Page 85 of New World

He squeezed the trigger. A sharp crack echoed across the ruined village. Dorane’s body jerked, a red stain blooming across his chest as he crumpled near the graves.

A scream—raw, desperate—ripped through the air. The woman dropped to her knees, her hands hovering over Dorane’s unmoving form, her distress filling the abandoned village.

Zoak smirked, savoring the moment before he rose from the shell of the hut, his weapon still raised, moving slowly as he basked in the kill. He kept his eyes focused on the woman. The shot he had taken at Dorane wouldn’t kill the man—immediately. Dorane’s lung would fill with liquid, making it difficult for him to breathe. He would slowly begin choking on his own blood, making his death agonizing as he slowly suffocated.

His gaze flicked to Dorane lying in the dirt, then back to the woman’s face. Confusion swept through him when he noticed her expression.

Not a sneer. Not a grief-stricken grimace. She had a serene, knowing smile.

Zoak felt his gut twist. His steps slowed as his instincts started to scream a warning at him that all was not as it appeared. His gaze flicked downward again, past where the woman stood with a relaxed, easy posture. He swallowed when he saw Dorane rising to his feet, casually brushing the dirt from his clothing.

Zoak’s vision blurred with rage and he bared his teeth a snarl. They had played him for a fool! Baited him, set him up, let him sweat?—

“You think you have won, but you haven’t,” he growled.

“Oh, I think we have,” Dorane dryly commented, grimacing when he looked at the dirt on his hand before he pulled the Gallant Staff at his side.

The woman just smiled and shook her head at him. Rage poured through him and he took a step toward her, only to halt when she flicked her wrist and the Gallant Staff she was holding extended, the end glowing with a brilliant red light. His clawed fingers curled around the rifle in his hand even as his other hand slid down to the knife at his waist.

“I wouldn’t,” a deep voice warned.

His head snapped to his left as Roan Landais and a tall, blonde woman stepped out from the shadows of a ruined hut. Roan held his Gallant Staff pointed in his direction.

Zoak’s pulse slammed against his ribs. He stiffened, every muscle locking tight, his breath hissing between clenched teeth.

No. This isn’t possible!

He had accounted for every factor, every variable. He had watched them—he had seen the grief rip through them. It had been real. His grip on the rifle convulsed. The betrayal of his own senses sent a slow, seething rage through his veins.

They had tricked him. They had outplayed him. His blood roared as he stepped forward, weapon still raised, willing—needing—to regain control. But then… he heard the laugh.

He twisted and froze when he saw another Ancient Knight holding a Gallant Staff standing behind him.

“Hi, Sergi,” Mei greeted.

“Hi, Mei,” Sergi replied with an answering grin.

Sergi let out a low whistle, twirling his Gallant Staff in his hand as he walked forward. “I gotta say, Dorane, that was some top-tier dying back there. Really sold it. Ever considered a career in theater?”

Dorane rolled his eyes, brushing a spot of dust from his chest. “No, but if you’d like me to shoot you and see how well you sell it, just let me know.”

Sergi grinned. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass. La’Rue gets upset when I get hurt.”

“I can imagine. You know, it’s been a while since I’ve been shot. What do you suggest I add?” Dorane asked.

Pain exploded through Zoak.

“Maybe an example of what death sounds like would help,” a wry, feminine voice suggested from behind him.

Zoak’s breath hitched and his rifle slipped from his grasp as a blade sank through his back, piercing his body and protruding from his stomach. He staggered, his mind scrambling to catch up with the cold bite of steel cutting deep.

His eyes dropped to his stomach, disbelieving, and he wrenched forward, the sharp Turbinta blade slicing up with deadly precision as he pulled away. His clawed hands opened as numbness spread through him and his weapon clattered to the ground. He turned sharply, his vision swimming, his gaze locking onto the face of his executioner.

Kella.

She stood behind him, her expression stone-cold, her eyes unreadable. Beside her, a dark-skinned man stood with a second weapon raised, ready to strike.

Zoak tried to speak, to snarl, to curse her?—

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