Page 63 of Veil of Dust

That was their first mistake, a fatal miscalculation born of underestimating me, underestimating what I’d do for her.

The second was touching what’s mine. Vespera, her bar, her life, they dared to mark it, to threaten it, and now they’ll pay in blood.

Mud sucks at my boots, thick and greedy, water slapping around my knees, cold but not enough to slow me. The swamp fights to hold me, but I’m stronger, hungrier.

I move through it fast, my body a machine honed for this, muscle and instinct working as one.

Every footstep calculated, placed to avoid the snap of a twig or the splash of deeper water. I keep the blade low, its weight an extension of my arm, my breath tighter than usual, controlled but sharp with adrenaline.

Something cracks behind a tree, a sound too deliberate for the swamp’s natural chaos.

I pivot, body low, machete raised, eyes scanning the shadows for movement.

Two figures burst from the brush, their silhouettes jagged against the dusk, weapons gleaming faintly in their hands.

The first has a blade. Rusted, dull, but heavy enough to split bone if it lands. He’s still dangerous, his eyes wild with the thrill of the hunt.

The second’s got a pipe. Bent rebar, maybe, crude but brutal, gripped like he means to crush my skull.

The first swings, a wide arc, sloppy, telegraphed from the way his shoulder twists.

I block, my machete meeting his blade with a scream of steel, sparks flaring briefly in the dark.

I slam my machete into his gut, driving it deep, feeling the resistance of flesh and muscle give way. Twist, a sharp wrench towiden the wound. Pull it out sideways, blood spraying hot across my forearm, soaking into the swamp.

He gasps, a wet, desperate sound, tries to scream but chokes on his own blood.

Doesn’t make it. His body crumples, knees hitting the mud, face disappearing into the black water.

The second charges, pipe raised, a snarl twisting his face.

I duck, his swing whistling over my head, the wind hissing with its force. Then I drive my elbow into his jaw, bone cracking under the blow. He stumbles, off balance, and I grab his head, fingers locking around his skull, twist hard.

Crunch. The sound is final, his neck snapping clean, his body going limp in my grip.

He drops, a lifeless heap, swallowed by the swamp’s greedy embrace.

Both gone in under ten seconds, their blood mixing with the water, their threat erased.

I step back, breathing hard, chest heaving as adrenaline surges, sharp and alive. Blood runs off the edge of my blade, dripping into the swamp, a scarlet trail marking my path.

They die for her.

Every one. Each life I take is a shield for Vespera, a vow carved in flesh and steel.

I scan the clearing again, eyes piercing the dusk, ears straining past the swamp’s relentless hum, but it is quiet now, no footsteps, no rustle of reeds.

Nothing yet. Alfeo’s men are scattered, but more are out there, lurking, thinking they can outlast me.

I keep moving, machete low, boots slogging through the mud, water rippling around my legs. The swamp’s alive, its pulse matching mine, a rhythm of hunt and kill that drives me forward.

Vespera’s face flashes in my mind, her eyes gray and fierce, her touch a fire that burns even here, miles from her bed. She’s the reason I’m out here, the reason I don’t stop, don’t hesitate. They touched what’s mine, threatened her world, and I’ll carve through every one of them to keep her safe.

The trees lean closer, moss dripping like tears, their branches clawing at the sky. Insects swarm, buzzing against my neck, drawn to the sweat beading down my spine, the blood drying on my skin. I don’t swat them away. They’re part of this, part of the bayou’s gut, and I’m no stranger to its hunger.

My grip tightens on the machete, its handle slick but sure, a tool that knows me as well as I know it. Every swing, every cut, is for her, a line drawn in the swamp’s black heart that Alfeo can’t cross.

I spot another sign, a broken branch, fresh, sap still wet. They’re close, careless, leaving trails a blind man could follow. My lips curl, not a smile, but a predator’s certainty. They think they’re hunters, but they’re prey, and I’m the blade that ends them.

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