Daggermouth (The Heart, #1) — Chapter no 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Fallout

Greyson stared back at Shadera as he let his mask slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. The sound of metal striking marble echoed through the room like a final heartbeat. For a moment, everything froze—the Veyra with fingers on triggers, Moraine Daunt with her hand clasped over her masked mouth, even the air itself seemed to crystallize around them.

Greyson didn’t turn to his father. His eyes remained locked with Shadera’s, a strange calm settling over him like snowfall. This was it. The end. No more executions. No more pretending. No more loyalty to a system that had consumed his soul.

The bullet in his gut was his liberation.

“Greyson!” Elara’s scream sliced through the silence as she pushed past the Veyra and rushed to him. The scream sounded muted to him, muffled like a distant wail somewhere in the city. His head began to buzz, limbs tingling with loss of sensation.

Elara fell to her knees at Greyson’s side and he let himself collapse into her chest as her hands pressed against his wounds.

The Veyra began to move, weapons trained on Shadera’s head as the President’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“Hold!”

His father’s command froze the guards mid-step. Maximus pushed through their ranks, golden mask catching the light as he advanced toward his son.

“What have you done?” Maximus’s words were half snarl, half gasp as he looked from Greyson to Shadera.

Greyson wasn’t sure if he was referring to the mask he had removed or the bullet she had put in his abdomen. Knowing the President, he cared more about the mask.

His father began barking orders at the Veyra. “Get the Daunt family out and get my son to the hospital!” He turned to Shadera, lips curling into a sneer. “And put this Daggermouth filth in the hole.”

The Veyra officers moved in formation, surrounding Shadera with weapons raised, the red dots growing larger as Greyson watched. Still, she kept her gun trained on him with no fear in her eyes. They were bottomless, unrepentant.

Greyson wished she hadn’t hesitated.

A Veyra officer tackled Shadera from behind, sending her weapon sliding across the floor. She fought like a cornered animal, with a ferociousness Greyson had never witnessed in anyone before.

His vision went black for only a second, light slipping back in just long enough to see his father’s hand wrap around a Veyra captain’s arm, ordering him to keep the Daunts quarantined. His sight pulsed again, black then fading light then back to black.

Greyson didn’t hear as the medical team arrived. He realized then that the world’s noise had receded until all that remained was the slowing beat of his own heart as his body lifted from the bloody marble floor. He was cold, untethered, weightless as he drifted into somewhere deep inside his mind.

His mind was a dark, twisted place that sometimes even frightened him. A place where no light or happiness could thrive. Memories surfaced like bodies in a flood, all claws grasping for his flesh to pull him to hell. He’d let them, of course. They blended together, these ghosts of both past and present. Faces without masks, people he’d killed. People he’d failed to save. Each execution had carved something vital from him until he was hollow inside, an empty vessel for the will of the Heart.

He’d been seven the first time he’d watched his father kill a man.

The rebel had been brought to their private residence, beaten for information but remained defiant. Greyson remembered how his father had removed his golden mask and laid it carefully on the desk as if it was too precious to dirty with the blood of someone less than. Maximus had wrapped his fingers around Greyson’s chin, holding his head still as he placed the gun between the man’s eyes and shot without hesitation.

Blood had sprayed across the pristine carpet, droplets landing across Greyson’s face and clothes.

“This is how we maintain order,” Maximus had said, voice steady as he replaced his mask. “A Serel does not hesitate, a Serel does not show mercy. A Serel does not look away.”

Greyson remembered, and he remembered every death since.

The darkness shifted, memories giving way to sensations. He was aware of the movement, violent jerks. Someone was moving him, hands pressing against the wound in his stomach. Pain bloomed, then receded, then bloomed again brighter and sharper.

He heard his mother’s voice, high and frantic, demanding they save him. Save

the heir. Save the legacy.

Not save her son. Never that.

Light stabbed through his eyelids. Hospital lights, the white ceiling peeling past overhead as they wheeled him through corridors.

His father’s voice cut through the haze, threatening the medical staff with execution if word of this was leaked. The words followed Greyson into the dark as consciousness slipped away again for only a breath, or what felt like it to him.

When awareness returned, it was fragmented. He caught snippets of conversation, felt tubes inserted into his veins, heard the steady beep of machines monitoring his reluctant survival.

His body fought to live while his mind craved the quiet of extinction.

“Blood pressure dropping—”

“—more fluids—”

“—bullet missed vital—”

Greyson drifted again, sinking deeper into himself.

In darkness he found a strange comfort. He always had. Here, there were no masks, no expectations, no laws of the Heart to follow. Just silence—beautiful, peaceful silence.

The quiet was interrupted again by a new voice, sharper than the others. “I need everyone out of this room. Now.”

Through slitted eyes, Greyson caught the silhouette of a man in surgical scrubs, mask covering the lower half of his face. Not the mask of the Heart, but

of the doctor.

“President Serel, with all due respect, I cannot operate with you breathing down my neck.”

His father’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “You will operate in whatever conditions I dictate, Doctor Knowles.”

“Then prepare to watch your son die.” The words were flat, clinical.

Yes. Yes, let me die. He tried to force his eyes open.

“The bullet fragmented. I need space and concentration,” Doctor Knowles added.

A tense silence seized the room, broken only by the steady beep of machines.

Then his father’s footsteps retreated, followed by others.

Greyson felt a sharp prick in his arm, then warmth spreading through his veins. The doctor leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I know what you did in the Cardinal last month. The medical supplies that appeared in the clinic. I recognized the serial numbers. Thank you, you saved ten lives.”

Greyson tried to focus on the man’s face, but the drugs pulled him under before he could respond. Then the darkness swallowed him whole.

Maximus Serel strode into his office in Haven Tower, the golden mask gleaming in the low light and suffocating him. His jaw ground underneath it, using all this strength not to tear it from his face as Clay and Moraine Daunt followed behind him, their own masks perfect reflections of Heart tradition. Elara and Lira were already there standing near the window, postures rigid and worried.

“This is outrageous!” Clay Daunt’s voice filled the room as the door closed behind them. “A Daggermouth assassin in the Vow chamber! Your son removing his mask before that parasite!”

Maximus turned slowly, the weight of his gaze enough to make Clay step back. He did not answer to this pathetic excuse for a man. Clay was weak, had always been weak. A stomach not strong enough to hold down his breakfast at the sight of an execution and brain too dull to be any use to the Heart.

The only thing he was good for was his money, and a breedable daughter who seemed to have stolen all of his spine at her conception.

“Your concern is noted,” Maximus said, keeping each word measured.

“Noted?” Moraine’s voice cut in, sharper than her father’s. “This goes beyond concern, President Serel. I was promised the heir to the Heart, and now your son has contaminated himself. His face has been seen by that… that animal.”

Maximus remained perfectly still, though his rage flared at her insolence.

“Choose your next words carefully, Moraine.”

“The law is clear,” Clay interjected. “When one’s face is seen outside of the sacred bond of the Vow, their life is forfeit. Both parties must be executed.”

Maximus clenched his fist then slowly unfurled his fingers, wishing he had a gun in his hand to shove down Clay’s throat and pull the trigger. His methods, his power, had been questioned one too many times this week.

“Are you suggesting,” Maximus started softly, dangerously, “that my son— my last living heir—should be put to death for breaking a law I created? In a city that my family built?”

If it was any other person, any other family name, Maximus would have put a bullet through their skull the moment he saw them in the throne room maskless.

But it wasn’t.

A scandal like this could threaten what he had built, the lifetime of power he had accumulated. Maximus would not lose that power under any circumstance —to any law.

“The law—” Clay began again, his voice trembling slightly now.

“I am the law!” Maximus roared, stepping so close to him that their masks nearly touched.

Clay’s posture wilted, his shoulders slumping as he took a half-step back.

Even behind his mask, his fear was palpable. Moraine stood still beside him, her silence more defiant than any words.

“If you ever suggest executing my son again,” Maximus continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to suck all oxygen from the room, “I will lift a single finger, and your entire bloodline will disappear from the Heart’s memory. Do you understand me?”

Clay nodded stiffly, his eyes darting to his daughter.

“I didn’t hear you,” Maximus pressed.

“Yes, President Serel,” Clay managed. “Forgive my… presumption.”

Elara stepped forward, her movements cautious as she kept her eyes lowered to the floor and spoke. “There’s a loophole.”

All eyes turned to her. Maximus’s jaw tightened beneath his mask. “What did you say?”

Elara swallowed, straightening her spine. “When I drafted the mask law, I included provisions for extreme circumstances. Accidents. Cases where a mask might fall in another’s presence.

“In such cases, the parties have a choice: execution, or take the Vow with each other, since they’ve seen each other’s faces.” Her hands clasped together, knuckles white. “We cannot prove Greyson willingly removed his mask. It could have fallen during the struggle.”

Silence descended as the implications sank in.

Maximus knew that was not the case, knew Greyson had taken it off of his own volition. He saw the mask in his son’s hands, saw as he dropped it to the floor as if he was offering himself up to this fate.

“You’re suggesting,” Moraine said, voice trembling with rage, “that Greyson should take the Vow with that Boundary filth?”

“I’m stating the legal options,” Elara replied, voice steadier now. “Greyson could be forced to take the Vow with the mercenary instead of facing execution, the law applies to him as elite. The Daggermouth would essentially receive clemency by default if he chooses the Vow.”

Moraine made a strangled sound behind her mask and Clay’s hand shot out to steady his daughter.

“This is outrageous!” Clay’s hand balled into fists at his sides. “I will not let you push my daughter aside for some criminal!”

Maximus stopped abruptly, turning to face him. “Again, you presume that your opinion matters to me. Again, you speak to me with such contempt.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“Mr. Daunt,” Maximus continued, “I suggest you consider your position carefully. Your wife—is she not currently receiving the highest level of medical

care the Heart can provide for her condition?”

Clay swallowed. “Yes, Mr. President, she is.”

“How long do you think she will last without that care? A week? A day?”

Maximus did not wait for an answer. “How long do you think Moraine would last in the Boundary before you start selling her body for food?”

Moraine’s eyes went wide behind her mask as Clay took a half-step in front of her. Maximus smiled, seeing the understanding flash in their irises.

“You see, Clay, there are worse fates than death for a man like you, and God is not the one that decides what that is. I do,” he said, the threat landing with precision.

“Of course, President Serel. We only wish to uphold the sanctity of the law.”

“As do I.” Maximus gestured toward the door. “You may go, and perhaps take a tour of the Boundary to help you decide where your loyalties lie.”

The Daunts left with as much dignity as they could muster, Moraine’s back stiff with indignation as they slipped through the door. When it closed behind them, Maximus waited three heartbeats, ensuring they were truly gone, before he ripped the golden mask from his face and hurled it across the room.

It struck a glass display panel with devastating force, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards that rained down on the polished floor. Elara flinched, taking an instinctive step back toward the window and Lira’s fingers wrapped around her forearm.

“Of all the times for him to show weakness,” Maximus snarled, his bare face contorted with rage. “Of all the moments to break, he chooses now? With a Daggermouth’s gun at his head?”

Elara remained silent, knowing better than to speak without permission when her husband was in this state.

Maximus turned to his wife, his eyes boring into Elara’s masked face.

“This loophole,” he said, voice low. “You’re certain it will hold?”

Elara nodded. “I wrote it myself. It has never been challenged.”

“Father,” Lira began cautiously.

“Not now, Lira,” he snapped.

“But there is something to consider,” she pressed, her voice steadier than her mother’s had been. “Something Mother’s suggestion offers us outside of staying

within the law.”

Maximus turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Elara moved closer, emboldened by her daughter’s courage. “If Greyson takes the Vow with the Daggermouth girl,” she said carefully, “it could benefit us. A political union between the Heart and the Boundary. It would send a message that even the most violent resistance can be brought to heel.”

He paused, considering. “Go on.”

“We find what she loves most and use it against her, use it to ensure her compliance. Make her a mouthpiece for the Heart, let the rebels see one of their own bound to the Serel family. Through her, we could pacify the Daggermouths, perhaps even identify rebel strongholds throughout the rings.”

“It would be the ultimate display of power,” Lira added. “Showing that even their deadliest weapon can be tamed by the Heart.”

Maximus paced the length of his office, stepping over the shattered glass without care. His mind raced with possibilities, calculating potential outcomes.

The mask law had never been broken by someone of Greyson’s status—the solution would need to be both definitive and public.

“The impending Vow between Greyson and Moraine was not made public, which means it never existed to other elites,” Elara began. “Of course, the members of council are aware because of their… roles in it, but we can make sure they understand how vital it is to the greater good that they never speak of it. If we were to broadcast, for the first time in history, a live ceremony for all of New Found Haven to witness her willfully taking the Vow, there would be no room to question its validity.”

A slow smile spread across Maximus’s face, terrible in its calculation. “My clever wife. Always finding ways to turn disaster to advantage.”

Elara remained perfectly still, not acknowledging the rare praise. “Shall I make the arrangements?”

“Yes.” Maximus crossed to his desk, already formulating plans. “When Greyson wakes, I will speak with him. The Daggermouth will be kept alive until then.”

Elara nodded and moved toward the door, her steps as careful as a woman walking across thin ice as Lira followed behind her.

“Elara,” Maximus called after her.

She turned, mask catching the prism of colors from the shattered glass.

“If this fails,” he said softly, “it will be on your head.” Maximus didn’t look up as he said the words, only let them land where he had intended.

The door closed behind them with a whisper of finality as he moved to the window. In the reflection of the glass, Maximus’s lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. Greyson’s weakness might actually prove useful to him for once. He stared out at the city, at the perfect concentric rings that divided the worthy from the worthless, all oblivious to the machinations unfolding in its highest tower.

For now, at least, the balance of power remained unchanged. And Maximus Serel intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost.