Under The Veil Chapter 5: Chapter-5: Words Without Answered

Read chapter 5 of Under The Veil by Phoenixfly_steller on NovelPedia.

Chapter-5: Words Without Answered A Quote by Author (Phoenixfly_steller) "There are always questions left in the dark, often because the only person who held the answers was taken from our lives before we could even feel their presence." Agastya’s refusal to believe the diary’s impossible confession was forcefully interrupted. A hollow, clawing ache twisted deep within his stomach. It was a sharp, biological demand. An undignified reminder that while his soul might be adrift in a cosmic error, the flesh he currently inhabited was starving. He stared at the leather-bound book for a long moment, the existential dread warring with raw, physical need. Slowly, he pushed the heavy diary aside. The mysteries of House Esrala would have to wait. The dead could afford to be patient; the living required fuel. His blue eyes, predatory and calm, swept the dim, flour-dusted shadows of the bakery. Resting near the far edge of the heavy teakwood counter were a few leftover loaves from the morning’s bake. They were tightly wrapped in thick, brown butcher paper and bound with coarse jute twine, meant to preserve whatever little freshness remained. Agastya approached the loaves in total silence. His boots made absolutely no sound against the floorboards. He hooked a finger under the knot of the twine. With a deliberate, measured pull, he snapped the thread. The brown paper unfolded with a dry, crinkling rustle that seemed unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet of the shop. Beneath the wrapping lay a dark, dense loaf of rye. He rested his palm flat against it. The crust was entirely stale, feeling as hard and unforgiving as a cobblestone left out in the winter cold. He needed a blade. Agastya’s gaze dropped to the space beneath the counter. His analytical mind instantly mapped the utilitarian layout: a column of two sliding drawers built into the left side, and a set of low, heavy cabinet doors on the right, likely concealing bulk sacks of grain. He reached out and pulled open the top left drawer. The wooden tracks groaned faintly. Inside lay a modest, perfectly stacked pile of paper currency, seven notes of five Elartraum each. It was a pitiful sum, the meagre wages of a man who had worked himself to the bone just to maintain this crumbling shop. “Well, even though it is less. He wasn’t that poor.” Agastya stared at the money for a fraction of a second. Wealth meant absolutely nothing to a man trying to survive the night. He slid the drawer shut with a dull, dismissive thud. Bending down slowly. He ignored the lingering, phantom tightness in his chest. He opened the lower drawer. Amidst a chaotic clutter of wooden dough scrapers, heavy measuring spoons, and rolling pins, his eyes locked onto a glint of steel. It was a long, serrated bread knife. Agastya reached in and drew it out. He stood up straight, bringing the blade into the jaundiced yellow light of the oil lamp. As his fingers wrapped around the worn, wooden handle, his muscle memory instantly fired. He adjusted his grip, testing the balance and the weight of the steel. It was a mundane, domestic tool, forged to saw through crust and flour. Yet, as he held it, his hands instinctively locked into a lethal, reverse grip—holding it like a weapon meant to saw through muscle and bone. Adjusting his hold, he brought the knife down. With a single, sharp motion, he cleaved a thick, jagged slice from the hardened loaf. He raised the dense bread to his mouth and took a bite. He chewed slowly, his jaw working methodically against the impossibly tough texture. It ground against his teeth like dried clay, devoid of any real moisture. But a starving man cannot afford to be a food critic, and a master assassin even less so. For decades, the old master who had ultimately put a bullet in his head had meticulously stripped him of such worldly weaknesses. Agastya had not merely been taught the mechanics of murder; he had been broken down and rebuilt into a perfect, biological engine of endurance. His con