Page 98 of Veil of Dust

Still alive.

Tomas doesn’t beg.

He just stays there. On the ground. Waiting for me to believe him again.

I don’t yet.

But I don’t kill him either.

And that?

That’s the only mercy he’s getting.

He leans his head back against the crates. His lip is swollen, and his cheek is split, with blood soaking the collar of his shirt.

I wipe the last smear of red from my wrist and toss the towel into the bin.

“Prove it,” I say.

He nods, eyes clear despite the bruises.

“I will.”

Chapter 22 – Tiziano

The double doors explode inward with a thunderous crash. I drive through the gap first, machete raised, adrenaline burning through my veins like wildfire. Behind me, my crew—Tomas, Rita, Andretti, a dozen others whose names I barely catch in the chaos—pours into the chamber. Their faces are masks of resolve, eyes bright with the promise of reckoning.

Torchlight flickers off cracked marble beneath our boots. Each footfall echoes down vaulted arches, mingling with the distant rat-tat of gunfire and the stench of scorched oil. The Order’s crest—two crossed sabers beneath a crown—gleams from floor to ceiling, painted in inlaid stone now marred by blood and dust. This place has held power for centuries. Today, we claim it.

A hail of bullets rips from a balcony above. I duck behind a shattered pillar as shards of marble spray like rain. One guard steps into the light, rifle leveled—muscles tensed. I lean out, squeeze the trigger of my pistol twice. The roar of each shot cracks the air, and he drops before his bullet even leaves the barrel. His armor clangs against the tiles as he crumples.

No hesitation. I lurch back into the open and sprint forward, machete swinging in a brutal arc. It bites into bone, sending a spray of rivulets across the Order’s crest at my feet. He gurgles, topples backward. One life ended; one fewer obstacle between me and him.

Smoke drifts in ribbons near the floor, kicked up by our advance. The air tastes of iron and gunpowder. I blink through the haze and spot Tomas moving left—muzzle flashes at his shoulder as he returns fire. Rita ducks low, her hammersmashing a guard’s skull like a stone shattering glass. I swallow the bile rising in my throat; there’s no room for mercy here.

We press deeper into the hall. A flashbang lands at my flank, its blast wiping vision in white agony. I grit my teeth, unlock my grip on the machete, and surge forward through the ringing silence that follows. My heartbeat drums in my ears. Somewhere past these columns, the throne waits.

A pair of sentries blocks the staircase up ahead. Both have rifles trained on my chest. I twist left, igniting the butt of my pistol into the first guard’s jaw. His spine snaps against the marble as he crumples. The second swings his rifle like a club; I pivot under the swing, catch his wrist, wrench it until his fingers spasm loose. He wheels, tries to bring the butt down on me—too slow. I hook my knee into his gut and send him sprawling.

Each victory tastes of vengeance. I see in Rita’s eyes the same memory that drives me: Leon’s last breath, The Elder’s planning hand behind it. I swallow hard, steel myself. This assault is for Leon. It’s for Vespera.

Reinforcements burst through a side arch, their boots thundering on marble. My crew splits to meet them—Andretti takes two with a savage flourish of his machete; Tomas leaps onto a table, pistol sweeping, dropping three more before they hit the floor. The Order’s soldiers fight with discipline, but they’re disoriented here in their own heart. We are ghosts in their stronghold.

I push through the fray, each step a steady vow. There is no fear—only purpose. The temperature shifts, air growing cooler as we approach the inner sanctum. The cavernous hall narrows, the painted ceiling falling away until only bare stonearches overhead. Torch sconces gutter along the walls, casting long shadows that dance like specters.

A broken statue of the Order’s founder lies toppled, its face worn smooth by time. I kick past it and sprint up the final stretch of stairs, marble slipping under blood-slick boots. My machete is slick now with both their blood and mine; I welcome the sticky heat, the weight of the blade a promise of justice.

At the top, my breath comes hard—lungs burning with overuse, chest heaving—but I don’t slow. I step into the sanctum’s mouth: a high-ceilinged alcove draped in black silk banners, each emblazoned with that blood-red enamel crest. The polished marble floor gleams, stained by the crimson tide that follows our assault.

Ahead, a raised dais looms, carved from midnight-streaked stone. Its edges are jagged like a cliff face, a physical barrier between me and him. And there—seated upon an enormous throne of gilded iron—sits the man who set all this in motion.

S.E. – The Elder.

He is immobile, regal, as if seated upon this throne were simply another performance. His robe of folded dark silk brushes the dais step; his white beard fans across his chest. Pale eyes, cold and unblinking, fix on me like steel tipped for throwing. Around his neck, the Order’s sigil gleams—a reminder of every life he’s snuffed out in its name.

I hesitate. Machete still raised, pistol trained on his chest. The chamber falls unnaturally silent—my crew’s heavy breathing, the distant groans of the wounded, even the hiss of dying embers in the braziers seem to pause in deference.

In that charged moment, I taste memory: Vespera’s tear-streaked face as she whispered “Leon” in the dark; the flash of The Elder’s laugh as Leon fell. I tense, finger itching on the trigger. The chamber could erupt again—I know my men await only my signal to finish him here and now.

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