Page 82 of Veil of Dust

Not for planning.

Not for strategy.

Because I feel it. Bone deep.

Belief.

It slides into place like a puzzle piece I didn’t realize was missing. Cold, then warm. Then steady.

I look up.

Tiziano doesn’t come closer.

He’s watching me.

Waiting.

The blood on his hand drips slowly, a trail of red across the threshold.

“Yours?” I ask.

“No.”

I nod again.

Then, I finally say, “Come in or don’t. You’re letting all the ghosts out.”

He steps inside and closes the door with his foot. Doesn’t jump when it shuts.

The noise echoes through the room like a drumbeat I didn’t know I needed.

I move The Star to my left hand and gesture to the towels on the sideboard.

“Wrap your hand.”

He walks over.

Doesn’t question it.

Pulls one down. Rips it in half.

Wraps the worst of the blood.

“Is it bad?” I ask.

“No.”

“You lie so easily.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

“That’s obvious.”

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do I.

The only light in the room comes from candles along the altar and the shelf. They don’t flicker. They stand tall. Steady.

---