Through the scope of her rifle, Greyson’s masked face filled her vision. It was a monstrous thing, an insectile carapace that turned his features into something mythic. The black uniform fit so tightly it might have been painted on. He stood with gloved hands clasped at the small of his back, his shoulders ridged with controlled violence, perfectly at ease in front of a city that wanted only to see him act. Behindhim, the mirrored surface of Serel Tower and Haven Tower projected the live feed.
Shadera cataloged every angle, every likely source of interference, and let her body relax into stillness as her scope fell to the rebel. A woman—nobody she recognized, but she watched as she kept her head lifted in defiance despite her trembling body. Years ago, seeing this would have made Shadera cry out or charge the stage to try to stop it. She knew better now, knew she would never be able to stop the entirety of the Heart from consuming the oppressed. Now, instead, she only let herself feel the animal focus of the job.
Greyson’svoicecarriedacrossthe plaza as the last of the elite filled the area beneath the platform, cold and ceremonial.
“For crimes against the motherland and for violation of the sacred laws of New Found Haven, this woman stands judged by the Heart. By order of President Maximus Serel, justice will be enacted in the manner most befitting the crime. Death.” His words were flat, an echo of every other execution. “The charges are as follows: conspiracy against the Heart, illegal communication between the rings, engagement in rebel activity, and contraband smuggling.”
Every crime Greyson listed was a law he’d broken.
“In accordance with tradition, the condemned are allowed a final statement and a preference for method of execution.”
Like every other time, his focus turned to the rebel, asking her if she understood.
The woman lifted her chin as her lips twisted into a sneer. “My only crime is showing mercy, caring for those you have forsaken. Your bullet is a blessing, death is better than life in the rings.”
The word tore through his gut.
Mercy.
Shadera’sthroatbegantotighten, her vision blurring as the crowd’s attention locked on Greyson, as if the air itself had thinned to the point of rupture.
Panic began to rise, uncoiling in her chest as he pulled the gun from its holster. Every sound muted in her ears until there was nothing but deafening silence. Memories flashed behind Shadera’s eyes as Greyson pressed the muzzle to the base of the rebel’s skull.
She saw her father’s face as he stared at Maximus Serel with a look of purest hate, unbroken until the bullet severed his spine. Her mother falling next, slumped over his bleeding body.
Shadera couldn’t move, couldn’t see,couldn’t fucking breathe.
Greysonswallowedandhishand began to shake as the rebel whispered something—a prayer, maybe, or a curse. He couldn’t tell which.
He couldn’t hesitate, not again.
His vision blurred then, without pause, he pulled the trigger.
The crowd erupted in approval as blood splattered in an arc across the white marble, but he couldn’t hear it.
All he could hear was static.
Shadera’sbreathcaughtasthe woman’s body crumpled. Through her scope, she saw Greyson’s shoulders sag almost imperceptibly, saw the way he holstered his weapon with mechanical efficiency while something vital died behind his mask.
She watched as he stepped to the edge of the platform and said the last of the ceremonial words, then turned his back to the dead rebel as if the woman’s life had never mattered. As if she were just another animal slaughtered that he wouldn’t give a moment of thought to.
Rage coiled hot in her chest as she watched him casually walk down the steps of the dais. She lowered her rifle.
Not yet.
The kill would come, but it would be personal. Face to face. She wanted him to see her eyes when she pulled the trigger, wanted him to know exactly who was ending his miserable existence.
Chapter seven
Do It
Theprivateceremonyroomin Haven Tower stood empty and expectant, its vaulted ceiling arching overhead like the rib cage of some violent beast. Polished milky floors reflected the ceremonial candles’ glow, their flames dancing in perfect stillness as if even they dared not disturb the sanctity of the space.
Greyson arrived forty minutes early, as was his custom for all official functions. Control began with time.
He paced the perimeter of the circular chamber, counting his steps with every lap. Thirty paces across. Sixty around. His hand traced the edge of the central altar where, in less than an hour, he’d be bound forever to Moraine Daunt through the sacred Vow.
The twin veils waited on their pedestals at opposite sides of it—one black, one white, both woven with platinum thread that caught the light like trapped lightning. Once they lifted those veils, once they saw each other’s faces, there would be no turning back.
