Recap:
The battlefield lay in ruins, the stench of iron and ash still clinging to the air. Jemil and his wives had fought tooth and nail, but their victory was a thin one — every survivor carried more scars than smiles. As the dust began to settle, a strange wooden case had been recovered from the enemy commander's possessions. When Jemil touched it, a voice — soft, deliberate, and utterly alien — whispered directly into his mind.
The wind over Floor Eight's cliffs was sharp, cutting against Jemil's cheek as he stared at the case resting on a stone slab before him.
It was… unremarkable, to the naked eye. Faded oak wood. Brass hinges dulled by time. A simple clasp.
And yet, when his fingers brushed it again, he swore he felt breathing. Slow, deliberate… patient.
Nyxara stood a few paces away, arms crossed, tail flicking like an agitated cat.
"I don't like this, Jemil," she said flatly. "That thing isn't a treasure — it's a snare."
