Page 70 of Veil of Dust

“I’ll carve my own damn crown,” I say, voice low, steady, a vow to the night, to Vespera, to myself.

The safehouse groans, wood splintering, flames bursting through the roof, painting the sky red as I move into the dark. My boots crunch on gravel, the sound sharp against the fire’s roar, each step pulling me closer to her, to the bar, to the fight that’s not over.

Bianca’s message burns in my mind, a threat I’ll answer, but not tonight. Tonight, I’ve buried Jace, burned the Order’s lies, and walked away with blood on my hands and fire in my veins. The raven tattoo on my arm pulses, a reminder of the debtI’ve paid, the blood I’ve spilled, the woman I’d kill for again and again.

I holster my gun, its weight familiar, a partner in the war I’m waging. Vespera’s bar waits, a beacon beyond the trees, her strength the only loyalty I need, the only crown I’ll bow to.

You’re wrong, Bianca, I think, my smirk fading into something harder, colder. I’m not dead. I’m the one who’s coming for you.

The fire’s glow fades behind me, but its heat stays, a promise in my blood, driving me forward. The safehouse is ash now, its secrets burned, its traitors silenced, but the coup’s not done. Names remain, debts unpaid, and I’ll hunt them all, for her, for us, until the last spark dies.

My phone stays silent, no more messages, no more threats, just the night stretching out, dark and endless. I move through it, steady, unyielding, the weight of the gun, the blood, the fire all part of me now. The bar’s close, Vespera’s close, and I’ll face whatever’s waiting, because this fight, this life, it’s ours, and I’m not letting it burn.

The stars flicker above, faint through the haze, and I walk on, the safehouse’s death a signal, a message of my own: I’m still here, still fighting, and no one, not Bianca, not the Elder, not the Order, will take what’s mine.

Chapter 17 – Vespera

Tomas’s intel was good, precise, a map drawn in his steady voice, delivered with a look that said he’d bleed for me.

You never miss, Tomas, I think, my lips tight, my focus honed. And I’m not wasting this.

I see the shack ahead, half-collapsed, ribs of wood sagging under the weight of time and neglect, moss hanging from the roof like skin peeling off bone, green and wet in the moonlight.

It’s right where he said it would be, a rotting sentinel in the bayou’s gut, exactly as promised.

No surprises yet, but my nerves hum, sharp, ready for the trap that could still be waiting.

The machete rests in my hand, its weight familiar, an extension of my will. Fingers firm around the hilt, steady, unyielding, promising blood before the night’s done.

My boots move quietly, step by step, deliberate, feeling out the ground, testing its give. Mud tries to suck at my soles, greedy, pulling, but I don’t let it hold me, each step a defiance of the swamp’s grip.

I don’t breathe deeply. The swamp reeks of rot and rust, a sour tang that clings to my throat, my skin, warning me to stay sharp.

You thought I’d hide, didn’t you? Thought I’d let you come for me. Not tonight.

The moon cuts down through gaps in the canopy, cold light slicing the dark, sharp as my blade, painting shadows that twist and sway.

Inside, I see movement, a shadow pacing slowly, then stopping, a silhouette against the shack’s cracked window.

Guard posted, his outline bulky, weapon slung loose, a rifle or shotgun, hard to tell in the dim.

He’s armed, but not alert, his posture slack, leaning too hard into routine, into the idea no one would come out this far to start a war.

They still think I’m the one running, I think, a flicker of a smirk ghosting my lips, cold and certain. They’re about to learn how wrong they are.

I crouch beside a broken tree trunk, its bark slimy under my palm, and watch for another twenty seconds, counting his steps, his pauses.

He steps outside, boots scuffing the porch, muttering to himself, words lost in the swamp’s hum. Fiddling with his zipper, back turned to the woods, oblivious to the death waiting in the dark.

“Wrong place,” I whisper, voice barely a breath, a vow to the night, to him. “Wrong night.”

I move.

Fast. Silent. My body flows like water, boots gliding over mud, machete low, ready.

Blade across throat, a single, clean stroke, steel biting deep, parting flesh with a whisper.

He gasps, a wet, choking sound, no scream, just surprise, wide eyes catching the moonlight as life spills out.

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