Page 75 of Veil of Ashes

My chest burns, shoulder pulsing in time with his taunts as I take another step, blood dripping steady from my fingers. “She looks like Enzo, you know,” he continues, voice cutting deeper, “around the mouth—same defiance, same guilt dressed up as grit.”

I don’t answer, jaw tight as I close the gap, boots squelching in a pool of some dead guard’s blood.

“She’s trouble,” he says, smirking wider, swirling the wine like it’s a game he’s already won. “You could’ve ruled, Kieran,” he adds, voice low and mocking as he sets the glass down with a soft clink. “Instead, you chose ghosts and women with unfinished fathers, loyalty over power—how quaint and pathetic.”

“You killed Benedetto,” I say, voice steady despite the fire licking up my side, the memory of that kid’s broken body flashing red behind my eyes.

He shrugs, casual as if swatting a fly, saying, “No I didn’t, Rizzi did. All I did was give him a chance to prove himself, and he failed, simple as that.”

“He was seventeen,” I growl, fists clenching as I step closer, the rug soaking up more blood under my boots.

“Then he should’ve learned faster,” Dante replies, voice cold, his eyes glinting like he’s daring me to snap.

I lunge forward, no warning, no hesitation, my hand slamming the pistol off the desk before he can grab it. It skids across the wood and clatters to the floor as we crash together, shoulder to chest, my wound screaming white-hot, but I shove the pain down deep.

His fist cracks into my jaw, a burst of stars blurring my vision as I taste copper on my tongue. I slam his head into the desk, wood splintering under the hit, blood spraying from his nose as he kicks me back hard into a bookshelf.

Leather-bound ledgers tumble loose, thudding around us as he grabs a crystal decanter from the shelf, smashing it into my ribs with a wet crunch. I stagger, pain exploding sharp, but shove him off, blood dripping from my mouth as I spit red onto his pristine carpet.

He lunges again, fists swinging wild, and we hit the floor hard, rolling in a tangle of sweat and fury. His hands claw for my throat, nails raking my skin, and mine find his, fingers closing tight, squeezing with everything I’ve got left in me.

Strangling a man isn’t clean—it’s raw, sweaty, a slow grind of breath and bone as we thrash on the rug. His fingers gouge my face, tearing at my cheek, then dig into my wounded shoulder, ripping a snarl from my throat as blood gushes fresh down my arm.

I press harder, knees pinning his hips, feeling his pulse hammer under my grip as his eyes bulge wide. His feet kick frantic, heels scraping the floor, one catching my shin and splitting the skin, warm red trickling down into my boot.

He claws at my side, nails slicing through my shirt, dragging bloody furrows across my ribs as I tighten my hold. “Die, you fuck,” I rasp, voice hoarse, my thumbs digging into his windpipe until his kicks slow, his hands flailing weaker against my chest.

His face purples, veins popping under his skin, a wet gurgle bubbling from his throat as I squeeze tighter still. Then—stillness, his body slumping limp beneath me, eyes wide and empty, staring up at nothing as the light fades out.

I stumble back, hands slick with his blood and mine, my side burning where he tore me open, my shoulder a pulsing mess of heat and pain.

“I thought vengeance would feel like victory,” I think, breath ragged as I stare at his corpse slumped in the chair, mouth gaping, blood pooling under his shattered nose. “It felt like drowning. Quieter than usual.”

I spit blood onto the rug, a thick gob landing near his limp hand, the wine glass shattered at his feet in a puddle of red and glass. My vision swims, edges tunneling dark, but I force myself up, boots dragging heavy as I turn toward the door.

Smoke curls in from the blasted hallway, thick and acrid, licking at the velvet curtains as a fire alarm kicks up—sharp, high-pitched, shrieking panic through the mansion. I clutch my side, blood seeping between my fingers, the other hand bracing the wall as I stagger forward, each step a knife in my gut.

I don’t pick up the pistol still lying on the floor, its shine dulled by the smoke and my fingerprints. My shoulder throbs, a steady drip painting the carpet as I limp past his body, his open eyes following me like a curse I’ve earned.

“Should’ve stayed down,” I mutter, voice cracking as I kick his outstretched leg, blood smearing on my boot from the gash in his thigh. A crystal shard juts from his flesh, a jagged trophy of the fight, glinting wet in the dim light as I step over him.

My side’s a mess, shirt soaked red where he clawed me, skin hanging loose in strips I can feel with every breath. I press harder, fingers slick, trying to staunch the flow as I stumble toward the door, the alarm’s wail drilling into my skull.

I don’t look back—Dante’s dead stare, the shattered glass, the blood-soaked rug—they’re a chapter I’ve closed with my bare hands. The hallway looms ahead, smoke thicker now, curling around my legs like it’s pulling me back, but I keep moving, one step, then another.

My vision narrows, black creeping in, but I grit my teeth, tasting more blood as I bite my tongue to stay sharp. “Not yet,” I growl, dragging myself forward, the wall cool under my palm as I brace against it, leaving a smeared red trail behind.

The devil had breath left, I think, a whisper in my head as I reach the threshold, the gala’s distant music drowned by the alarm.

“I made sure it was his last,” I say aloud, voice lost in the shriek as I step into the haze, blood dripping steady from my torn side.

The mansion’s alive with chaos now, screams echoing faint beyond the smoke, but I’m already gone, a shadow limping free of the king’s tomb.

Chapter 26 – Sylvara

I kneel on the cracked concrete of the abandoned casino rooftop, the city sprawling below us as the sky blushes pale gold at the horizon, just before dawn spills over Vegas. Kieran sits beside me, shirtless, his torn jacket and blood-soaked tee piled next to him, the crisp morning breeze brushing his bruised skin as I dip a rag in water to clean his wounds.

The neon signs flicker faint in the distance, their colors softened by the haze, while a gentle wind rustles through the broken billboard scaffolding above us. I press the damp cloth to his shoulder, wiping away crusted blood, my hands steady even as the sight of his torn flesh—raw and red—twists a knot deep in my chest.

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