Page 87 of Veil of Secrets

"Traitor!"

He doesn’t aim well—panic is steering him—but panic can kill just as fast as precision.

Time slows for just a moment. My heartbeat pounds calmly in my chest. The gun rises higher, barrel trembling, pointed in our general direction.

I spin instantly, instinct driving every muscle, the blade coming free of its sheath like a breath. I see the muzzle flash, a bright explosion in the dark, hear the bullet ricochet off the concrete wall behind me. The shot misses, wild and reckless.

He won't get another.

I close the gap, fast, smooth, practiced. He’s still fumbling with the trigger, eyes wide in disbelief at his own failure. He barely sees the knife until it’s buried hilt-deep into his chest.

Steel sinks through flesh easily. Blood spurts hot and fast, soaking my hand instantly. His scream is choked, brief, ending in a messy, wet cough. He collapses forward, body weight slumping against mine, but I shove him away without a second glance.

He falls onto the already bloody floor—exactly where Vince’s corpse lies cooling.

Blood pools fast beneath him, blending with Vince’s. There’s no poetry in it. Just mess, truth, and consequence.

I turn slowly, breathing steady, blade dripping onto the cold concrete.

Elara hasn't screamed. She hasn’t backed away. She stands calm and silent, a couple of feet behind me, eyes tracking my every move. Her hand hovers slightly, half-extended toward her own weapon, ready but controlled.

Our eyes meet through the lingering gun smoke.

She tilts her head just a fraction, assessing. Her voice is quiet and steady.

"You alright?"

My reply is simple, truthful.

"Yeah."

The adrenaline fades from her stance, shoulders easing. A faint smile flickers across her lips—not humor, just relief tempered by sarcasm.

"Good," she says dryly. "Didn’t feel like cleaning this up on my own."

The corner of my mouth lifts briefly—an acknowledgment, more than a smile. Her gaze settles on me, then moves deliberately to the second corpse, bleeding out across the floor. Her expression is unreadable but steady, accepting.

"This guy really thought running in here screaming was a solid plan," she mutters, tone edged with disgust. "Marco's guys get dumber by the minute."

"Desperation," I say calmly, cleaning my blade methodically with a scrap of fabric from the shelf. "Marco’s down to the dregs now. No real soldiers left."

She nods, arms folding loosely across her chest as she steps around the body. Her boots leave faint prints in the blood as she circles slowly, studying the dead man’s face carefully.

"He’s nobody," she finally says, voice low and contemplative. "Just some random loyalist, too stupid to know better."

"Exactly," I say, glancing back toward the staircase. "Marco’s already pulling at loose ends. He’s trying to buy time."

Elara shakes her head, lip curling slightly. "He doesn’t have much left to buy. The rest will scatter."

"Maybe." I meet her eyes again, voice steady. "Or maybe they rally one last time."

She shrugs lightly, stepping back beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine briefly, warmth against the basement’s chill. She doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.

"Either way," she says softly, "we’ll be ready."

"Yeah," I echo quietly. "We will."

We stand there for a moment, close enough for me to feel the faint rise and fall of her breathing. The basement is quiet again, though it feels different now. Emptier, maybe. Or clearer.

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