I try to lose myself in the book again while Astrid works her way through Asher's beer stash. Then her phone pings. She checks the screen, eyes flicking sharp.
"It's the supplier. They have the blade."
My head snaps up. "Really?Last Song of a Satyr?" I can't hide my disbelief. A part of me thought it was only a myth, ink on a page.
She nods, lips tight. "Sixty thousand. Cash. And they want it fast."
"Sixty?" The number knocks the breath out of me. "That's… a lot. Why so soon?"
Astrid shrugs. "Price depends on rarity. And soon probably means they've got another buyer circling, or they want us to bite without haggling. Could be a trick."
I nod slowly, my mind spinning. If it's real, the leverage would be undeniable.
A blade that could kill Darius.
The thought makes my stomach clench. I run the scenarios anyway: Asher and Kayden setting a trap, the blade finding his heart. Darius's people pulling away after, or retaliating half-blind without their leader.
I can picture it clearly—Kayden with his feral grin, reveling in the strike. Asher, cold and precise, military efficiency in every movement.
But Darius isn't defenseless. He'd strike back. He could take down one of them. Or both of them. And all of us would get caught in the crossfire.
Zero-sum game. The words echo in my head. No winners, only graves.
No. There has to be another way.
"Can you show me?" I ask, keeping my tone even. "I want to see if it looks right."
Astrid comes over, turning her phone so I can see the messages.
The blade looks real: ancient, twisted wood entwined with gleaming metal.
I pretend to study the photo, but instead my focus sharpens on the phone number. I repeat it in my head until it sticks.
I hand the phone back. "Looks legit. We'll tell Asher after the funeral."
"Sure." Astrid slips the phone into her pocket.
I force a smile, then push back from the counter. "I'll go change."
Upstairs, the moment I'm alone, I scribble the number into my phone and start typing.
I saw you're selling the druid blade. I want to bid higher and buy it today.
The response comes almost instantly:Bid then.
My hands shake as I unzip the backpack shoved under my bed. My fingers close around the box I swore I'd never touch again—the engagement ring Darius gave me. I snap a photo, send it.
This is worth at least twice your asking price. Where do I meet you?
My heart pounds while the typing dots appear and vanish, appear again.
Finally:Alright. Your location?
I'm in Briar Hollow.I respond.
First a location pin comes through. Then a message:I can be there in two hours.
The map glows on my screen. An abandoned wood mill. Industrial yard, remote, tucked far into the woods. An hour and a half from here. Remote means risky. But if I want this in my hands—if I want a chance to shift the balance—I have no choice.
