Page 116 of Veil of Dust

“No,” she says, her hand on my shoulder, fierce, grounding. “We’re smoke.”

“Smoke,” I repeat, the word alive, free, a promise I’ll keep.

We slip through, we endure, we burn.

The alley forgets us, its fog closing over the blood, the lie, erasing us. The city prepares to bury a man still breathing, a man who’s hers, who’s smoke, who’s alive, for now, for her, for us.

Chapter 27 – Vespera

The blade in my hand catches firelight. The edge is streaked with blood, already drying, the orange glow from the pyre casting it in flickers. I hold it steady. My pulse is even, but my grip is locked.

You thought you could disappear, Alfeo.

You thought the swamp would save you.

It won’t.

This place is mine now.

He ran when he should’ve stood. Bolted into the trees like a man who still believed he had time. But the dark doesn’t protect him. It doesn’t owe him anything.

I move through the brush, boots pressing into mud, the sound soft but sure. My legs are sore, my hands raw, but I don’t stop. Every step is measured. Every breath is under control. This isn’t rage. Not anymore.

This is resolve.

The machete swings loose at my side. Heavy. Familiar. The only thing I need right now.

The ground beneath me gives with a low suck. The swamp clings, but I’ve learned how to move through it. I don't stumble. I don't pause.

Boot prints lead the way. Deep. Uneven. He’s bleeding—probably from the ribs. I spot it on the trees: streaks of redbrushed along the bark, careless. He’s slowing down. Panicked. Sloppy.

He’s tired. Hurt. He thought this would end differently.

You’re not the first to bleed here.

But you’ll be the last one who threatens what’s mine.

The sound of the fire fades behind me, replaced by the low hum of the swamp—the distant croak of frogs, the slow drip of water. It's quiet, but not peaceful.

Then I see him.

He’s slumped at the base of a burned cypress, half upright, body pressed against the trunk. The bark is blackened. The roots still glow faint red from the fire’s reach.

His shirt is soaked through. Blood, sweat, and swamp water. His knife is in his hand, but his grip is weak. The blade’s dull. Useless.

He sees me. Tries to straighten. He doesn’t make it far.

“You should’ve stayed scared,” he rasps, trying to lift the knife, like we’re still pretending this is a fight.

I take one more step forward. Calm.

“I stopped running,” I tell him. “You should’ve started.”

He lunges.

It’s a messy move. Too slow. Too wide. A man with more ego than strength left. His knife comes up, aiming high.

I sidestep.

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