Page 80 of New World

Only when Dorane had breathed his last would Zoak turn his full attention to her.

One slice at a time.

Pleased with his plan, Zoak moved with the silence of a shadow, descending from the ridge with practiced ease, slipping between the half-buried structures like a wraith. He ignored the faded remnants of a past that wasn’t his—broken pottery, a child’s rusted trinket, the blackened remnants of a doorway.

His destination was already chosen.

Across from the graves, stood the shell of an old hut, its roof partially collapsed, its walls blackened with soot from whatever fire had consumed it long ago. The interior was hollowed out, but it provided the perfect vantage point—deep enough to conceal him in shadow, open enough to give him a clear line of fire.

From here, he would wait.

He settled against the farthest wall, pulling his rifle from its holster and laying it across his lap. The sight was calibrated within seconds, the crosshairs settling over the distant graves. He adjusted his angle, testing the view, imagining Dorane kneeling there, head bowed, vulnerable.

He imagined the moment his first shot struck.

A slow, satisfied exhale escaped him.

Yes. This will be perfect.

He would let them feel safe. Let them grieve. Let them lower their guard. His fingers slid absently over the serrated edge of his blade, feeling the ridges catch against his calloused skin. He imagined the edge sinking into flesh, the slow resistance before it gave way, spilling warmth onto the sand. He inhaled, picturing the scent of copper mingling with the dry desert air.

He turned the knife over and carved a slow, deliberate line into the soot-covered floor, tracing a shape from memory—a symbol once burned into his wrist by his old Masters. A mark of shame, they had told him. A reminder of his weakness.

“You want it too much, Zoak. A true Turbinta does not savor the kill—they execute and move on.”

He could still see the old Masters’ sneers, hear their warnings, the threats of dismissal. They had called him undisciplined. Weak.

Fools.

He had proven them wrong.

Yet…

His grip tightened on his rifle as a flicker of unease stirred in his gut.

The woman had mocked him. Had laughed at him. Had waved his threats aside as if they were nothing more than an irritation.

Even now, the memory of her smirk set his blood boiling.

No. He would not let her get inside his head. This time, she would not be the one in control.

But the rage coiled in his chest, hot, unchecked.

He would take his time with them. And when the village was once again filled with the scent of death, he would carve that same mark into the Ancient Knight’s flesh—deep, final, unforgiving.

He closed his eyes, listening to the hush of the wind through the shattered walls, his body still as a coiled viper.

Not yet. Let them feel safe. Let them grieve. Then…

His grip tightened on the blade, the faint scrape of metal against stone the only sound in the dying light.

Then, he would strike.

He could already hear it. Not their screams—no, those would come later. But the moment before. That last heartbeat of silence. The way a body knows before the blade strikes, before the bullet shreds through flesh.

That silence was his favorite part.

He let out a slow breath and settled deeper into the shadows.

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