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. Behind him, 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’s voice carried across the 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’s throat began to tighten, 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.

Greyson swallowed and his hand 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’s breath caught as the 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 sevenDo It

The private ceremony room in 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.

The law was absolute. To see was to possess, to know was to own. The Vow ceremony wasn’t just tradition, it was the foundation of the Heart’s social order.

Greyson moved to the western window, staring out at the city sprawled beneath him. From this height, even the Boundary’s decay looked beautiful under the setting sun, like a wound healing at the edges of something vital. He pressed his hand against the glass, feeling the chill seep into his skin.

The Daunt family was old money, predating even the Serel line in some bastard branch of the old world. Their daughter was renowned for her loyalty, her absolute devotion to the purity of the Heart. Greyson had met her once, at a function so exquisitely boring he’d spent most of the night plotting how best to end his own life with the salad fork. Her voice was monotone, her eyes mathematical and calculating, and she never smiled.

They would be perfect together, two masks missing their souls.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing every strand into place as he turned his back to the city and slowly returned to the altar.

He wondered, not for the first time, if Brooker had ever felt nervous like this, or if he’d just compartmentalized it, bottled it up, and let it rot somewhere dark inside him. Nothing ever rattled Brooker, or if it did, he didn’t show it.

He stood in the center of the room, closing his eyes as he squared his shoulders, and let his mind go blank except for the single imperative: endure.

High above Greyson, tucked into the shadows of the HVAC system, Shadera Kael held her breath. She’d been there for hours, her body contorted into the cramped metal tunnel that ran along the ceiling, and her muscles ached with protest.

Through the narrow slats of the air vent, she’d watched the room being prepared—Veyra guards checking every corner, scanning for contraband, then departing without even a glance in her direction. She’d watched workers arrange the candles in perfect geometric patterns, place the ceremonial veils in their positions, and polish every surface until it gleamed.

And now she watched Greyson, silent and statuesque in the center of the room.

She shifted her weight, and the metal duct creaked beneath her. Greyson’s head snapped up at the sound, his masked face turning toward the ceiling.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Shadera made her decision in the silence between two breaths. With a solid kick, she dislodged the vent cover and dropped from the ceiling in a controlled fall, landing in a crouch on the floor as the metal crashed down beside her. Before Greyson could react, she was on her feet, blade drawn and pointed down.