Page 108 of Daggermouth

As he fastened the final clasp, Jameson caught his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall. The sight stopped him cold. The uniform transformed him, stripped away his identity, leaving only the blank canvas of Heart authority. He barely recognized himself beneath the rigid lines and sharp angles of Veyra design.

Was this what was happening to Shadera in the Heart? This slow erosion of self, this rewriting of identity until nothing remained of who she’d been?

The door opened behind him, and Jaeger entered, already fully dressed in his officer’s uniform. The transformation was even more complete on him—despite his age, he carried the Veyra uniform with a disturbing naturalness, as if he’d been born to it.

“Worried?” Jaeger asked, noticing Jameson’s fixed stare at his own reflection.

“Terrified,” Jameson admitted, turning away from the mirror. “Not of dying. Of failing her.”

Jaeger crossed the small room, adjusting Jameson’s collar with practiced fingers. “I taught Shade everything she knows. That girl is like a daughter to me.” His eyes, usually cold and calculating, held something Jameson had rarely seen—genuine emotion. “But you, Ghost, you’re the one she’ll fight to come back to. Don’t make me regret letting you come.”

The words carried both threat and blessing, the closest thing to approval Jaeger had ever offered.

“I won’t leave without her,” Jameson promised.

“I know,” Jaeger replied. “That’s what worries me.”

He handed Jameson the final piece of the disguise—a Veyra officer’s helmet with its distinctive reflective faceplate. Unlike the decorative masks of the elite, these were functional, designed to conceal identity while providing tactical information through heads-up displays.

“Remember,” Jaeger said as Jameson took the helmet, “in and out. No heroics, no revenge against the Executioner, no matter how much you want it. Get her and get out.”

Jameson nodded, his heart pounding against his rib cage with such force he thought the armor might crack. He slipped the helmet over his head, the HUD system flickering to life with data streams he didn’t understand and didn’t need to. The final transformation was complete.

Shaderastoodinfrontof the mirror, fingers tracing the spot on her neck where Greyson had touched her. The phantom pressure of his thumb against her pulse lingered like he had branded her. She’d let him touch her. Worse, she’d responded to it.

Fury bubbled up her throat—at him, at herself, at this entire situation that was slowly breaking down everything she stood for.

“Fucking Heart,” she muttered, turning away from the mirror and pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes.

She’d killed men for less than what Greyson Serel represented, for smaller sins than those he’d committed with his own hands. Yet when he touched her, she hadn’t thought of the blood on his hands or her hatred. She’d thought of nothing at all, the world narrowing to the single point where his skin met hers.

Shadera pulled her hands from her eyes, glaring as her vision swam at the edges. “Get it together,” she hissed as she grabbed the edge of her dresser to steady herself. “He’s the Executioner. He’s the fucking enemy.”

But enemies weren’t supposed to take bullets for their sisters or defy their fathers. They weren’t supposed to reveal vulnerabilities or share their pain. They weren’t supposed to have backs mapped with scars from the same system they enforced.

This club, this night out—it was a distraction, nothing more. A chance to gather intelligence, to see more of the Heart’s layout, to plan her escape when the opportunity arrived.

When, not if. She had to believe that.

Shadera pulled open drawers until she found something suitable. The selection was limited—mostly clothes Lira had sent over and Greyson’s shirts. Greyson’s shirts.

Jesus fuck, concentrate.

She shook her head as she settled on a pair of black pants and a dark green top with an open back. The fabric felt too fine against her fingertips, but at least the colors would help blend her into shadows if necessary.

She stripped quickly, tossing her shirt aside and reaching for the new one. As she tugged it out of the drawer and over her head, something fluttered to the floor, landing face down by her feet. A photograph.

Thephotograph.

Shadera paused, shirt half on as she glanced at the door before looking back at the worn photo paper. She finished pulling it into place before bending to retrieve it.

She had more time to study it now than she’d had when she found it. The two men standing side by side, arms thrown carelessly around each other’s shoulders. Greyson, thoughyounger—perhaps early twenties, his unmasked face smiling in a way she’d never seen. The expression transformed him, erasing the hardness she’d come to associate with his features, replacing it with something that no longer existed in him. The thought made her chest constrict, that that light had been beat out of him.

The second man had to be Brooker.

The resemblance was unmistakable—the same sharp jawline, the same dark hair. But where Greyson’s posture always held tension, this man seemed relaxed, confident in a way that suggested he had never questioned his place in the world even with his mask off. They stood in what looked like a garden, the Heart’s platinum skyline visible behind them.

Shadera turned the photo over. No inscription, no date. Just an image of their unmasked faces frozen in time. A single picture that in the wrong hands, could get Greyson killed.