Daggermouth

“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 di

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 perso

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 di

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.

“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling strange on her tongue. “For showing me.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something more complex she’d not yet learned to read. He inclined his head, nodding as he turned away from her, then hesitated.

Without turning back, he added, “For what it’s worth, I’m not asking you to believe in the Heart. Just to survive it long enough to find a way out. For both of us.”

Then he was gone, leaving Shadera alone with Lira’s packages and a head spi

She sank onto the couch, the skull mask heavy against her face. She should remove it—they were alone in the apartment, so no need for the pretense. But something kept her from lifting it away, as if the mask provided a barrier not just between her face and the world, but between her emotions and her judgment.

Every preconceived notion she had about Greyson had been challenged today. Not erased—he was still the Executioner, still the enemy. But beneath that identity, he was also a boy caught in a web. A man created by an evil system whose soul, at the very least, suffered for the pain he’d caused. Evil could sometimes come in the form of beauty.