She reached out a hand, her fingers hovering just above the glass, as if she longed to touch, to reconnect with these lost pieces of her past. Then, her expression hardened, a fierce protectiveness replacing the sadness.
It was more than just an appreciation for historical relics—these weren’t justobjectsto her. They were pieces of her history, fragments of her soul. I watched her, a growing understanding dawning within me. This wasn’t just about finding information and confirming her stories but about reclaiming a part of herself that had been lost, stolen, or forgotten.
Luzia paused before a display case containing a necklace of woven vines and polished river stones, remarkably similar to the one she wore beneath her clothes. Her breath hitched, and a tear traced a path down her cheek.
She whispered something in her native tongue, a soft, mournful melody that seemed to hang in the air, a lament for something lost. I wanted to reach out to comfort her, but I hesitated.
I was an outsider, looking in on a world I couldn’t fully comprehend. And yet, I felt a strange kinship with her, a shared sense of loss, a longing for something I couldn’t quite name.
She moved on, her gaze sweeping over pottery shards, woven tapestries, and intricately carved tools. Each piece seemed to evoke a different emotion, a flicker of recognition, a whisper of a forgotten memory.
Then, she stopped abruptly, head tilting as if listening to a sound I couldn’t hear. Her gaze swept past other displays before locking onto a single case tucked away in a darkened corner of the exhibit.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay an intricately carved wooden box. It was rectangular, about the size of my two hands clasped together, and crafted from dark, richly-grained wood. The surface was covered in a swirling pattern of symbolsand glyphs, similar to those etched into theSeolaispendant, but larger, more ornate.
Luzia didn’t move. She just stood there, transfixed. It wasn’t just an object but a presence. I could feel her sense the weight of the information it contained, the echoes of ancient voices, the lines of forgotten maps pressing against the wood, desperate to be released. It was a library of their soul locked in a box. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that theSeolaishanging around my neck was humming in response, a key yearning for its lock.
“Sussuron…” she breathed, her hand reaching out, trembling, toward the glass. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?” I frowned, trying to understand.
“It’s a map,” she whispered, the certainty in her voice sending a shiver down my spine. “A map… to theFlor da Lua.”
My eyebrows shot up. “I don’t understand,” I said. “How can you know that?”
She turned to me then, her eyes shining with a strange intensity. “Our artifacts carry an echo of their purpose. TheSeolaisfeels of ‘home’ and ‘belonging.’ This…” she gestured to theSussuron, “… this feels of ‘path’ and ‘destination.’Sussuronand theSeolais,” she explained, her voice gaining strength. “Together, they show the way.”
The words hung in the air, fantastical and impossible. And yet, as if on instinct, I touched theSeolaispendant through the fabric of my shirt. A distinct, surprising warmth bloomed against my skin, a physical confirmation of the energy she described.
My skepticism warred with the burgeoning fascination that coiled in my gut. It sounded like a legend, but I had just felt a piece of it. Looking at the fierce determination burning in her eyes, I found myself wanting to believe and help.
“But how?” I began, gesturing toward the locked display cases. “My familydonated them. I suppose I’ll just ask to have them back.”
A flicker of a smile played on her lips. “Yes, that’s what we do,” she said, her voice laced with a playful mischief that I hadn’t seen before. Then, her expression turned serious. “My sister’s life depends on it.”
The weight of her words settled on me. This wasn’t a game. I thought of the attacker, of the name he’d given me. Ricardo Silva. If he wanted theSeolais, he would certainly want the artifacts that made it powerful. The risks weren’t just about my job or reputation—this could get us killed. And despite that, I knew I couldn’t refuse. I didn’t want to refuse.
“Okay,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “I’ll help you, but we have to be careful.”
She moved closer to the display case containing theSussuron, peering at it through the glass. The intricate carvings seemed to shift and shimmer under the museum lights, the glyphs whispering secrets I couldn’t decipher. Luzia traced the patterns with her fingertip, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Suddenly, she gasped, her hand freezing mid-air. “It’s incomplete,” she whispered, her voice laced with a new urgency. “A piece is missing.”
I leaned closer, following her gaze. In the center of the swirling carvings, nestled amongst the glyphs, was a small, empty recess. It was roughly the same size and shape as theSeolais.
“It’s… shaped like theSeolais,” I murmured, a chill running down my spine.
Luzia nodded, her eyes wide. The connection sparked, illuminating the fear beneath. “TheSeolais,” she whispered, the name itself seeming to hold power. “It’s not just a pendant. It’s a key.”
A key.The word landed like a stone in the museum’s quiet air. Before I could process it, a nearby guard coughed pointedly. “Closing time, folks.” The mundane world intruded, jarring against the magnitude of our discovery. The air grew thick with unspoken urgency.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound calm and decisive. “Time to go. We’ll grab some food, and then we can find the river.”
“The river is near?” Hope warred with anxiety in her voice.
“Close enough,” I assured her. “Maybe being near the water will help.” Helpwhat, I wasn’t sure. Help her think? Help her cope? Helpmefigure out what the hell to do next?
She turned back to the display case, her longing intense. These weren’t just objects to her but fragments of her soul, her history. But after the attack… “They’re safe here, Luzia,” I insisted gently. “Protected. Much safer than carrying them around right now.”
