Page 99 of Veil of Dust

And yet…

Smoke drifts across the dais’s lip, curling around the throne like a shroud. I realize I’m not just facing the man who forged my blade—he’s the heart of this Order’s rot. Striking him down is a necessity. But the world I fight for demands more than a single moment of vengeance.

A whisper of movement at my flank catches my ear. I turn my head just enough to see Rita’s hand tighten on her hammer—and Tomas, his eyes locked on mine, waiting. Loyalty without question. Behind me, our crew bristles, ready to end this.

I lower my machete by inches. My heart thunders.

This isn’t the end, I think. It’s only the beginning.

Because he’s still alive.

And everything to come will depend on that.

Smoke curls past the throne’s lip, and Bianca steps into view—black leather torn at the shoulder, blade half-drawn, eyes burning with intent. For a heartbeat, time stretches; my heart hammers so loud I fear she’ll hear it. Between us lies the Elder’s dais, his throne still stained with our assault, but every instinct screams that she is the greater threat now.

I lower my pistol and pivot on cracked marble. Bianca’s boots slide silently as she advances, blade glinting undertorchlight. I raise machete and sidearm in one fluid motion, pistol barrel sweeping low, machete tip pointed at her throat.

“Stay back,” I warn, voice cold.

She laughs—a harsh, mirthless sound that echoes in the vaulted hall. “You think a blade and a gun can stop me?”

Her arrogance sharpens the moment like steel. She lunges first, blade arcing for my flank. I block with forearm, sparks dancing where metal meets metal. The clang jolts through my bones. I counter with a horizontal slash that she narrowly parries, steel shearing a furrow in her leather sleeve.

She stumbles off balance—just enough. I press forward, hook her wrist, wrench until her breath hisses. She bites back a curse, jabs with her free fist; I absorb it against my ribs, teeth grinding. Pain blooms, but I hold firm. This fight has too many memories: the lies, the secrets, the blood we both share.

I spin, catch her belt, and heave her into a broken pillar. She slams against marble with a crack that resonates like a verdict. Her blade skitters away across the floor.

Breathing hard, I level the machete at her throat. Smoke drifts between us, framing her pale face. I see the anger in her eyes, but also something else—regret? Fear? I can’t tell.

“Why betray me?” I demand, voice low enough that only she hears over the silence.

Her eyes flash. Blood trickles from her lip where my elbow cut her. She spits it out. “You grew soft,” she snaps. “You think you’re nothing like him. But you’ve become the very monster you swore to destroy.”

Her words land with brutal force. I feel the weight of every life lost, every promise broken. I swallow, tightening my grip on the machete.

“Maybe,” I admit. “But I’m not her executioner.”

Her breath catches—surprise or relief, I can’t tell. I don’t lower my blade, but I step back.

She straightens, slicking blood from her hair. “You always loved her more than me,” she hisses. “Even when I saved your life.”

The memory snaps into focus: her hand steady at my back when the tunnel collapsed, blood in my mouth, her face the last thing I saw before darkness. I feel the old pull—loyalty beyond logic.

“You’re my sister,” I say, voice rough. “Blood doesn’t break that.”

Her expression falters. Then, she nods, almost imperceptibly. I gesture toward the shattered doors.

“Go,” I say. “Leave this place. Stay alive.”

She hesitates, blade half-raised, then drops it at her feet. She brushes ash from her cheek and offers no more defiance. Instead, she turns and melts into the smoking corridor, boots echoing once, then silence.

I watch her go, questioning if mercy was the right choice. But family is a bond I can’t sever, even at the cost of my own wrath.

I sheath the machete with a slow, deliberate motion and pivot back to the dais. The Elder has not moved. He standswhere he sat, only now the silk of his robe is torn, a dark stain blooming on his side where a stray bullet nicked him during the charge. A thin rivulet of blood trickles between the folds of his sash.

He regards me with those rust-tinged eyes, unblinking, as if testing my mercy. I let the silence stretch. At the very edge of his throne, the golden sigil dents inward from the force of my blade earlier, a reminder that no power is untouchable.

I say finally, voice echoing across the chamber, “You live, Elder, by my choice. But your reign ends here.”

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