Page 83 of Daggermouth

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He went still, his breathing changing slightly. “I was born to serve its function,” he finally said. “To maintain order.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Their eyes met from behind their masks—hers challenging, his guarded.

“What’s your purpose, Greyson?” she asked again. “Not what you were born to do. What do you choose to do with the power you have?”

He stared at her for a long moment, as if he was calculating his answer. But then the car slowed, pulling up to another checkpoint, and the chance to get answers was shattered as he moved to roll down his window.

Shadera leaned back in her seat, watching him retreat behind his walls. It struck her suddenly that they’d spent hours together, traveled through the Heart’s most secure areas, engaged in conversations that bordered on treasonous—and not once had she actively plotted his death during that time.

The realization was unsettling. She’d come here with a single purpose: kill the Executioner. Now, the lines were blurring in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Greyson was still her enemy, still represented everything she fought against, but he was becoming a person to her. Complex, contradictory, trapped in his own way.

That made her mission both harder and more necessary. Because if someone like Greyson—born into every privilege, given every advantage—couldn’t change the system from within, then the only option left was to tear it down completely.

The car pulled up to Serel Tower’s private entrance, but Shadera made no move to exit. Something held her in place, a question that had been building since they’d left the apartment.

“Do you believe in it?” she asked abruptly.

Greyson paused, his hand freezing in the air as he reached for the door handle. “In what?”

“Any of it. The Heart. Your father’s vision. The necessity of keeping people separated, starving, controlled.” She turned to face him fully, wishing she could see his expression behind the mask. “Do you actually believe this is how the world shouldbe?”

Greyson glanced at Chapman through the partition. “Give us a moment.”

Chapman nodded once and stepped out of the car, positioning himself where he could observe without hearing.

Greyson’s jaw flexed beneath his mask, the movement barely perceptible but revealing the tension building within him. He exhaled, a long, measured breath that seemed to carry the weight of decisions being made, lines being crossed.

“No,” he said finally.

The single word landed between them with the impact of a confession, simple but profound.

“No?” she echoed, uncertain which question he was answering.

“No, I don’t believe in it. No, I don’t think it’s right.” His voice had dropped lower, as if the car might be listening. “No, I don’t support my father’s vision for New Found Haven.”

Shadera went very still, absorbing the stark acknowledgment that aligned so closely with her own condemnation.

“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’tthe 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 dinner.”

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 personnel straightened as he passed, how their eyes widened at the sight of her mask before quickly returning to carefully neutral expressions. The elevator carried them upward in silence, floor after floor disappearing beneath them as they ascended to the penthouse levels.