Page 144 of Daggermouth

Jameson felt something break open inside him—a dam he’d built years ago to hold back the pain, the fear, the desperate hope that thingscould change. He’d become the Ghost, the smuggler, the rebel leader who forced himself to be unbreakable for the cause.

But standing here, surrounded by the people of the Boundary—bloodied but unbowed, grieving but defiant—he couldn’t maintain that distance. These were his people. This was hishome.

The last notes of the anthem faded, leaving behind a silence charged with purpose. The crowd’s eyes turned to him, recognition dawning on their faces. They knew who he was. What he was.

Their protector.

A man stepped forward, his face weathered by years in the toxic air of the Boundary. “They’re coming for us all,” he said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. “Ain’t they?”

“Yes,” Jameson answered, unable to soften the truth. “The President is planning something. Something big.” He glanced at the burning patrol vehicles, the bodies scattered across the street. “And this—this is just the beginning.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Then we fight.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Jameson saw the determination in their faces, the readiness to throw themselves against the Heart’s oppression regardless of the cost. It would be a slaughter. They had pipes and bottles—the Heart had bombs.

“Not like this,” Jameson said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not without a plan. Not without unity.”

He looked at each face in turn, committing them to memory—the elderly woman with her makeshift spear, the young couple clutching each other’s hands, the children watching from windows above. These were the people Shadera had sacrificed herself to protect. These were the lives hanging in the balance.

“Go home,” he told them, softening his tone. “Tend to your wounded. Mourn your dead. But be ready. When the time comes—and it will come soon—I’ll need all ofyou.”

They hesitated, the fire of rebellion still burning in their eyes.

“Trust me,” Jameson added, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I won’t let you fight alone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Some carried away the injured, others gathered the dead with gentle hands. The mother remained kneeling beside her son, her tears now silent, her grief beyond words.

Jameson knelt beside her, ignoring the blood soaking into his pants. He placed a hand on her cheek, feeling her body shake with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words woefully inadequate.

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shimmering with tears. Something in her gaze had hardened, crystallized into resolve.

“Make them pay,” she whispered.

Jameson nodded once, a solemn vow. Then he rose, gesturing to two men standing nearby. They came quickly.

“Help her take her son home,” he started, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “And make sure she does not bury her child alone.”

Their answer was a nod.

“Thank you,” Jameson whispered, then turned away just in time to hide the tears that began to cut through the blood on his face.

He would keep that promise to her. He would make them pay.

Every single leader of the Heart.

Shaderawoketoafist against her jaw, red cord tying her to a chair bolted to the ground. Another fist connected with the other side of her face before she could blink vision back into her eyes. Somewhere behind her she could hear Greyson screaming. She thought she heardhim screaming for her but before his words registered, a baton found her temple and consciousness was knocked out of her body again.

Jameson’spathtoWolf’sHead was clear now, the Boundary streets emptying as news of the clash spread and people retreated to safety. He didn’t bother cleaning his hands or face of the blood as he approached the Daggermouth headquarters. Instead, he would let it speak for him.

He could hear the familiar sounds of the bar from outside the establishment—glasses clinking, low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. All of it normal, despite the world burning outside.

He shouldered through the door and conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. The silence spread like ripples until the entire room had fallen quiet.

Jameson took another step forward, his boots leaving bloody prints on the cracked floor. Dozens of eyes locked on him—assassins, informants, rebels, all momentarily united in their assessment of the man before them. Slowly, bodies began to rise from their chairs, their glasses raised in silent tribute, acknowledging what he had done tonight.

Then, one by one, fists began to beat on tables, a steady drumming that saturated the air.