“What was it?” I asked, my voice tight. “What did you see?”
He paused—too long.
Then said, quietly, “Nothing.”
He scribbled down directions and fled, his footsteps echoing in retreat.
I followed his lead to the Antiquarium. The shop was exactly as expected—dim, quiet, drenched in old paper and time. But the man inside gave me nothing. No answers. No secrets. No hope.
Just more silence.
Outside the Quill & Codex Antiquarium, a man stepped into my path. He looked like he had been plucked straight from the ruins of a dig site—dusty clothes, a smudged face, boots caked in mud. An older man with thick white hair and eyes that had seen too much. He stood out starkly against the city’s polished noise and neon blur.
In his hands was a worn package.
“Are you Alina Tocino?” he asked, his voice thick with an Eastern European accent.
Startled, I hesitated. “Yes. Do I know you?”
He shook his head. “No. But I have something for you.”
He extended the bundle, parchment wrapped in aged string. His hands trembled slightly.
“I believe this will lead you to one of the daggers you seek.”
My breath caught. A chill passed over my skin. Was this the figure Lee had glimpsed? And why was a stranger delivering clues to me now, after years of dead ends?
I opened the package reverently. Inside were yellowed maps, brittle letters, and handwritten documents—weathered and fragile, yet undeniably potent. They referenced a place I knew only in myth: Eyjafjallajökull.
Before I could speak, thank him, ask who he was—he was gone.
He had vanished into a thicket of bumbling tourists, swallowed by the crowd. They moved like puppets with slack limbs and blank faces, stumbling like some strange current had rippled through them. The man slipped between them, fading with each step until he rounded the corner and disappeared entirely, leaving only the faint echo of his presence behind.
The bundle in my hands pulsed with a strange, almost sentient energy. My skin prickled, and my hair stood on end.
Clutching the papers, I turned and ran.
I had to find Jack.
We were going to Iceland.
The first dagger—my destiny—awaited.
“Jack, my love!” I shouted as I threw open the door, breathless and urgent. I charged through our apartment, a chaotic shrine of old-world charm and cluttered modernity.
I tossed my backpack onto the antique couch—a once-luxurious velvet relic now frayed and faded by time. Surrounding it were mismatched chairs—some sleek and plastic, others ornate and wooden, salvaged from forgotten parlors. A towering bookshelf of repurposed crates groaned beneath the weight of too many books. The walls were a collage of the past and present—vintage black-and-white portraits mingled with vivid, hand-painted posters.
“Jack!” I called, nearly tripping over a pile of open tomes. “I have news!”
“In here, Alina!” came his voice from the bedroom.
I darted in. Like the living room, the bedroom was an eccentric blend of eras. Our four-poster bed’s centerpiece stood regal beneath swaths of mosquito netting, buried under a mountain of quilts. Two desks flanked the small room. One held an old manual typewriter, its keys worn to near nothing. The other was a battlefield of papers, dusty books, and a sputtering portable computer with a flickering green screen. A gilt-framed mirror above it reflected our madness.
The air was thick with incense and parchment. Jack sat hunched over the desk, glasses sliding down his nose, hair in glorious disarray. He looked up, blinking.
“What have you got there?” he asked, peering through his lenses at the bundle in my hands.
“The dagger!” I gasped, holding it out like a sacred relic. “Or at least one of them—I know where to find it!”
