43. Venetia
The assault rifle kicks against my shoulder, each burst of gunfire a declaration of war written in muzzle flash and steel. Below me, Cravenmoor’s mercenaries scramble for cover that doesn’t exist. Their disciplined formation dissolves into chaos.
“That’s for Helena, you bastards,” I snarl, adjusting my aim and dropping another figure in black tactical gear. The rifle’s weight is perfect in my hands, an extension of my will made manifest in lead and fury.
The return fire comes in desperate bursts, bullets sparking off the battlements beside me.
Amateur hour. They’re shooting wildly, panicked, their precious military training evaporating under the reality of a coordinated defence from ancient castle walls they never saw coming.
You have to hand it to those mediaeval fuckers.
They knew what they were doing. This situation makes me wish I had a cannon or a trebuchet.
I shift position, using the stone crenelations as cover whilst maintaining my field of fire.
The moat below reflects the muzzle flashes. They can’t cross it, and they can’t reach the walls. They can only die in the killing field that Blake so perfectly orchestrated. Every step they take towards the castle is a step closer to their grave.
The wind whips across the battlements, carrying the acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood.
My fingers are numb with cold, but my grip on the rifle remains steady.
This is what I was born for. This raw, primal exercise of power.
The legacy of centuries of Corbyn-Hale blood coursing through my veins, demanding satisfaction.
Below me, a mercenary breaks cover, sprinting towards what he thinks might be better protection. I track him. I shoot him. He tumbles forward, his momentum carrying his lifeless body another few metres before it lands in the moat.
A burst of automatic fire from the east sends chips of stone flying past my head. I duck instinctively, feeling the kiss of pulverised limestone against my cheek.
I shift my position along the battlement, using the ancient stones to mask my movement.
Each merlon is carved with the weathered remains of gargoyles and heraldic beasts, silent witnesses to centuries of violence.
Now they watch over a new generation of bloodshed, as the descendant of this place’s true owners reclaims her birthright in fire and lead.
The angle is perfect now. I can see the mercenary’s shoulder and part of his head behind a hedge. One shot, clean and precise. The rifle’s recoil drives against my shoulder as the bullet finds its mark. Another of Cravenmoor’s precious contractors becomes food for worms.
Movement to my left catches my attention.
Viper, moving along the eastern battlement.
He’s carrying his assault rifle, moving to establish a crossfire.
Even in the chaos of battle, watching him move is a thing of deadly beauty.
Every step calculated, every movement serving the singular purpose of dealing death to our enemies.
“About fucking time,” I mutter, though relief floods through me at the sight of him.
Not because I need protecting, but because together we’re unstoppable.
The thought of our combined fury unleashed on Cravenmoor’s forces sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of combat.
He drops into position fifty metres to my left, his rifle immediately joining the symphony of destruction.
The coordinated fire is devastating. The mercenaries below are caught between hammer and anvil, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
I watch Viper work, his movements economical and brutal.
Each shot is placed with surgical precision, each kill a masterpiece of violence.
In the distance, Rafferty’s rifle cracks from the north tower.
Each shot means another of Cravenmoor’s men won’t be going home.
The north tower has become a sniper’s nest, and Raff is in his element.
I can’t see him from here, but I can picture him: calm, collected, turning the act of killing into an art form.
My assassin, my perfect instrument of death.
The thought of my three generals, my three kings, fighting for me sends warmth flooding through my chest despite the cold. This is what loyalty looks like. This is what power built on respect rather than fear can accomplish.
The gunfire below is becoming more sporadic now, desperate.
Half their force is down, the other half is pinned behind inadequate cover.
The professional assault has become a rout.
In fifteen minutes, we’ve broken the back of Cravenmoor’s entire operation.
The realisation fills me with savage satisfaction.
But it’s more than just a tactical victory. This is vindication.
And then they bring out the big guns.
A figure in black gear is trying to set up a rocket launcher. Now that’s a legitimate target. I shift my aim, but Viper’s rifle barks first. The would-be demolition expert tumbles backwards. Gone.
The battle is winding down, but not in the way Cravenmoor expected. His precision strike has become a massacre, with his forces as the victims. The few remaining mercenaries are trying to retreat, abandoning their dead and wounded in their desperation to escape the killing field we’ve created.
I let them run. Broken men fleeing will spread word of what happened here tonight. They’ll tell other mercenaries, other corporate soldiers, what it costs to come for Venetia Corbyn-Hale. Fear is a weapon too, and tonight we’ve forged a blade that will cut deeper than bullets.
My finger tightens on the trigger as I line up another shot at a figure trying to crawl away behind inadequate cover, but something makes me pause. Movement in my peripheral vision. Not from below, but from the battlement itself. Close. Too close.
I start to turn, adrenaline spiking as combat instincts scream warnings, but the cold press of a gun barrel against the base of my skull freezes me solid.
“Nathan sends his regards.” Cole Knight’s voice is soft, conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather rather than pressing a pistol to my head.
That name hits me harder than the betrayal. The rage that builds in my chest is white-hot, pure enough to forge steel.
“You treacherous little cunt,” I snarl, my grip tightening on the assault rifle. But I don’t move. Not yet. The barrel against my skull is steady, professional. He knows what he’s doing.
“Nothing personal, Venetia,” Cole continues, his voice carrying that same false politeness. “But Nathan Pierce is family.”
Family . I’ll fucking kill him. The calculated betrayal, the cold professionalism of it, sends rage coursing through my veins like molten metal.
But beneath the fury, my mind is working, calculating.
Cole’s behind me, close enough that his gun is pressed against my skull.
He’s positioned me between himself and Viper, using my body as a shield.
But he’s made one crucial mistake. He’s assumed I’ll choose survival over principle.
The ancient stones of St. Sebastian’s Academy stretch below me, beyond the walls, and my enemies lie bleeding.
But it’s my choice to make. And I’ve never been one to die on my knees.
I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the wind on my face, tasting the smoke and cordite in the air. Below me, the battle rages on. My people are fighting for something bigger than themselves.
When I open my eyes again, my decision is made.
“Cole?”
“Yes?”
“You should’ve been quicker to pull the trigger.”
Gripping the assault rifle, I dive forward, throwing myself over the battlement towards the moat thirty feet below. Cole’s gun goes off behind me, the bullet meant for my skull whistling harmlessly past my ear as I fall.
Viper’s roar and the cacophony of gunfire fade away.
The wind tears at me as I plummet, and the dark water rushes up to meet me.