Page 54 of Veil of Dust

I don’t wait. There’s no room for hesitation, no space for doubt.

I don’t think. My mind’s a haze of red, Leon’s name blazing at the center.

Fury moves faster than thought, driving me forward, a current I can’t fight.

Tiziano stands behind the bar, a rag in one hand and a bottle in the other. He’s halfway through wiping down the counter, his movements steady and routine. Everything feels normal, as if the world hasn’t just split open beneath my feet.

I shatter it.

“You knew,” I say.

My voice doesn’t rise. It cuts, sharp and cold.

He turns slowly. Confused at first, his brow creasing as he sets the bottle down. Then cautious, his eyes narrowing, catching the storm in mine.

“Knew what?” he asks, his voice low and testing, as if he’s stepping on thin ice.

I throw the folder.

It skips across the bar like a stone over water, papers spilling andedges fluttering as they scatter. The red-ringed name lands face-up, Leon’s name glaring in the dim light, accusing.

“Leon,” I say, my voice steady but heavy, each syllable a weight. “Your mentor ordered it.”

He freezes, pausing his hand over the folder, fingers twitching as if afraid to touch it. Then he reaches for it, flipping it open with movements slow and deliberate, as though he can delay what’s coming.

His eyes scan the pages, quick, then slower, lingering on the circled name, the date, the initials. The color drains from his face, leaving him pale, almost ghostly. Shoulders drop an inch. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out right away, just a breath that catches.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Not then. I didn’t know then.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I snap, the words sharp, cutting deeper than I mean them to. “Not with his blood on your hands.”

He flinches, just a fraction, but I see it, the crack in his armor.

“I didn’t,” he starts, his voice steadier now, but I cut him off, my anger too raw to let him finish.

“You stood there while I buried him. You watched me break. And now you say you didn’t know?” My tone rises, despite myself, trembling with the grief I’ve carried too long.

“I wasn’t part of it. I didn’t see the list until weeks later,” he says, gripping the folder, knuckles white.

“Then why the hell is this hidden in my basement?” I shout, the words tearing free, echoing off the bar’s walls.

His silence answers me.

I see it in the twitch of his eye, in the way he grips the folder like it might bite him, like it’s a truth he can’t face any more than I can.

I don’t let him explain. There’s no room for his words, not now.

I move.

My fist connects with his cheek, the impact sharp and fast, a jolt that sings through my knuckles. The crack of skin against bone cuts through the quiet.

He stumbles back, hand flying to his face, catching himself against the counter. Blood blooms at the corner of his lip, a thin red line against his skin.

He doesn’t hit back.

He doesn’t even raise his arms. He keeps himself open, like he’s offering himself to my rage.

“Monster,” I say, the word spilling out, bitter and broken, carrying every piece of my hurt.

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