Page 85 of Veil of Dust

I look at him fully for the first time. His face is drawn. Exhausted. But his eyes are clear. Wrecked. But clear.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But something in me just…stopped doubting.”

He stares back. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t thank me.

Just nods.

The moment sits between us.

I reach over. Grab a clean towel. Without asking, I slide closer. Take his hand.

He doesn’t resist.

I peel the soaked cloth back. His palm is torn across the base.

Long. Deep. But clean.

I dip another cloth in water and press it to the wound.

He hisses.

“Don’t be a baby,” I mutter.

“I’m not,” he growls.

“You flinched.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely flinched.”

His lips twitch. Barely. I clean the cut and then wrap it tighter. This time with gauze.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

“Clearing patrol. One of Alfeo’s dogs came out swinging.”

“Still alive?”

“No.”

I tie the end of the wrap and pat it once.

“Good.”

He leans back again.

I lean, too.

Our shoulders brush now. I keep The Star in my hand.

He doesn’t ask about it. But I think he feels it. Under everything—blood, ghosts, guilt—there’s a sliver of peace.

It won’t last. We both know it. But for now?

He’s here.

I’m still breathing.

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