Page 100 of Veil of Dust

He inclines his head once, faint approval in the gesture. His lips quirk into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

I nod to my crew standing at the chamber’s rim. They advance but pause beside me. No chains, no bonds, only wounded flesh and wounded pride. I step down from the dais, giving him space.

I continue, “Another will come for you. And she will finish what I refused to.” The vow hangs in the cold air: Vespera’s name, unspoken but heavy.

The Elder’s gaze flicks to the dark arch beyond the throne, where Bianca disappeared, and for a moment, I wonder what alliances still weave in the shadows. But I don’t wait for his answer. I turn on my heel, signaling our exit.

Torches gutter as we file past, the chamber’s roar of battle fading behind us. Each step etches the coup’s edge deeper into history. The marble floor glimmers with a fresh veneer of blood—his and ours—but no throne awaits a victor tonight. Only a promise that true justice will come in the next chapter of this war.

I lead my crew down the cracked staircase, leaving the Elder standing alone, wounded but unbound, his fate suspended until Vespera arrives. In the smoking corridor, I pause and look back once, seeing him framed in the arch, silent as a specter. Then, I turn away and step into the dark, ready to deliver the story’s next reckoning.

Chapter 23 – Vespera

Smoke curls around my ankles as I step through the fractured archway.

I move slowly, measured, each step a ritual.

My boots crunch over shattered glass and spilled shell casings. The heat rolls off the walls, clawing at my arms. Velvet curtains crackle in the firelight. The storm outside presses against the windows, but it hasn’t broken yet. Neither have I.

Tarot deck in one hand. Knife in the other.

I draw a card. My fingers don’t hesitate.

Death.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Permission.

The card flutters to the ground, landing face-up near a body I don’t bother to identify. Everyone who stood in the Order’s path is the same to me now.

Dead. Or soon to be.

I press forward through the central wing. Behind me, the last echoes of gunfire fade into coughing flame. Tiziano’s men have pushed through. I heard the screams. Heard the skulls crack. Tomas’s voice rang out once, cut short, sharp. Alive or dead, I’ll know soon.

But right now, I’m alone.

This path is mine.

My fingers tighten around the hilt of my blade. It’s still warm from the last throat it kissed. The blood dried fast in the heat. A thin black stain across the edge.

The hallway stretches ahead—gilded crown molding warped from smoke, charred portraits of long-dead patriarchs crumbling to ash. My boots echo across marble cracked by time and violence.

I reach the last door.

It’s open.

He waits inside.

The Elder.

Slouched in a high-backed chair that used to matter. Robes scorched, right sleeve torn, blood trailing from his arm down into a shallow puddle by the throne. He doesn’t stand when he sees me. Doesn’t flinch.

He just smiles.

“Vespera,” he says, voice like dried leaves crumbling. “Of course it would be you.”

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