Page 35 of Veil of Dust

Left side, low near the tree line: the deep part of the swamp where the roots twist and water pools are thick and unmoving.

I stop.

Wait.

Something breathes. Slow. Controlled. Not panicked. Not tooclose to strike, but not too distant either.

The fog across the waterline thickens, curling around the base of the trees. It moves like it’s covering something on purpose.

I feel it before I see it.

Then, the shape appears.

A figure, covered, with the hood up, moving slowly.

Not rushing.

Not speaking.

Just there.

They step through the fog as if they’ve always been part of it. Their cloak merges with the mist, its edges tattered and wet.

They don’t make a sound.

They stop a few feet from me.

Still.

I know Alfeo’s style. This isn’t one of his. He sends people who talk too much, shoot too fast. Loud threats. Flashy exits.

This is different.

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for a weapon. Just stares.

I shift my stance, raising the machete an inch. Not to threaten—just ready.

“Name,” I say.

No response.

“You’re in the wrong part of the swamp.”

The figure tilts their head—not quickly, just with a careful adjustment, as if they’re sizing me up.

Then, they speak. One sentence: “You’re next.”

The voice is low, dry, and cracked like dead leaves underfoot.

I don’t move. The words land hard.

Not because they’re loud, but because they’re certain.

I grip the machete tighter, and my shoulders go rigid. The figure doesn’t step forward or give me more.

They just turn and walk back into the mist. The fog swallows them. No sound. No trail. One moment, they’re there. The next, gone.

But I saw them.

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