Page 67 of Veil of Dust

The echo of silence from the bar’s standoff still throbs in my veins as I cross the safehouse threshold. The safehouse breathes heat and treachery, its walls pulsing with the weight of secrets too heavy to hold. Just hours ago, I stood behind my own counter, blades drawn, every eye in the room waiting for my move.

You think you can outplay me? I think, my blood cold, steady, a predator’s pulse. This is my ground, and I’m not the one who burns.

I stand over the map, one hand braced on the edge of the table, fingers digging into the scarred metal, the other resting on my holster, a silent promise. The map’s old, creased, and worn, marked in red and ash where we’ve carved out territories. We’ve rewritten borders here for months, clawing for control.

But now?

Now, the lines bleed, ink blurring under the weight of betrayal, alliances fraying like rope stretched too thin.

The men around me smile too easily, lips curling without warmth, their grins a lie that never reaches their eyes.

Buzzards, circling, waiting for the first sign of weakness, ready to pick the bones clean.

Waiting, their hands twitching, their glances too long, too sharp, hungry for the moment it all breaks.

Watching, every shift in their posture a tell, every laugh a signal they think I don’t hear.

The coup simmers beneath our boots, I think, my face tight, my focus razor-edged. One spark. One trigger. That’s all it takes.

My raven tattoo burns under my sleeve, a phantom ache, a reminder of the ink I wear for her, for Vespera.

Blood, spilled and owed, tying me to this fight, to her safety, her world.

Debt, to the Order, to the Elder, to the life I’ve chosen, but most of all to her, a debt I’ll pay in fire if I have to.

I’m here to pay both, to carve out the rot before it touches what’s mine, what’s ours.

I name the targets, my voice low, steady, cutting through the room’s hum like a blade through flesh.

Assign corners, routes, traps, each word a step in a dance I’ve mastered, setting the board for what’s coming.

Burn old ledgers in a steel drum in the corner, the pages curling in blue-edged flame, secrets turning to ash, their smoke stinging my eyes.

Then—

Everything goes silent.

Too still, the buzz of the lights louder now, the men’s movements frozen, waiting for the break.

I lift my head, senses flaring, every nerve alive with the certainty of betrayal.

Eyes scan the perimeter, quick, precise, catching every shadow, every twitch in the room’s corners.

Jace, the Baton Rouge muscle, lingers too long by the door, his bulk blocking the exit, deliberate.

His fingers twitch. Right hand. Waist height. A tell so clear it might as well be a shout.

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it, my hand sliding closer to my gun, instinct screaming louder than thought.

I move my hand to my holster, fingers brushing the grip, ready to draw, to end it.

A click, sharp, unmistakable, the sound of a hammer cocking.

I turn, fast, but not fast enough.

Too late.

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