We walk in silence after that.
The woman doesn’t pause, acknowledges nothing. Just keeps walking. Is this what I will become?
My legs start to ache by the time we finally stop. We’re standing in front of another door, identical to all the others except for one detail: this one has a handle. Gold, ornate, shaped like a serpent eating its own tail.
“Lord Croesus is expecting you,” the woman says. “Enter when you’re ready. Do not make him wait long.”
She walks away before I can ask any questions, disappearing around a corner and leaving me alone in the golden hallway.
I stare at the door. At the serpent handle, at my reflection in the polished gold surface. I look pale. Scared. Small.
I straighten my shoulders. Lift my chin. Force my expression into something that might pass for confidence even though my heart is trying to beat out of my chest.
I reach for the handle. The gold is warm under my palm, almost alive. It feels like touching skin rather than metal.
I turn it, and the door swings open silently.
Beyond it is a room.
And in that room, waiting for me, is the Angel of Greed.
7
The room beyond the door is not what I expected.
I was braced for more gold, more oppressive wealth, more of the overwhelming sensory assault that is the rest of the house so far. Instead, I step into a space that’s almost...restrained. Comparatively speaking.
Almost.
It’s large, maybe forty feet across, with ceilings that soar at least twenty feet high. The walls are still gold, but muted somehow, brushed rather than polished, the light softer here. There are windows along one wall, tall and arched, but they don’t show the outside world. Just the same golden light I glimpsed earlier, like looking into pure sunlight. It should be blinding, but somehow it’s not. Just warm. Eternal. Like standing at the edge of forever.
The floor is polished marble, white with veins of gold running through it like rivers on a map, and my boots echo as I step inside. The sound carries in the vast space, announcing my presence more effectively than any introduction could. Each footfall seems too loud, too heavy, too human against all this immortal grandeur.
My heart is hammering so hard, I’m surprised he can’t hear it from across the room. Hell, maybe he can. Maybe that’s part of his power, hearing fear, tasting it in the air like smoke.
The furniture is sparse though expensive, all but screaming old money. A massive desk sits near the windows—sleek and modern, black wood inlaid with gold filigree. I’d be so afraid of ruining the desk, I couldn’t use it. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with what look like ledgers. A few chairs are positioned around the room—low-backed, elegant, beautiful, but not meant for comfort.
And in the center of the room, standing with his back to me, is Croesus.
I know it immediately. There’s no one else it could be.
The air itself feels different around him. Heavier. Like gravity works differently in his presence and reality bends just slightly to accommodate him. It’s not magical, exactly. Or maybe it is, and I just can’t tell the difference anymore. Either way, every instinct I have is screaming at me to run. To turn around, walk back through that door, and take my chances with whatever consequences follow.
But I don’t move.
Can’t move.
He’s tall. I’d guess six-four, maybe six-five, with broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist. He’s wearing a suit in charcoal gray with the faintest gold pinstripe, which is tailored so perfectly, it might have been sewn directly onto his body. Every line is clean, precise, deliberate. His hands are clasped behind his back, and even from here I can see the rings on his fingers, all gold, multiple on each hand.
His hair is black, cut short at the sides and longer on top, pulled into a bun at the crown of his head, and when the light catches it, I can see veins of actual gold running through it. Not dyed. Not highlights. Gold, like someone took molten metal andthreaded it through each strand. The short sides of his hair look almost like he’s sprinkled glitter throughout.
He doesn’t turn to face me when I enter. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. Just stands there, perfectly still, looking out the window at nothing. Unless...he sees something different?
The door closes behind me with a soft click which sounds like a death sentence.
I stand there, frozen, uncertain. My palms are sweating. My mouth is dry. I’m acutely aware of how small I am in this space, five-seven in a room built for giants, human in a space designed for angels. How completely and utterly outmatched.
This is a being who has existed for thousands of years. Who has collected more souls than I can count. Who could probably kill me with a thought if he wanted to.
