Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“So you’re the one who makes sure everyone in the rings gets a good view when your brother executes their friends on the live stream.” Shadera’s voice had gone flat, the brief moment of camaraderie evaporating.

Greyson stepped forward. “That’s not—”

“No, let me answer this,” Lira interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. She tuned, facing Shadera directly. “Yes. I am. I make sure everyone sees exactly what the Heart wants them to see. I craft the stories that keep people compliant, that justify the executions, that maintain the system.” Her voice was steady, unflinching. “I wasn’t born in the Boundary, with the luxury of open rebellion. I wasn’t born in the Cardinal. I was born here, in this prison—make no mistake it is a prison, luxurious as it is—where every step is watched and measured.”

Shadera’s expression remained hard, but she didn’t interrupt. Greyson still moved closer on instinct, preparing for her to attack.

“You think I don’t know what my father is?” Lira continued, something raw breaking through her polished exterior. “You think I don’t understand that the Heart is corrupt, that the system is broken? I’ve known it since I was old enough to recognize the fear in our maids’ eyes.”

She leaned on the counter closer to Shadera, her voice dropping lower.

“I do what I must to survive, just like you. The difference is that my survival doesn’t just depend on my own actions, but on my father’s perception of my loyalty. Do you think I’m safe because of my last name? Because of this?” She tapped a finger against her mask. “I could be on that platform tomorrow if I step out of line—if I speak against him. If I show an ounce of sympathy for the wrong cause.”

Greyson watched this exchange with growing unease. He’d never heard Lira speak so openly about her position, not even to him. There was a naked honesty in her words that made him acutely aware of how much she normally concealed, even from family.

“Why don’t you—” Shadera began.

“Why don’t I do something about it?” Lira finished for her. “Because I lack the power, the authority, the position. Because I am a woman in a system designed by men to keep power in their hands. Because every time I’ve tried to mitigate suffering, I’ve been reminded of my place.”

Lira reached up and touched her mask, a gesture that seemed unconscious, habitual. “This isn’t just a symbol of status. It’s a muzzle. A constant reminder that my face, my identity, my very existence belongs to the Heart first, to the Serel name second, and to me last.”

The silence that followed felt weighted, heavy with truths that were rarely spoken aloud in the Heart. Greyson held his breath as the two women reassessed each other, calculating where to go from here.

“I don’t like you,” Lira said bluntly to Shadera. “Your people killed my brother. But we share a common enemy, whether you recognize it or not.”

“Your father,” Shadera said, a statement rather than a question.

“Maximus Serel is a monster,” Lira confirmed, and Greyson felt a chill at the simple declaration. “And he’s using all of us as pieces in whatever game he’s playing. So perhaps we can set aside our mutual distaste long enough to ensure we all survive it.”

Silence fell over the kitchen. Shadera studied Lira for a long moment, her expression smooth, unreadable.

“You said there were other things you needed to talk about. What are they?” Shadera finally asked.

Lira glanced at Greyson, as if gaging his reaction before answering. “The Vow ceremony is in four days, tonight’s dinner is meant to test you. It’s for my father to see how far he can push you before you snap so he will know your limits publicly. Do not show him anything.” Greyson saw the nervous tic in her jaw before she spoke the next words. “You’re about to step into a world that is crueler than you could ever imagine. Talk to Greyson. Talk to each other. Make sure you understand what to expect so you are not blindsided.”

Shadera’s back straightened. “What do you mean?”

“You two need to talk, really talk.” Lira pushed away from the counter, lifting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll have appropriate clothing delivered before dinner.” She paused for only a beat, looking to Greyson. “Walk me out, brother?”

Greyson nodded once, escorting Lira toward the door without looking back at Shadera. He waited, biting his tongue until they had stepped outside the door and it closed behind him.

“Why would you say that to her?” he snapped, turning to Lira as they waited for the elevator. “Do you realize how angry she is going to be? And it’s not subtle anger, Li. It’s ‘slice my throat while I sleep and stab me in the heart’ kind of anger.”

Lira didn’t turn to look at him until the elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside. Greyson put his hand on the frame, forcing the doors to stay open until she gave him an answer.

“It doesn’t matter how much I hate her, Grey, she deserves to know what happens to the women here after the Vow and she needs to hear it coming from you. If you want her on our side, if you want her to trust us, you have to tell her. If you don’t, there will be no chance of her ever telling us anything.”

Greyson stared at her for a long moment. He knew she was right. Knew that the truth would be easier to swallow coming from him—but it was a truth he still hadn’t accepted himself. His hand fell from the doors’ pathway and Lira disappeared behind them as they swept shut. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, and for one breath he considered running.

Chapter eighteenThank You

Shadera stood before the mirror, turning the mask in her hands. Beautiful and macabre. A Daggermouth symbol brought into the heart of her enemy’s world. She hated that she loved it.

Her fingers traced the contours of the cheekbones, the hollow of the eyes, the curve where the nose would be. It was exquisite craftsmanship, far more detailed than anything she’d expected them to give to her.

A gift. She’d never been given anything before. Everything in the Boundary always came at a price. She supposed that this would too.

“Fuck,” she muttered to her reflection.

In the Boundary, faces were weapons, identities were armor. To cover yourself was to admit fear, to tell the world that you were a coward. But here, in this prison, she had no choice.

She lifted it to her face, the cold material sending a shiver down her spine as it made contact with her skin. The weight of it surprised her—heavier than expected. The edges suctioned to her skin, holding it snuggly in place. It fit perfectly, but wearing any Heart mask felt like surrender. Foreign. Invasive. Like betrayal.

She didn’t bother looking at her reflection, not now. Not with what she would see staring back at her.

Shadera adjusted her mask for the third time as Chapman held the car door open, the black town car idling at the building’s private entrance. She caught her reflection in the car’s tinted window—death staring back at her, silver-traced and elegant. At least if she had to wear their mark, she would wear it as a threat.

Chapman had looked appropriately horrified when she’d emerged from her room wearing it, his eyes darting to Greyson as if expecting him to object. But Greyson had merely nodded once, something like satisfaction glinting in his eyes before he donned his own. A matched set of nightmares, ready for their public debut.

“It suits you,” Greyson said from behind his mask, the familiar obsidian hiding whatever expression might have accompanied the words as he gestured for her to enter first.

Shadera didn’t respond, just slid into the back seat, the leather cool and supple beneath her. Another luxury that made her skin crawl with the knowledge of what such excess cost the rings. She shifted to the far side, maintaining as much distance as possible between them as Greyson followed, settling into the seat beside her.

Chapman closed the door behind him, then took his place in the driver’s seat. He was a thin man but strong, older than she’d expected for a Heart servant, with methodical movements that spoke of military training. Cardinal born, Greyson had said. Not a slave. She wasn’t convinced there was a difference when it came to Heart service.

The partition between them and Chapman was half raised, creating an intimate bubble that felt suddenly too small for the two of them. Shadera felt her lungs constricting, her chest tightening.

Her eyes tracked their route as the car pulled away from the building, cataloging landmarks, intersections, security checkpoints. Three turns to the main boulevard. Four security checkpoints between here and the outer Heart perimeter. Two surveillance drone hubs visible on rooftops. All information she could use if—when—she found her chance to escape. Information Jaeger and Jameson could use to plan their next strikes.

The thought of Jameson sent a pang through her chest. He would be frantic by now, thinking her dead or worse. And here she sat, in a luxury car beside the Executioner, wearing a Heart mask like some prized pet. Shame burned hot beneath her skin.

“Where are we going?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

Show nothing. Reveal nothing. Gather everything.

“The military district first,” Greyson answered, his attention on a tablet he’d brought. “Then the farming dome, security headquarters, and the Entertainment District. You should see what you’re up against before tonight.”

“You mean what I’m being forced to endorse.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone.

He looked up from the tablet, those blue eyes bright and unreadable behind his mask. “Yes.” The simple acknowledgment of truth surprised her. No justification, no Heart propaganda. Just recognition of her reality.

She inclined her head. “Practical of you to show your assassin exactly how well defended you are.”

A soft huff escaped him. “Consider it mutually beneficial. You get to satisfy your curiosity, and I get to impress upon you the futility of any thoughts of further assassination attempts.”

“Bold of you to assume that will stop me.”

She swore she saw a smile reach his eyes. “Bold of you to assume you’ll get another chance.”

They lapsed into silence, but it felt different from before—charged with something that didn’t quite feel so hostile.

Shadera turned to look out the window as the car wound through the Heart’s immaculate streets. Everything was pristine—the sidewalks spotless, the buildings gleaming in the early afternoon sun. Even the trees seemed perfectly shaped, not a leaf out of place. It was beautiful in a sterile, controlled way that made her stomach twist with anger.

People walked with unhurried steps, their faces hidden behind masks of varying designs, though none as provocative as hers. They wore clothes all similar to each other—elegant, understated, expensive. From a distance, they looked like figures in a simulation rather than real people. Perfect and empty.

“After tonight’s dinner,” Greyson said suddenly, breaking the silence, “we should discuss what Lira mentioned.”

Shadera turned back to him. “About what to expect?”

He nodded, his gloved fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. “There are aspects of Heart society, of the Vow ceremony you should be prepared for. Things that will be expected of you. Things you’ll see that . . .” He trailed off, jaw working beneath his mask. “Things that will be difficult . . . shocking for someone not raised here.”

Something in his tone made her study him more carefully. The rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hand had curled into a fist on his thigh, the slight increase in his breathing rate. Signs she’d been trained to read in targets before the kill—signs of fear, of distress.

“You don’t want to go to this dinner. You’re worried about it,” she realized aloud.

His head snapped toward her. “What makes you say that?”

“Your body is screaming it.” She gestured to his tense posture. “I’ve been reading people’s fear my entire life. It’s coming off you in waves.”

For a moment, she thought he might deny it, might retreat behind the cold facade he usually maintained. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

“I don’t,” he admitted, the words so quiet she almost didn’t catch them. “But the consequences of not going aren’t worth it.”

The admission shifted something between them—a crack in the perfect Executioner’s armor, a glimpse of the man beneath the monster. Shadera found herself wondering, not for the first time, who Greyson Serel might have been if he hadn’t been born into this family, if he hadn’t been shaped by the Heart’s poison.

“What happens at these dinners?” she asked, genuine curiosity replacing the tactical assessment she’d been conducting.

Greyson looked away, staring at the city passing outside the window. “Nothing good.”

The car slowed as they approached a checkpoint—the first of many, she guessed, based on the military presence ahead. Guards with pulse rifles stood at attention, their own masks more utilitarian than decorative.

“For now,” Greyson continued, straightening as they pulled to a stop, “remember that you’re no longer just Shadera Kael, a Daggermouth from the Boundary. As far as anyone knows, you’re my fiancée. My chosen partner. Try to act accordingly.”

“You want me to simper and hang on your every word?” she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

He actually chuckled at that, a small quirk of his lips visible at the corners of his eyes. “I’d like to see you try. No, just . . . don’t threaten to kill anyone in public. That should be sufficient.”

Despite herself, Shadera felt an answering smile tug at her lips. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

A guard approached their window, and Greyson rolled it down with a touch to a panel beside him. The guard’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of Shadera’s mask but recovered quickly.

“Identification, sir?”

Greyson handed over a sleek black card. “Greyson Serel. Security clearance alpha-nine. And my fiancée, Shadera Kael. She’s been cleared by the patriarch himself.”

The guard scanned the card, then nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir. We received the notification. You’re clear to proceed.”

Shadera’s brow furrowed as the window rolled up. “Maximus would never give me access to the Veyra base.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Greyson tilted his head, a smile in his voice. “But Callum would.”

As they drove through the gate, Shadera found herself studying Greyson again. There was more to him that she was starting to see—layers beneath the Executioner, the son, the Heart elite. A complexity she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge because it was easier to hate a simple monster than a complicated man.

“What?” he asked, apparently noticing her scrutiny.

“Nothing,” she replied, turning back to the window. “Just thinking that maybe we’re both prisoners here, in different ways.”

He didn’t answer, but she felt his gaze linger on her profile for a long moment before he too turned to look out at the Heart—the beautiful cage that held them both.

The car swept through three more checkpoints, each more heavily fortified than the last. At each stop, Greyson’s name opened gates like magic—no questions, no delays, no searches, just immediate compliance.

Power. This was what real power looked like, Shadera realized. Not the brutal strength she’d known in the Boundary, but this frictionless movement through a world designed to serve you.

The streets grew wider as they approached the military district. Buildings became more utilitarian, less ostentatious, though still bearing the Heart’s signature glass and platinum aesthetic. Veyra in black uniforms patrolled in precise formations, weapons visible but not drawn. A show of force, carefully choreographed to appear both casual and overwhelming.

Greyson pointed toward a massive complex surrounded by high walls. “The trading base. We maintain trade relations with the three other city-states there.”

Shadera absorbed this information, filing it away. Jameson had suspected other cities survived the collapse, but confirmation was valuable.

“What do you trade?” she asked, cataloging every detail—the number of Veyra per rotation, the access points that might be exploitable.

“Technology mostly, each city-state manages its own resources.” His voice took on a lecturing quality, as if reciting from a textbook. “New Found Haven is the largest of the three and its agricultural production is sufficient for our population, assuming proper rationing.”

“Proper rationing,” she repeated flatly. “Is that what you call starvation?”

“No. That’s what my father calls efficient resource management.”

The distinction was subtle but clear. Not we. He never said we when he spoke of the Heart, it was always ‘my father’. Shadera filed this away too, unsure what to make of it.

The car continued past the weapons manufacturing facilities, enormous complexes that hummed with activity even visible from the street. Workers moved with purpose, their masks marking them as Cardinal residents permitted temporary access to the Heart for labor. Greyson provided details about production capacity, distribution protocols, security measures—all information that would be invaluable to the resistance. She wondered if he realized what he was giving her, or if he believed her so thoroughly trapped that such knowledge posed no threat.

“The agricultural sector,” Greyson announced as they approached a series of massive glass domes that rose like bubbles from the immaculate Heart landscape.

Shadera’s breath caught in her throat.

“Stop the car.” The words came out almost frantic before she had a chance to steady her voice.

Chapman glanced in the rearview mirror, seeking confirmation from Greyson, who nodded once. The car slowed, pulling into a private entrance that bypassed the main security gate. The vehicle glided through a decontamination chamber, then emerged inside the perimeter of the first dome. Shadera stared at the abundance behind the glass, feeling something hollow open in her chest.

She had heard of these, of course. Everyone in the Boundary knew of the farming domes. But seeing them was different from hearing rumors. The sheer scale was overwhelming—acres of protected cropland, gleaming in the sun.

“Would you like to see inside?” Greyson asked softly.

Shadera nodded immediately.

She hadn’t noticed that Chapman had exited the car until her door swung open, the climate-controlled air hitting her skin with a pleasant warmth that reminded her of stories she’d been told about the world before—before the collapse, before New Found Haven, before everything went wrong. The scent was what struck her next—clean soil, growing things, a sweetness she couldn’t identify.

Finally she exited the car as Greyson made his way around the back of it.

“This way,” Greyson said, tipping his head toward an entrance that connected directly to the main dome.

The doors slid open silently, and Shadera stopped in the threshold, momentarily stunned by what lay before her.

Fields.

Actual fields of crops, stretching farther than seemed possible in an enclosed space. The dome’s transparent ceiling soared overhead, filtering sunlight to create perfect growing conditions. Workers moved through rows of plants, tending, harvesting, pruning. Every shade of green imaginable, punctuated by the colors of ripening fruits and vegetables.

She stepped forward slowly, reverently. Her palm pressed against the clear barrier that separated the viewing area from the fields themselves as her heart expanded then clenched in her chest.

The emotion that began to saturate her veins wasn’t anger this time, wasn’t rage. It was despair. There was food. There was so much food.

“This is just one of twelve domes,” Greyson said quietly, coming to stand beside her. “There are others for different climate needs, plus facilities for livestock.”

Shadera swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight, a static beginning to buzz in her ears.

“Who are they?” she asked, nodding toward the workers.

“Cardinal residents. Specialized agricultural technicians.”

“Do they get to take any of this home to their families?”

Greyson’s silence was answer enough.

She turned to face him, the mask hiding the pain she knew was written all over her face but not the crack in her voice. “Why are you showing me all this?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the fields beyond the barrier. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, careful. “In a few days you’ll be my wife. You’ll have a role to play in the Heart whether you like it or not. You should know the truth about what happens here.”

“The truth?” The rage was coming now. “The truth is—”

“I know the truth,” he cut her off, something hard entering his voice. “I’ve always known it and I am trying to change—” He stopped himself, as if he were about to say too much, show too much. “Knowing and changing are different matters entirely.”

Before she could respond, he was moving back toward the exit, his steps quick and purposeful. Shadera followed, her mind racing to process everything she’d seen, everything he’d said. He was hiding something crucial from her, she could feel it. There was a current of anger running through him that she hadn’t expected—not defensive rage, but something deeper.

They returned to the car in silence and Chapman opened her door for her as Greyson slid in from the other side. Something in that conversation had made him tense, had put him on edge. His hand flexed against his knee as if he were trying to regain control of whatever emotion was sweeping through him.

She watched him bury it, could see it in his body as he slowly pushed it back down, swallowing every ounce of proof that it had ever been there.

He cleared his throat. “Next is the Entertainment District,” Greyson said as they passed through another checkpoint. His voice had returned to its neutral cadence, the momentary crack in his composure sealed over.

Here, the Heart’s aesthetics shifted. Still pristine, still controlled, but with a veneer of indulgence that hadn’t been present in the other districts. Theaters, restaurants, private clubs, all designed with the same elegant restraint that characterized Heart architecture. Signs glowed subtly, promising pleasures to those with access.

“This is where Callum works?” she asked.

Greyson nodded with a soft chuckle. “This is what Callum owns. His main establishment is in the back end of the district, but he owns everything in one way or another.”

“So, he just manages everything?” Shadera pressed.

“Officially you could say that. Unofficially . . . Let’s just say, outside of my father, he is the most dangerous man in the Heart.”

“I thought that was you, being the Executioner and all.”

Greyson glanced over at her. “No, the elites don’t fear me because it’s not them I kill on that platform. But Callum, he doesn’t need a platform to instill fear. The secrets he collects do that for him.”

Shadera found herself oddly curious about this man who seemed to move between worlds. “And you trust him with your secrets?”

There was no hesitation in Greyson’s answer. “I trust him with my life.”

She didn’t answer, just turned back to the window, and the car continued its circuit. Shadera watched as people entered restaurants where a single meal would cost more than the rings saw in a month. Watched couples disappearing into theaters, their masks glinting in the afternoon light. Watched wealth and comfort parading itself while miles away, people were killing each other for credits.

“The Heart consumes,” she said softly, more to herself than to Greyson. “It takes and takes and gives nothing back.”

She turned to look at him again, studying the rigid line of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself while sitting beside her. “What’s your purpose in it?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He went still, his breathing changing slightly. “I was born to serve its function,” he finally said. “To maintain order.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Their eyes met from behind their masks—hers challenging, his guarded.

“What’s your purpose, Greyson?” she asked again. “Not what you were born to do. What do you choose to do with the power you have?”

He stared at her for a long moment, as if he was calculating his answer. But then the car slowed, pulling up to another checkpoint, and the chance to get answers was shattered as he moved to roll down his window.

Shadera leaned back in her seat, watching him retreat behind his walls. It struck her suddenly that they’d spent hours together, traveled through the Heart’s most secure areas, engaged in conversations that bordered on treasonous—and not once had she actively plotted his death during that time.

The realization was unsettling. She’d come here with a single purpose: kill the Executioner. Now, the lines were blurring in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Greyson was still her enemy, still represented everything she fought against, but he was becoming a person to her. Complex, contradictory, trapped in his own way.

That made her mission both harder and more necessary. Because if someone like Greyson—born into every privilege, given every advantage—couldn’t change the system from within, then the only option left was to tear it down completely.

The car pulled up to Serel Tower’s private entrance, but Shadera made no move to exit. Something held her in place, a question that had been building since they’d left the apartment.

“Do you believe in it?” she asked abruptly.

Greyson paused, his hand freezing in the air as he reached for the door handle. “In what?”

“Any of it. The Heart. Your father’s vision. The necessity of keeping people separated, starving, controlled.” She turned to face him fully, wishing she could see his expression behind the mask. “Do you actually believe this is how the world should be?”

Greyson glanced at Chapman through the partition. “Give us a moment.”

Chapman nodded once and stepped out of the car, positioning himself where he could observe without hearing.

Greyson’s jaw flexed beneath his mask, the movement barely perceptible but revealing the tension building within him. He exhaled, a long, measured breath that seemed to carry the weight of decisions being made, lines being crossed.

“No,” he said finally.

The single word landed between them with the impact of a confession, simple but profound.

“No?” she echoed, uncertain which question he was answering.

“No, I don’t believe in it. No, I don’t think it’s right.” His voice had dropped lower, as if the car might be listening. “No, I don’t support my father’s vision for New Found Haven.”

Shadera went very still, absorbing the stark acknowledgment that aligned so closely with her own condemnation.

“I hate him,” Greyson stated, leaving no room for her to question it. “Maybe even more than you do. More than Lira does. More than anyone could possibly understand. I’ve watched him destroy everything he touches—my mother, my brother, the city, me. I’ve pulled the trigger on people knowing their only crime was desperation, was questioning a system designed to break them.”

His gloved hand curled into a fist on his knee, the leather creaking with the force of his grip.

“I know exactly what I am, Shadera. I know the blood on my hands will never wash clean. I know that when judgment comes—if there’s anything after this life—I’ll burn for what I’ve done.”

Shadera’s breath caught. The unfiltered honesty in his voice stripping away a layer of hate she’d constructed around him. This wasn’t the script she'd expected, wasn’t the conversation she’d prepared for. This was something raw, something dangerous.

“Then why serve him?” she asked, her voice matching his quietness. “If you understand what’s happening, why be his weapon?”

“Because the alternatives are worse.” He turned to face her, and even through the mask, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. “Because my father would replace me with someone who enjoys the killing. Because there are things I can do from this position that I couldn’t do from a grave.” His eyes flickered to his hands. “It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But it’s something.”

“What things?” She leaned closer, curiosity and doubt warring. She needed specifics, needed proof. “What are you doing to right your wrongs, little heir?”

Something changed in his posture—a subtle withdrawal, a reassertion of control. “Another time,” he said, reaching again for the door. “We should prepare for dinner.”

And just like that, the moment of vulnerability closed. Shadera wanted to grab him, force him to continue, demand evidence of these claims that upended her understanding of him. But the car door was already open, Chapman standing at attention, the moment lost. The walls rebuilding themselves between them.

She followed him into the building, noting how the security personnel straightened as he passed, how their eyes widened at the sight of her mask before quickly returning to carefully neutral expressions. The elevator carried them upward in silence, floor after floor disappearing beneath them as they ascended to the penthouse levels.

When they entered, Shadera noticed immediately that packages had been delivered—several boxes stacked neatly on the living room table, a note in elegant handwriting propped against them.

“From Lira,” he said, checking a note attached to the largest box as he removed his mask. “Clothes for tonight’s dinner and the next few days.”

Shadera approached the packages cautiously, as if they might contain traps rather than clothing. The note was simple:

For making an entrance. Choose your armor wisely. -Li.

“I need to review some documents before we go,” Greyson said, already moving toward his study. “Chapman will let you know when it’s time to leave.”

She nodded, watching him retreat. His shoulders carried that same tension she’d noticed earlier, the weight of what was to come pressing down on him visibly.

“Greyson,” she called after him, surprising herself with the use of his name rather than an epithet.

He paused at the threshold, hand resting on the doorframe as he turned back to look at her, a question in his eyes.