Jack’s brows knitted in confusion. He reached for the bundle. “Let me see.”
I all but excitedly exploded, spreading the maps and letters across his desk. “It’s all here. Look—Eyjafjallajökull.Iceland.”
Jack’s eyes scanned the documents, flicking from one to the next, his lips pursed in scholarly concentration. I fought the urge toshout. How could he read so slowly when the truth screamed from the pages?
Finally, his gaze snapped to mine, bright with something like awe.
“I think you’re right, Alina.”
I beamed. “So? When do we leave?”
“To Iceland?” he repeated, a note of hesitation creeping into his voice. “We can’t just jump on a plane and start digging. There are procedures… permits… logistics?—”
I clenched my jaw. “I know all that. But are you in?”
A beat passed—then Jack surged up from his chair, swept me into his arms, and spun me in a dizzying circle. His laughter rang through the cluttered room.
“This is incredible!” he cried. “This could be it! All our work—finally paying off!”
For a moment, I let myself believe in its magic. In the rush. In us.
Securing the permits took several long months, but they were finally in our hands. Elated and anxious, Jack and I boarded the flight to Iceland.
Our destination was remote—a modest excavation site tucked into the windswept expanse of Eyjafjallajökull. The landscape greeted us with a silence so absolute it bordered on sacred. An oppressive chill pressed against my skin, carried by a mist that hung low and thick over the land. The horizon stretched endlessly, cloaked in muted grays and shadowed blues. Aside from the occasional cry of migrating birds overhead, the world felt abandoned.
The dig site revealed itself only by a few small flags fluttering in the tall grass. At its center lay a timeworn crater, its contours softened by centuries of erosion and cruel weather. Earth and dust had gathered like ash in its basin, cloaking history beneath a silent shroud. Shards of ancient pottery and splintered tools littered the rim, relics whispering secrets in forgotten tongues.
We worked in near silence beneath the wan Icelandic sun, the only sounds the scrape of our trowels and thewind’s low moan. Jack and I labored side by side, fingers raw, breaths fogging the cold air as we hunted the one artifact that had haunted our dreams—the legendary Sun Dagger.
By evening, exhaustion had set in. My limbs ached. My spirit frayed. Another fruitless day—so it seemed.
But then, as twilight brushed the sky with lavender and fire, my trowel struck something solid. Not rock. Not bone. Somethingsmooth.
My pulse surged.
I dropped to my knees and brushed away the dirt with trembling fingers. Inch by inch, the shape emerged—golden, gleaming faintly beneath layers of earth. It was a ceremonial dagger, commanding, even in ruin.
Though dulled by time, the golden hilt was etched with exquisite carvings—battles, gods, celestial bodies frozen in eternal motion. But it was the blade that stole my breath. Forged from an obsidian-dark metal I didn’t recognize, it shimmered with a subtle, pulsing light, as though it drank in the dying sun. Its edge was flawless. Lethal. Alive.
Energy thrummed from it like a heartbeat.
I stared, unable to look away.
We had found it. After years of searching, the Sun Dagger was finally in our hands.
My hands cradled the artifact, its weight heavier than gold alone. A flicker of temptation coursed through me—dark, selfish, seductive. I could hide it. Keep it for myself. It was mine. After all the years, the pain, the losses—itbelongedto me.
I ran my thumb along the dusty hilt, tracing the faded inscriptions. Ancient symbols shimmered faintly in the dusk, as if they remembered me. As if theyrecognizedme.
Behind me, Jack shifted, clearing his throat. I could feel him looming behind my shoulder, patient but expectant. I shut my eyes, trying to silence the urge to lie, to tuck the dagger away and carry its secrets alone.
But the moment had come.
Slowly, I turned, lifting the blade in both hands. My voice was barely a whisper. “I found it. The first dagger.”
Jack stepped forward, reverence softening his usually rigid face.His fingers brushed the blade, and the metal hummed beneath our touch, warm and alive. The sigils flared brighter, reacting not to him, but tous. A current passed between us—raw and undeniable.
Power.
