when you meet the goddesses, when they send you off to your eternal rest.

I'm not dying yet. But when I do, I'll accept my punishment proudly, garbed in a gorgeous red dress, fit to slay my enemies. Because red is a color that looks so exquisite on me—and not only the red of blood splashing from the wounds I inflicted.

The door slams behind me, and I stalk into the house, my prey in my vision. His pants are unbuttoned, about to fall down his legs.

Called it.

I don't give him a chance to speak, to beg for forgiveness.

Wordcount: 2,634
TOTAL: 2,634