My gaze drifted across the space, settling on a peculiar box perched high on a dust-laden bookshelf, nestled among rows of ancient, leather-bound tomes.
One title caught my eye.
Defunctis Corporibus Conservandis.
A shiver crept down my spine as the translation drifted through my mind.
“On the Preservation of Dead Bodies.”
Preserving dead bodies.
Why the hell would Balthazar need to preserve them?
My stomach churned, but I pushed it aside and crossed to the iron box, plucking it from its place on the shelf. It was heavy, the metal biting into my palms. I turned it over, inspecting every inch, my fingers tracing the rough, corroded surface.
The box was crafted from dull iron, its exterior coated in a brittle layer of rust that flaked away at the slightest touch. Its lid was sealed shut, secured by lock and key, or perhaps something far worse.
A spell.
Maybe both.
The metal rings encircling the chest were cold as death, tingling against my fingertips with something that felt... wrong. There was no telling what lay inside—only that it was valuable enough to warrant such meticulous safeguards.
While I knew nothing about demonic spellbinding, I did know how to pick a lock.
I had been a thief once.
The Emperor Severus had personally employed my services to break into the homes of his enemies—so this? A rusted iron box? It was child’s play.
Tucking it under my arm, I descended the stairs, stepping into Balthazar’s cavernous front room.
The air hung thick with the scent of burnt cedar and aged leather, the space dimly lit by dying embers in the hearth of an ornate marble fireplace.
I set the box onto a wide, obsidian table in front of Balthazar’s overstuffed, gold-accented sofa, then moved toward the kitchen.
There, I rummaged through the drawers until I found what I needed—a sharp knife and a pewter fork, its two long, pointed tines perfect for my task.
Returning to the sofa, I sat, positioning myself over the box, tools in hand.
With careful precision, I wedged the knife into the lock, twisting and prodding, using the fork’s tines to manipulate the inner mechanisms.
Minutes crawled by.
Then—
A satisfying snap rang through the silent room.
“Victory!” I breathed.
Heart hammering, I pried open the lid.
And there it was.
Balthazar’s sacred dagger.
It lay inside, gleaming like a predatory thing, its wicked blade glistening in the dim firelight. The very sight of it sent a pulse of unease through me—the kind of unease that whispered of danger, traps, and curses woven deep into the metal itself.
I hesitated.
