Page 13 of Veil of Ashes

Then she turns, heels whispering again across the tile, and vanishes into the casino haze.

I stare after her, grip tightening around the burner. It feels heavier than it should. Like it carries more than just her number. Like it’s ticking.

She always knew how to find the wound. And twist.

My stomach coils. My instincts scream.

Gia didn’t come to flirt.

She came to warn me.

Maybe to mark me.

And now she knows I’m circling Rizzi.

If I give her more—if I tell her about Sylvara, the forgery, the plan—there’s a chance this gets sanctioned. A chance we’re not alone in the kill.

But Sylvara becomes bait.

And if I keep it to myself, Gia turns into a variable I can’t control. A blade I can’t see until it’s already in my back.

I pocket the phone.

I already know I won’t use it.

But I’ll never stop checking if it’s calling me.

I glance down one last time.

Rizzi’s still laughing.

You never stop being owned.

You just stop pretending it doesn’t burn.

Chapter 4 – Sylvara

I drag the dead man’s body across the uneven pavement. His boots scrape against the ground, loud in the quiet before sunrise. The alley reeks of metal, sweat, and blood.

My side burns where his knife sliced me, but I keep moving. The trash bin sits ahead, stuffed with bags and broken glass. I haul him up, arms straining, and dump him inside.

His legs jut out, so I grab some black bags from the pile. I throw them over him. It will do for now.

Sunrise is close, about an hour away. This dive bar stays empty until noon. I drop to a crouch, breathing hard.

The bleach bottle comes out of my pack. I soak a rag with it. My boots get scrubbed first, the leather stained dark.

Then my hands, still tacky with his blood. I move fast, keeping my eyes off the mess. He said my name before he came at me.

“Sylvara,” he spat, knife flashing. Not a random attack. Rizzi sent him.

I broke his wrist, smashed his head into the wall. Trash doesn’t scream for long if you hit hard enough. The bleach bites at my nose as I clean the last smears off my skin.

My side keeps bleeding, staining my shirt. I have handled worse. I lean against the bin, steadying my breath.

A shadow moves at the alley’s edge. Kieran steps into the faint light from the streetlamp. His boots crunch on loose gravel.

I stop, rag in hand. He looks at me, then at the bin, taking it all in. “That was a message,” he says, voice even. “You answered it like a soldier.”

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